Late Classical Chinese Thought (The Oxford History of Philosophy) 9780198851066, 0198851065

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Late Classical Chinese Thought

T H E OX F O R D H I S T O RY O F P H I L O S O P H Y The Disappearance of the Soul and the Turn against Metaphysics Austrian Philosophy 1874–­1918 Mark Textor Jewish Philosophy in the Middle Ages Science, Rationalism, and Religion T. M. Rudavsky The Golden Age of Indian Buddhist Philosophy in the First Millennium CE Jan Westerhoff French Philosophy, 1572–­1675 Desmond M. Clarke American Philosophy before Pragmatism Russell B. Goodman British Philosophy in the Seventeenth Century Sarah Hutton British Ethical Theorists from Sidgwick to Ewing Thomas Hurka The American Pragmatists Cheryl Misak The Lost Age of Reason: Philosophy in Early Modern India 1450–1700 Jonardon Ganeri Thinking the Impossible: French Philosophy since 1960 Gary Gutting

Late Classical Chinese Thought C H R I S F R A SE R Richard Charles and Esther Yewpick Lee Chair in Chinese Thought and Culture University of Toronto

Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © Chris Fraser 2023 The moral rights of the author have been asserted All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2022948665 ISBN 978–0–19–885106–6 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198851066.001.0001 Printed and bound in the UK by TJ Books Limited Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

For Isabelle

Contents Preface Acknowledgements Chronology Abbreviations Citation Conventions

ix xi xiii xv xvii

Introduction1 1. The Way

21

2. The State

55

3. Ethics

98

4. Ethical Cultivation

134

5. Epistemology

171

6. Language and Logic

204

Glossary For Further Reading Appendix: The Sources Index

237 251 253 259

Preface This book is a survey of prominent issues and views during the culminating period of classical Chinese philosophy, the third century bc. The discussion is targeted primarily at the educated general reader who will enjoy an intel­ lectually sophisticated treatment that assumes no prior familiarity with the material. Students of Chinese thought will find the book presents novel per­ spectives on several movements in early Chinese philosophy and devotes extensive attention to relatively neglected texts, such as the Guǎ nzı̌ and Lǚ’s Annals. The book includes six chapters organized topically around issues that a general philosophical readership can easily appreciate in the fields of meta­ physics and metaethics, political theory, ethics, moral psychology, epis­tem­ ol­ogy, and philosophy of language and logic. The discussion emphasizes the shared concerns, rival doctrines, and competing criticisms presented in third-­century bc texts while explicating the distinctive issues, conceptual framework, and background assumptions of classical Chinese thought. One aim of the book is to introduce the rich philosophical discourse of early China. Another is to allow readers to discover for themselves various ways in which ancient Chinese thought might fruitfully be put into dialogue with issues and views familiar from different periods and traditions of Western philosophy. This book was written in Hong Kong during the SARS-­CoV-­2 pandemic of 2020–2021, a time in which the everyday conversations and exchanges of aca­ demic life were severely constrained and a terrible political tragedy unfolded in our city. I thank my family and many unnamed friends for helping me through this sad and trying time. I hope only that I was able to support and encourage them as much as they did me. Several sections of this book draw on my own previously published work. I am grateful to Springer Nature for permission to use material from ‘Knowledge and Error in Early Chinese Thought’, Dao: A Journal of Comparative Philosophy 10.2 (2011), 127–48, and ‘Language and Logic in the Xunzi’, in Dao Companion to the Philosophy of Xunzi, Eric Hutton, ed. (Dordrecht: Springer, 2016), 291–321, and to the University of Hawaii Press for permission to use material

x Preface from ‘Representation in Early Chinese Philosophy of Language’, Philosophy East and West 71.1 (2021), 57–78. I also acknowledge use of selected material from ‘Mohist Canons’, The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2020 Edition), Edward  N.  Zalta (ed.), URL = .

Acknowledgements This book is indebted to so many colleagues and friends that memory fails when it comes time to credit everyone individually. Those with whom I have discussed material in the book and whose comments stimulated my thinking about issues treated in this material include, in alphabetical order, Roger Ames, Jamin Asay, Michael Beaney, Frank Chong, Kim-­Chong Chong, Wai-­ wai Chiu, Carine Defoort, Max Deutsch, Monica Ding, Yiu-­ming Fung, Chad Hansen, Yong Huang, Eric Hutton, Tao Jiang, Karyn Lai, Hong-­ki Lam, Kwok-­Wai Lee, Timothy O’Leary, Franklin Perkins, Lisa Raphals, Dan Robins, Hagop Sarkissian, Frank Saunders, Donald Sturgeon, Curie Virag, Stephen Walker, Ellie Wang, David Wong, and Kai-­yee Wong, among others. I am grateful for institutional support from the Department of Philosophy at the University of Hong Kong, the Department of Philosophy at the University of Toronto, and the Department of East Asian Studies at the University of Toronto. I wish to thank Peter Momtchiloff of Oxford University Press for inviting me to undertake this project and guiding it from conception to completion. I am also grateful to Michael Beaney for planting the seeds that grew into this book. As always, I am obliged to my teacher and colleague Chad Hansen for early inspiration that led me down several of the paths of inquiry reflected in this work. Another debt is to my colleague Dan Robins, for extensive discus­ sion of the sources while we were both finding our way into the field and for shaping my understanding of the Mencius, in particular. The treatment of the debate over people’s ‘nature’ (xìng) in Chapter  4 draws extensively on the account in Robins’s 2001 University of Hong Kong dissertation, ‘The Debate Over Human Nature in Warring States China’, and the discussion of con­text­ ual dào in Chapter 4 draws on his contribution to our co-­edited volume Ethics in Early China (HKU Press, 2011), ‘ “It Goes Beyond Skill.” ’ I am especially indebted to Justin Tiwald for many detailed critical com­ ments on an advanced draft of the manuscript and to an anonymous reader for Oxford University Press for extremely helpful suggestions regarding organiza­ tion of the material. I am grateful for the expert support of Jo Spillane, Project Editor at Oxford University Press, and Dolarine Sonia Fonceca, Project Manager at Straive. I especially thank Martin Noble for meticulous work copy editing the manuscript.

Chronology (All dates are BC) ca. 1045–770 770–256 770–ca. 481 ca. 481–221 481

Western Zhōu dynasty Eastern Zhōu dynasty Spring and Autumn period Warring States period Tián clan seizes power in eastern state of Qí but leaves ducal family on throne 479 Death of Confucius, first major Ruist teacher ca. 430 Mòzı̌ active, Mohist movement grows and flourishes 453–403 Major central state of Jìn partitioned into Zhào, Wèi, and Hán 386–343 Tián clan usurp throne in Qí 371–340 After conflicts between Zhào, Wèi, and Hán, Qí in east and Qín in west emerge as especially powerful states 334 Chǔ conquers its rival Yuè to consolidate power in the south 334–249 Shifting alliances and conflicts among seven major states of Qín, Qí, Chǔ, Hán, Zhào, Wèi, and northern state of Yàn 338 Death of ‘Legalist’ statesman Lord Shāng (Shāng Yāng), figurehead for the Shāngjūn Shū (Book of Lord Shāng) ca. 320 Mencius active as a senior figure in Ruist tradition ca. 320 (?) Earliest of the writings eventually compiled into ‘Daoist’ anthology Zhuāngzı̌ begin to be produced (?) 319–301 Jìxià ‘academy’ flourishes during reign of King Xuān in Qí ca. 270–240 Xúnzı ̌ active as a senior figure in Ruist tradition 251–235 Lǚ Bùwéi holds office as prime minister of Qín, sponsors large retinue of scholars 239 Date of postface of Lǚ’s Annals 233 Death of ‘Legalist’ writer Hán Fēi 230–221 Qín conquers six rival states to establish Qín dynasty 206 Qín dynasty falls, superseded by Hàn dynasty

Abbreviations Gz Guǎnzı̌ 管子 HFz Hánfēizı̌ 韓非子 Lscq Lǚ’s Annals (Lǚshì Chūnqiū) 呂氏春秋 Me Mèngzı̌ 孟子 Mwd Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts 馬王堆帛書 Mz Mòzı̌ 墨子 SJS Shāngjūn Shū 商君書 Sz Shènzı̌ 慎子 Xz Xúnzı̌ 荀子 Zz Zhuāngzı̌ 莊子

Citation Conventions The purpose of the citations in this book is to allow readers to easily find the passages referenced in the original Chinese texts. Hence in choosing citation formats, I have tried make it as convenient as possible for readers to identify the original passages. Three of the sources—­the Confucian Analects, Lǚ’s Annals, and Mencius (Mèngzı̌)—are traditionally divided into sections with a standard numbering system, enabling readers to quickly find cited passages in any edition. For the Zhuāngzı̌ and Xúnzı̌, I cite chapter and line numbers in the Harvard-­Yenching concordance texts, using these analogously to how Bekker and Stephanus numbers are used to cite the works of Aristotle or Plato. The rationale for this practice is not that the Harvard-­Yenching con­ cordances present authoritative editions of the texts but that they provide a compact line numbering system by which to find cited passages. Similarly, I  use ICS concordance page and line numbers to cite the Guǎnzı̌, Hánfēizı̌, Shāngjūn Shū, and Shènzı̌. For some texts, the Harvard-­Yenching and ICS numbering systems are searchable through the online concordance search tools at the Chinese Text Project, edited by Donald Sturgeon (https://ctext. org/tools/concordance). Texts for which concordance search tools are avail­able have a reference search function on the home page (see below). The later Mohist dialectical writings are cited using the numbering ­system introduced by A. C. Graham for the ‘Canons’ and ‘Explanations’ and the Harvard-­Yenching concordance numbering for other sections. To cite the Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts, I have used what I take to be the most convenient reference for readers of English, Robin Yates’s 1997 edition. Details of the citation format for each source are given below. Citations of extended passages often give only the first line, the remainder being obvi­ ous. Repeated citations to the same source in the same paragraph give line or section numbers only, omitting the title. All translations from the Chinese texts are my own. Analects 論語. Citations give section numbers as found in the online Chinese Text Project (https://ctext.org/analects), which correspond to those in most editions.

xviii  Citation Conventions Guǎnzı̌ 管子. Citations give page and line numbers in D. C. Lau et al., eds, A Concordance to the Guanzi, ICS Concordance Series (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 2001), followed by the book and section numbering used in the Chinese Text Project online text at https://ctext.org/guanzi. Hánfēizı̌ 韓非子. Citations give page and line numbers in D. C. Lau et al., eds, A Concordance to the Hanfeizi, ICS Concordance Series (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 2000), followed by the book and section numbering used in the Chinese Text Project online text at https://ctext.org/hanfeizi. Lǚ’s Annals (Lǚshì Chūnqiū) 呂氏春秋, also known as The Annals of Lǚ Bùwéi. Citations give the standard chapter and section numbers, followed by the section and paragraph number in the online text at the Chinese Text Project, https://ctext.org/lv-­shi-­chun-­qiu. Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts 馬王堆帛書. Citations give page numbers in the Chinese text included in Robin  D.  S.  Yates, tr., Five Lost Classics: Tao, Huang-­Lao, and Yin-­Yang in Han China (New York: Ballantine, 1997). Mencius (Mèngzı̌) 孟子. Citations give the standard chapter and section numbering, using ‘A’ and ‘B’ to designate the two parts of each chapter, along with the numbering for sections in the Chinese Text Project online text at https://ctext.org/mengzi, in which roman numerals ‘I’ and ‘II’ indicate the two parts of the chapters. Mòzı̌ 墨子. Citations to the later Mohist ‘Canons’ and ‘Explanations’ use the numbering system introduced by A. C. Graham and employed in my own edition in The Essential Mòzı̌ (Oxford University Press, 2020), which is avail­ able for download at mohistcanons.net. Other sections are cited by chapter and line numbers in William Hung, ed., A Concordance to Mo Tzu, Harvard-­ Yenching Institute Sinological Index Series, Supplement no. 21 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1956). The Chinese Text Project online text is at https://ctext.org/mozi. Shāngjūn Shū 商君書, also known as the Book of Lord Shāng. Citations give book, page, and line numbers in D. C. Lau et al., eds, A Concordance to the Shangjunshu, ICS Concordance Series (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 1992), along with book and section numbers in the online text at the Chinese Text Project, https://ctext.org/shang-­jun-­shu. Shènzı̌ 慎子. Citations give page and line numbers in D. C. Lau et al., eds, A Concordance to the Shenzi, Shizi, and Shenzi, ICS Concordance Series (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 2000), along with book and (where rele­ vant) section numbers in the online text at the Chinese Text Project, https:// ctext.org/shenzi.

Citation Conventions  xix Xúnzı̌ 荀子. Citations give book and line numbers in William Hung, ed., A Concordance to Hsun Tzu, Harvard-­Yenching Institute Sinological Index Series, Supplement no. 22 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1966). The Chinese Text Project online text is at https://ctext.org/xunzi. Zhuāngzı̌ 莊子. Citations give book and line numbers in William Hung, ed., A Concordance to Chuang Tzu, Harvard-­Yenching Institute Sinological Index Series, Supplement no. 20 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1956). The Chinese Text Project online text is at https://ctext.org/zhuangzi.

  Introduction ‘Having heard the Way in the morning, dying that evening would be acceptable.’ —Analects 4:8

What is the Way by which to conduct our lives—­personally, socially, and politically? Does nature provide us with a Way to follow, or is the proper Way something we must invent for ourselves? Does the Way lie in cultural mores, passed down through social traditions? Can it be articulated through fixed rules, or might it perhaps be indeterminate and continually changing? These are among the questions that motivated philosophical reflection and discussion during China’s Warring States period (481–221 bc), when the foundational texts of the Chinese tradition of thought were written. Early Chinese thinkers approached questions about ethics, politics, psychology, knowledge, and language by thinking primarily in terms of ‘dào’—a way, path, method, or manner by which to proceed. What we think of as philosophical inquiry—­critical, reflective questioning and examination of views about reality, values, knowledge, and thought—­was framed largely as an activity of inquiring into and practising dào, the ‘Way’. This book will explore views about dào and interrelated topics as presented in the philosophical discourse of roughly the last century of the Warring States. This was among the richest, most vibrant periods of intellectual activity in Chinese history. No orthodoxy dominated discourse; no single political authority ruled. Proponents of a ‘hundred schools of thought’ contended to win the attention of rulers, aristocrats, and the scholar-­gentry and so shape the course of society. Study was seen as a path towards office and thus upward mobility, and so established teachers attracted large groups of students. Stories in sources such as the Zhuāngzı ̌ suggest many people also shared a broad eth­ ic­al interest in dào as a guide to living well. Rival thinkers debated views on ethics, moral psychology, political theory, language, knowledge, military affairs, and other matters amongst themselves and in the courts of aristocrats, who sponsored scholars and encouraged debate. The flourishing, wide-­ranging

Late Classical Chinese Thought. Chris Fraser, Oxford University Press. © Chris Fraser 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198851066.003.0001

2  Late Classical Chinese Thought discourse of the time presented issues, concepts, and frameworks that remained influential throughout the history of Chinese thought. Despite the pivotal importance of third-­century philosophical discourse, it is uncommon for a general study to focus on this relatively brief time slice. The history of Chinese philosophy is more typically approached by treating the classical or Warring States era as a single period and by working through a canonical list of great masters and texts, starting with Confucius and Mòzı ̌ and usually including Mencius, Lǎozı̌, Zhuāngzı̌, Xúnzı̌, and Hán Fēi. Many treatments emphasize the rivalry between schools of thought such as Confucianism, Mohism, Daoism, and Legalism. This widely taken approach has its merits. It is one reasonable way of imposing an orderly narrative structure on a wide-­ranging, untidy body of literature. It can introduce major figures and texts effectively and highlight prominent themes and positions. A shortcoming, however, is that the canonical list of prominent figures and texts omits many other significant texts and lines of thought, especially from the third century bc, a time when philosophical discourse and debate flourished, attaining new levels of rigour and depth. It also may make it more difficult for readers to see how the views of different figures and texts relate to each other—­ how they may be responding to, extending, or critiquing each other’s ideas. The compilations of texts that provide our sources for Warring States thought are diverse collections of writings from different hands, working at different times, in some cases across decades or centuries. To fit this unwieldy body of material into the great master mould, traditional treatments must inevitably neglect some of the texts’ content. Moreover, to organize the ma­ter­ ial into a manageable framework, scholars often set aside compilations that do not fit neatly into the masters narrative, such as much of the material in the Guǎnzı ̌ and Lǚ’s Annals, two collections of writings not regarded as presenting the ideas of specific great thinkers. Such treatments thus omit potentially informative views and simplify a complex discourse into a conversation between a small handful of selected voices. These remarks are observations, not criticisms, since compromises of one kind or another seem unavoidable in handling such an extensive, diverse corpus of sources. The present book adopts a fresh route into the subject and so aims to highlight material or perspectives that other treatments might neglect. This route has two distinctive features. The first, as just mentioned, is its comparatively narrow time frame. The discussion focuses on the period from roughly the high point of the Jìxià assembly of scholars in Qí (ca. 310) through Lǚ Bùwéi’s sponsorship of visiting scholars in Qín (ca. 239) to roughly the Qín

Introduction  3 unification in 221 bc. (More detailed explanations of these dates and events follow below.) One reason for focusing on this relatively brief, especially dynamic period is that it covers many intellectual high points. The most sophisticated theories in pre-­Hàn discourse were probably developed during this time, including the later Mohist semantic, logical, and epistemological theories; Xúnzı̌’s ­ethics, metaethics, epistemology, and semantics; the critique of prevailing ethical theories in the Zhuāngzı ̌; and the Zhuāngzı ̌’s novel, skill-­ based approach to action. These and other ideas presented in third-­century bc texts are the crowning achievements of Warring States thought. Devoting an entire volume to this period allows us to examine them in enough detail for readers to appreciate their depth and value. Another reason for spotlighting this era is to devote due attention to the fascinating but relatively neglected ideas presented in the Guǎnzı ̌, the Zhuāngzı ̌ ‘outer’ books, and Lǚ’s Annals. Because many of these writings are not attributed to the canonical list of masters, they are seldom treated in detail. Yet much of their content is as rich and sophisticated as other texts that receive more attention. To accurately grasp the nature and content of Warring States philosophy, we need to restore these texts to their rightful, prominent place in the discussion. Late Warring States discourse is characterized not merely by the sheer amount of philosophical activity but the extent to which different writings engage with rival doctrines, seeking to extend, refute, or supplant them. In focusing on this relatively brief period, the book also seeks to explore the interrelations between different doctrinal outlooks more deeply than most previous studies. This aim underpins the book’s second distinctive feature: the chapters are organized topically, rather than by figures or schools. The more common approach is for chapters to treat historical figures in chronological order—­one each on Confucius, Mòzı̌, Mencius, and so forth—­or to each present one of several traditions of learning, such as Confucianism, Mohism, and Daoism. Here the discussion is instead divided into chapters on dào (‘the way’), political thought, ethical theory, moral psychology, epistemology, and language and logic. Each chapter draws on a range of primary sources to present an overview of different themes, doctrines, and debates in a particular subject area within late classical discourse. The aim is to articulate the relations between different views and show how they fit together as a discourse about shared issues and concerns, driven both by the fundamental doctrinal outlooks of different texts and by their critical responses to each other.

4  Late Classical Chinese Thought The major sources for the book will thus be third-­century bc texts, here understood as Warring States collections of writings that are either mainly or wholly from the third century (such as the Xúnzı ̌) or that may include earlier material but extend into or through the third century (such as the Guǎnzı ̌ and perhaps Zhuāngzı ̌). Earlier texts will be cited to provide background context when necessary. In other cases, material from earlier texts or texts of uncertain date will be treated as it is addressed in our focal texts. The intellectual goal of the volume is to explicate philosophically relevant concepts and theories in late classical texts and to show how ideas in the texts fit together as a series of discussions and debates over questions of broad concern to thinkers of the time—­and in some cases, suitably reframed, perhaps to readers today as well. The book seeks to present a clearer, more informative picture of intellectual currents in the late Warring States than previously available and to convey the philosophical significance and interest of these currents. The aim is not to be comprehensive—­the source material is vast, and the discussion is intended to be compact—­but to explore central, interesting issues and notable positions on them in enough depth and detail to allow readers to truly enter the late Warring States world of thought, grasping for themselves the questions thinkers of the time found compelling and why the answers they proposed might have seemed persuasive. The main target audience for the book is the general reader, including university students and graduate students. Specialists in other fields of philosophy should also find the discussion helpful. Scholars of Chinese thought will find some of the ground familiar but should find that the book offers novel perspectives on such topics as dào, political philosophy, and epistemology while devoting extensive attention to texts seldom discussed in the English-­ language scholarly literature. To streamline the discussion for the general reader, the discussion cites primary sources extensively but omits the normal scholarly apparatus of citations to secondary sources. Instead, I have included a section entitled ‘For Further Reading’ that introduces a selection of secondary sources readers may find useful if they wish to learn more about figures or topics mentioned in the book. Another feature designed for the general reader is a Glossary that presents Chinese characters and brief explanations for the Chinese-­language concepts and names appearing in the text, along with pronunciation hints for selected terms. Again, to streamline the discussion, Chinese characters have been omitted from the main body of the book. Each of the topical chapters that follow begins with introductory remarks that set the stage for that chapter’s discussion. Instead of repeating this thematic scene setting here, the remainder of this Introduction will survey the

Introduction  5 historical background to the late classical period and explain the nature of the sources on which the book draws. We will then give an overview of the six topical chapters. Each chapter is reasonably self-­standing and can be read independently of the others, in any order.

Historical Background The writings discussed in this book date from the late Warring States period in the region that later became known as China. The ‘Warring States’ (Zhàn guó, 481–221 bc) is a label for the last several centuries in the long, gradual collapse of the Zhōu dynasty (1045–256 bc). This period can also be referred to as the pre-­Qín, pre-­Hàn, or pre-­imperial era, as it ended with the founding of the Qín dynasty (221–206 bc), which was quickly superseded by the Hàn dynasty (206 bc–220 ad). Since Warring States thought is often referred to as ‘classical’ Chinese thought, I will also refer to the philosophy of the last century or so of the pre-­Hàn period as ‘late classical’ thought. The long reign of the Zhōu is usually subdivided into two parts, the ‘Western Zhōu’, the period during which the kings of Zhōu, based near the modern city of Xī’ān, genuinely exercised power over ‘all under Heaven’, and the ‘Eastern Zhōu’, founded when the house of Zhōu fled to the eastern city of Luòyáng in 770 bc after the nomadic Quǎnróng people sacked their capital and murdered their king. Over the next several hundred years, known as the ‘Spring and Autumn’ period (Chūnqiū, 770–fifth century bc), actual political and military power shifted from the descendants of the house of Zhōu to the rulers of their former regional vassals. A nominal Zhōu supreme ruler, the ‘Son of Heaven’, occupied the throne in Luòyáng but exercised little real power. For several centuries, the Zhōu political order continued, sustained for lengthy periods by powerful rulers of the regional states who acted as ‘hegemons’, dominating other powerful states, protecting weak states, and maintaining the authority of the Zhōu system. Eventually, in the early decades of the fifth century bc, even though Zhōu heirs continued to hold the title of ‘king’, the authority of the Zhōu order collapsed entirely. Powerful clans in several regional states usurped political authority and began unfettered competition for dominance, initiating the Warring States period. In 481 bc, for example, the Tián clan seized power in the northeast state of Qí. Around the same time, the three powerful houses of Hán, Zhào, and Wèi began a decades-­long process of dividing between them the territory of the major state of Jìn, to which they had previously been loyal, and attempting to seize or annex territory

6  Late Classical Chinese Thought from surrounding states. Many small fiefdoms loyal to the Zhōu were swallowed up by larger states. By the beginning of the fourth century, the house of Zhōu was effectively powerless. Political and military might lay in the hands of the lords of roughly a dozen former vassal states, along with the non-­Zhōu states of Chǔ, Wú, and Yuè in the south. These dozen-­odd states competed to dominate and contain each other through frequently shifting alliances. The seven states of Qín, Qí, Chǔ, Hán, Zhào, Wèi, and Yàn developed into especially wealthy, powerful, and belligerent rivals, who competed for supremacy in the hope of unifying ‘all under Heaven’ under their rule. Over the course of the fourth century, the rulers of these regional states declared their independence from the Zhōu by proclaiming themselves ‘kings’, rather than mere ‘dukes’, the title most had held previously. Wars between the states were frequent. The scale and viciousness of the conflicts expanded considerably, as did the resulting devastation. This fierce, bloody competition continued until the decade between 230 and 221 bc, when the ruthless state of Qín in the west managed to conquer and absorb each of its rivals in succession, ultimately defeating Qí in 221 bc to unify ‘all under Heaven’ under the new Qín dynasty. Qín’s dominance proved short-­lived, however. Soon after the first emperor’s death in 210, the Qín regime declined, leading to a period of civil war and eventually the founding of the Hàn dynasty under Liú Bāng in 202. Besides frequent interstate war and political intrigue, the period during which these writings were produced was marked by continuing economic and technological development and the steady expansion of centrally administered government bureaucracies. The growth of the bureaucracies created a demand for competent officials to staff them, and accordingly offered extensive opportunities for social mobility to the class of shì (‘officers’, ‘scholars’), or educated gentry, who formed the main pool of candidates for government posts. The writers of most of the late classical philosophical texts likely belonged to the shì class. Some of the shì rose to became prominent as state ministers, political advisors, and teachers, who typically attracted a retinue of disciples or adherents. Rulers of states often retained these social, ethical, and intellectual leaders as counsellors and drew from among their followers in filling bureaucratic posts. The two most eminent such teachers were Confucius (Kǒng Qiū, d. 479 bc) and Mòzı̌ (fl. ca. 430 bc) both of whom attracted communities or fellowships of disciples that eventually divided into multiple branches dispersed across the major states. Devotees of Confucius’s teachings and practices referred to themselves as ‘Rú’ (‘Erudites’), while adherents of Mòzı̌’s teachings called

Introduction  7 themselves ‘Mò’ (Mohists). These communities were devoted to study and promulgation of their ethical, social, and political ideals, along with associated practices, such as ritual and music, in the case of the Rú, and religious worship, community assistance, and military service, for the Mò. The Rú and the Mò were the only named, self-­identified intellectual lin­ eages or movements in the late classical social and intellectual landscape. They were far from the only schools of thought or ethical activists, however. What later historians dubbed the period of the ‘hundred families of thought’ was in full bloom. Rival circles of scholar-­practitioners advocated competing views on politics, ethics, social policy, knowledge, cosmology, and other subjects. Many of these groups produced bodies of writings that were eventually collected into the ‘various masters’ (zhūzı ̌) anthologies, such as the Analects, Mòzı ̌, Guǎnzı ̌, Mencius, and other collections named after a venerated teacher or statesman. Besides the Ruists and Mohists, early sources mention numerous other figures representing diverse ways of thought. A few examples include the anti-­ violence activists Sòng Xíng and Yı̌n Wén, who promoted a way of life devoted to minimizing one’s needs and seeking peace of mind; Xǔ Xíng, mentioned in Mencius (Me 3A:4), who advocated a simple, self-­sufficient agricultural lifestyle; and Gōngsūn Lóng, a famous court debater and proponent of logical puzzles who strongly opposed warfare. Especially notable was the assembly of scholars at Jìxià in the Qí capital. (Jìxià can be interpreted as ‘below the altar to Jì, the god of grain’, and was probably a district by one of the city gates.) Often referred to as an ‘academy’, Jìxià was probably something more like a loosely organized residential institute or community for scholars working under the patronage of the kings of Qí, who provided them with generous living quarters and stipends, honoured them with high rank, and exempted them from other public service. The community of scholars may have served both to generate policy proposals and to enhance and display the prestige of the wealthy, successful Qí state. The origin of the Jìxià assembly is uncertain. It was certainly in existence by around the middle of the fourth century bc but perhaps was founded earlier. Scholars seem to agree that the high point in its history came under King Xuān (r. 319–301 bc), when hundreds or thousands of scholars were in attendance. A Hàn historical account reports there were 76 ‘masters’, each of whom would have had dozens of students. One section of the Guǎnzı ̌ describes the daily routine of students, possibly those who lived at Jìxià, suggesting that they followed a regimen like one might expect in an institution of learning. The Jìxià scholars are reported to have dispersed by 284, during the

8  Late Classical Chinese Thought reign of King Mı̌n, when forces from Yàn sacked the Qí capital. The community may later have been reconstituted, however, and Xúnzı̌ reportedly served as the senior master for some time before he took up an administrative post in Chǔ. Figures reported to have been in residence at Jìxià over the decades include Chúnyú Kūn, perhaps during the reign of King Wēi (r. 356–320 bc); Mencius, during the reign of King Xuān; the anti-­war activist Sòng Xíng; Zōu Yǎn, a cosmological and yīn-­yáng thinker; Tián Pián and Jiē Yǔ, both mentioned in the Zhuāngzı ̌; Shèn Dào, figurehead for the Legalist text Shènzı ̌; Huán Yuān, about whom little is known; and Xúnzı̌, perhaps some time after the community scattered in 284. Portions of the Guǎnzı ̌ are likely to have been produced at Jìxià. Possibly parts of Mencius, Xúnzı ̌, Zhuāngzı ̌, and other texts were produced by scholars who resided there or by their later followers. Given the renown of the Jìxià assembly, other regional lords emulated the practice of retaining large numbers of scholar-­gentry and encouraging them to pursue inquiry and debate. The apogee of such patronage was probably the vast assembly of scholars organized by Lǚ Bùwéi, prime minister of Qín, roughly between 250 and 239 bc, which produced Lǚ’s Annals, a major source for late classical thought (see below). Beyond the figures named in association with Jìxià, it is reasonable to think many other circles of teachers and scholars were active across different geographical regions. The Zhuāngzı ̌ depicts a number of otherwise unknown figures with clusters of followers, such as Wáng Tái and Bóhūn Wúrén. These men are likely to be fictional characters. But the depictions of them and other figures in the Zhuāngzı ̌ attest to a lively period of intellectual and ethical ferment during which eminent shì might attract a circle of followers devoted to learning and cultivating the dào and regularly engage in discussion with followers, associates, aristocrats, and opponents. Other Zhuāngzı ̌ stories depict groups of friends devoted to a shared set of guiding beliefs—­without a master-­ student hierarchy—­again suggesting that such associations were familiar and perhaps common. The circles of scholar-­practitioners who produced the Zhuāngzı ̌ may have resembled the characters depicted in these stories of masters, students, and friends. Moreover, given that the Zhuāngzı ̌, Mòzı ̌, and other texts frequently describe activities in different states or persons trav­el­ ing from state to state, we can suppose that the study and practice of various conceptions of dào were widely distributed geographically and perhaps even that different regions were home to different trends of thought. The late fourth to late third centuries were thus a vibrant, richly diverse period of intellectual activity, in which a wide range of schools, circles, and

Introduction  9 lineages pursued different paths of inquiry and practice. Proponents of different views engaged each other in discussion and debated in the courts of aristocratic patrons. Interaction and competitive debate with advocates of rival views stimulated greater depth and rigour in philosophical reflection and argumentation. As we have seen, only two groups—­the Rú and the Mò—­ explicitly identified their tradition of thought by a name. The labels we use for other rough doctrinal orientations—­designations such as ‘Daoist’, ‘Legalist’, ‘Yīn-­Yáng’ (a label for proto-­scientific correlative or analogical explanations of natural patterns), or ‘Names’ (a label for writings on language and logic)— were later, retrospective inventions, perhaps by the Hàn archivist Sīmǎ Tán (d. 110 bc). The thinkers and practitioners who produced the texts we associate with these labels do not seem to have identified themselves by them. They may have seen themselves simply as inquirers and practitioners of the dào (the Way). Some may not have drawn sharp boundaries between their conception of dào and those of other groups. To give one example, since Confucius frequently appears as a literary character in the Zhuāngzı ̌ in the role of the text’s spokesman, whoever wrote the passages in question may well have considered themselves his followers or at least admirers. Perhaps, then, some writers may have identified both with Confucius and with ideas later categorized as ‘Daoist’. Similarly, the application of what were later deemed ‘Daoist’ ideas in what we consider ‘Legalist’ texts suggest that the writers did not recognize any clear boundary between a rival ‘Daoist school’ and their own orientation of thought, by which they might feel obliged to reject or set aside the other school’s ideas. In approaching the texts, then, we want to set aside traditional labels at least initially and not prejudge how a particular text will orient itself with respect to other doctrinal outlooks. Many of our sources may not fit easily into predefined doctrinal categories. Labels such as ‘Daoism’ or ‘Legalism’ may still turn out to be useful, but only as loose designations for broad, somewhat heterogeneous orientations of thought tied together by various family resemblances.

The Texts The chapters that follow draw mainly on eight collections of late classical writings. In alphabetical order, these are the Guǎnzı ̌, Hánfēizı ̌, Lǚ’s Annals, Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts, Mòzı ̌, Shāngjūn Shū, Xúnzı ̌, and Zhuāngzı ̌. To a lesser extent, the discussion also draws on the Confucian Analects, the

10  Late Classical Chinese Thought Mencius, and the Shènzı ̌. The first subsection below discusses general features of these writings. The next subsection considers the implications of these features for how we interpret the texts, and the subsequent one introduces the collections one by one.

The Nature of Pre-­Hàn Philosophical Texts Any informative discussion of the thought of the Warring States period should first clarify the nature of the sources, as historical and philological facts about them have important implications for how we should read them. Most of these volumes fall into a category known in Chinese as the ‘various masters’ writings. A key point to understand about the ‘masters’ volumes is that they are not ‘books’, in the modern sense of the term, with identifiable authors. Nor are they the collected works of a select list of great thinkers. Although each of them calls for somewhat different treatment, all are an­tholo­ gies of diverse content. Several—­such as the Guǎnzı ̌ and Zhuāngzı ̌—can instructively be compared to what we now call a ‘wiki’, a database in which different, diverse pieces of content can be created, edited, or expanded over time by members of a community of contributors, without any one person or persons claiming authorship over the material. Six features of these writings are especially significant for our purposes. First, almost all of the writings collected into the masters texts are an­onym­ ous. Warring States writers did not sign or claim ownership of their work. The cultural practice of claiming and acknowledging authorship of texts developed only later, during the Hàn dynasty. Nor did writers depict themselves, so a piece of text purporting to present the speech of, say, Zhuāngzı̌ (‘Master Zhuāng’) would not have been written by the person Zhuāngzı̌. Texts were typically transmitted by collecting them together under the name of a revered, representative figurehead, such as Mòzı̌ (‘Master Mò’) or Mèngzı̌ (‘Master Mèng’). Attribution of a text or a statement in a text to a master thus does not entail that the words were originally his. A collection might be named after such a venerated master for a variety of reasons. In the case of the Mòzı ̌ or Mèngzı ̌ collections, for example, the component texts were probably written and compiled by the master’s followers, perhaps over several generations. Their content might reflect, develop, or have been inspired by the master’s teachings. In the case of the Guǎnzı ̌ (‘Master Guǎn’), the association with the material seems partly geographical, partly literary. The historical figure Guǎn Zhòng exerted little influence over the Guǎnzı ̌ texts, as he died long before

Introduction  11 they were written. But he was a renowned statesman from Qí, where many of the texts seem to have been produced, and he appears as a character in some of them. By contrast with all of these, the bulk of the material in the Xúnzı ̌ (‘Master Xún’) was probably produced during the lifetime of Xún Kuàng, who may have been directly involved in creating the texts or at least supervising their production. Two further features are that the masters writings were produced through a gradual, accretional process and that this process involved the collective participation of numerous writers or editors, in many cases probably across several generations. Their content may have first been discussed within a circle or community of scholars, activists, or practitioners under the leadership of a teacher. The texts themselves were then produced through a complex, extended process of writing, editing, compiling, and rearranging. A teacher—­ either the founder of a circle or movement or a later-­generation successor—­ may have taken the lead in creating or endorsing the ideas that went into a piece of text, but he may not have been the person who actually wrote them down. In some cases, students may have recorded the words of their teacher in conversations or debates. In others, students, associates, or later followers contributed to, revised, or expanded the collection of writings. Over time, more and more materials were collected together under the name of a particular master, as later followers continued to produce or incorporate further texts. Texts were curated and passed down through lineages of followers, who probably at times revised, expanded, or rearranged them. For these reasons, the masters anthologies as wholes were not composed at any one time, by any one person, but written and revised over a period of time, with the participation of many persons. A fourth point is that the texts were produced by these circles of teachers and students for a variety of purposes and audiences. Some, such as the texts presenting the 10 core doctrines of the Mòzı ̌ or many essays in the Guǎnzı ̌, appear to be ‘position papers’, written to present doctrines to a broad audience and if possible persuade rulers, officials, and gentry to adopt them. Some, such as the Xúnzı ̌ ‘Debate on Military Matters’, appear to be records of court debates. Lǚ’s Annals is an encyclopaedic compendium that aspires to educate and guide princes and high officials. Other texts present brief the­or­ et­ic­al discussions, which then often form the basis for practical re­com­menda­ tions, as in the Xúnzı ̌ essays on names or knowledge or the Zhuāngzı ̌’s skeptical critique of dogmatic judgments. Still others, such as certain passages in Xúnzı ̌ and Zhuāngzı ̌, appear to be training or coaching handbooks to guide followers in practising the dào. Some of the Mohist dialectical writings

12  Late Classical Chinese Thought resemble research notes that seem unlikely to have been intended for wide circulation, as their abbreviated format makes them difficult for outsiders to understand. One section of Xúnzı ̌ is a collection of songs or poems, another a set of pedagogical riddles. Still another is an album of sayings and descriptions of rituals. Much of the Zhuāngzı ̌ consists of humorous or amusing stories and anecdotes, typically incorporating a philosophical or pedagogical point. Given this variety of purposes and target audiences, any interpretation of a particular bit of text rests on a tentative hypothesis about its aim or function. Fifth, as implied by the accretional, collective process by which they were produced and by the diversity of their content, each of the masters collections is highly composite in nature. In ancient times, what we call a ‘masters text’ was in reality a collection of several dozen physically separate bamboo scrolls, usually containing separate, independent pieces of writing. The content was written vertically, from top to bottom, on strips of bamboo laced together with silk threads, roughly like a bamboo place mat. The ‘place mat’ was then rolled up to form a scroll for storage. Texts were likely drafted on short bamboo scrolls called cè (‘sheaves’). (The graph for cè, ‘冊’, derives from a drawing of such a scroll.) Eventually short sections would be combined and recopied onto longer scrolls called piān (‘scrolls’, ‘books’). A relatively long essay might fill an entire piān. Briefer writings might leave part of the piān blank, and so several shorter writings might be recopied together onto a single physical piān. These piān eventually became the units labelled ‘chapters’ in modern editions. Originally, however, the piān were not literary units, as chapters are, but physical ones. A single physical piān could include several independent pieces of writing, each of which might potentially constitute a discrete work. Many piān in the Zhuāngzı ̌, for example, are collections of what appear to be discrete short stories or essays. In the Xúnzı ̌ piān entitled ‘Correct Names’, only the first half concerns names and speech. The remainder comprises several unrelated short paragraphs about moral psychology, apparently copied into a blank area at the end of the piān to save space. Even when a piān does contain a single, thematically coherent essay, the text may show signs of having been stitched together from shorter bits of writing that might originally have been composed separately. To underscore the nature of piān as phys­ic­ al­ly discrete units, in the chapters that follow I will refer to them as ‘books’. The unit of composition of the masters volumes was thus generally the short remark, anecdote, or essay, ranging from a dozen or so to a few hundred words, not the full content of a piān, and certainly not the volume as a whole. Accordingly, in this book, when I mention ‘texts’, I am referring to the many

Introduction  13 short pieces of writing that constitute these anthologies, not the anthologies as wholes. Just what constitutes a single text is a question that must be examined on an individual, contextual basis, as must the relation between the different pieces of writing within a single piān. None of the masters anthologies is an integral work in the sense that a modern book or essay is. Each is more like an archive or a library of texts. A sixth and final point is that the transmitted versions of most of the masters anthologies do not preserve the texts as they stood at the end of the classical, pre-­imperial period. Most of the texts were collated and rearranged by editors who lived long after their contents were written. These editors may have moved parts around, incorporated material from disparate sources, or discarded some material. In many cases, their work makes it impossible to reconstruct the content or organization of the texts as they existed around the end of the third century bc. To give an example, the recension of the Xúnzı ̌ that has come down to us was produced by the Hàn dynasty archivist Liú Xiàng (79–8 bc) from materials he found in the imperial library. Liú reports that he identified 322 piān attributed to Xúnzı̌, among which he discarded 290 as duplicates and arranged 32 into the version we have today. He gives no breakdown as to the number of duplicates of each of the 32, nor does he explain how much the content of different piān needed to overlap for them to count as duplicates. He does not report whether the 322 piān were subdivided into different groups or what their sources might have been. His account seems to imply that before his work, no authoritative collection of Xúnzı ̌ texts existed. Whether or not this is the case, it is clear from his remarks that the version of Xúnzı ̌ we now read was not put into its present form by Xún Kuàng, his students, or anyone closely associated with him but by an archivist working nearly two centuries after his death.

Consequences for Interpretation What do these points about the organization, production, and purpose of pre-­Hàn texts mean for how we approach the masters’ texts and other writings from this period? One implication is that in exploring Warring States thought, we must focus on texts, not persons. The data available to work from are texts, and nothing ties specific pieces of text to particular historical persons. Hence our object of study is not the philosophy of a series of great thinkers, but the ideas, positions, and theories we can reconstruct by interpreting collections of texts.

14  Late Classical Chinese Thought A further implication follows from our understanding of what constitutes a  ‘text’ in this context. Interpretively, the masters anthologies should be approached not as if they were integral, unified works but as what they are: anthologies of short texts, collected together for various purposes and related in various ways, that may express a range of different views. Interpretation and discussion of the masters materials must begin from the level of the individual short text, which may be a brief remark, short anecdote, or longer essay. The primary object of interpretation is not the collection as a whole, nor even the entire piān, but individual pieces of writing. Interpretive hypotheses about groups of passages, entire piān, or groups of piān must rest on interpretive work built up from the level of the individual passage. Approaching the sources as anthologies of interrelated but distinct writings entails setting aside certain assumptions that normally guide interpretation. When dealing with an integral, expository text, interpreters typically—­and usually justifiably—­assume that the text as a whole expresses a unified, coherent position. Selected parts can be cited to represent the position of the text as a whole. Interpretations of different parts can be combined to reveal their implicit joint position. Inconsistency between interpretations of different parts may indicate that one or both interpretations are mistaken. In working with the masters anthologies, on the other hand, interpreters cannot justifiably presuppose that any group of component texts will present a unified or coherent doctrinal standpoint. We cannot assume that views presented in individual texts can justifiably stand for the corpus as a whole or be combined to indicate a shared position. Inconsistency between different parts need not signal misinterpretation, as the parts might indeed disagree. Of course, since ancient compilers had some reason for gathering the different component texts together into the same corpus, the texts may well cohere or agree in various ways or on various levels. But claims to this effect must be grounded in interpretive arguments about individual short texts, rather than function as a guiding axiom by which to approach the material. The relation between component texts can be discovered only by interpreting them. We cannot assume in advance that any particular selection of passages either do or do not share consistent or complementary views on a particular issue. Moreover, since each of the ‘masters’ collections has a unique historical background, the best explanation of the relationship between different parts may well be different for each. Some may display a high degree of doctrinal coherence; others may be notably heterogeneous. It is clear, for example, that the relation between the component parts of the Xúnzı ̌, many of which share

Introduction  15 a roughly consistent doctrinal outlook, is quite different from that of the Guǎnzı ̌, which contains material representing almost diametrically opposed political positions. In setting out to study a particular anthology, if we cannot justifiably assume its parts will cohere as a single ‘work’, how do we get our bearings? The approach taken here is to orient ourselves by regarding the various short texts within each collection as distinct contributions to various intersecting or overlapping conversations, pedagogical traditions, research programs, political projects, or other sorts of discursive activity on various topics and issues. We aim to situate the various texts in the discussions and activities of their time. In doing so, we want to examine both how they relate to other short texts within the same masters collection and to their overall intellectual, cultural, and political context.

The Sources This section briefly lists the primary sources on which the main chapters of the book are based. For a more detailed discussion of these sources, see the Appendix. Analects (Lúnyǔ, or ‘Categorized Sayings’). A compilation of sayings attributed to and anecdotes about Confucius (Kǒngzı̌) and his disciples and associates. The Analects is considered a foundational text in the Rú (‘Erudite’, ‘Confucian’) tradition. Guǎnzı ̌ (‘Master Guǎn’). A lengthy, diverse anthology named after the seventh-­century bc statesman Guǎn Zhòng. The Guǎnzı ̌ comprises writings on a wide range of topics, including ethics, politics, administration, economics, military affairs, geography, agriculture, and psycho-­physiological cultivation. These writings express several distinct doctrinal orientations, including Ruism (‘Confucianism’), Legalism, and ‘Daoism’. Hánfēizı ̌ (‘Master Hán Fēi’). A voluminous collection of writings attributed to or associated with the ‘Legalist’ thinker Hán Fēi. Lǚ’s Annals, also known as The Annals of Lǚ Bùwéi. A compendium produced by a team of scholarly retainers to Lǚ Bùwéi, prime minister of the state of Qín, around 239 bc, treating a variety of topics from a range of doctrinal perspectives. The compendium was intended to be a resource for educating a young prince. Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts. Four previously unknown texts discovered among a collection of silk manuscripts unearthed at Mǎwángduī, Hunan. The

16  Late Classical Chinese Thought manuscripts are intriguing witnesses to lines of thought current between the late decades of the third century and early decades of the second century. Their doctrinal affiliation is an open question. Mencius (Mèngzı ̌) (‘Master Mèng’). A collection of sayings attributed to and anecdotes about Mèng Kē, a prominent fourth-­century teacher and counsellor in the Rú tradition. Later Rú scholars considered Mèngzı̌ (latinized as ‘Mencius’) to be the ‘second sage’, the second major figure in transmission of the dào from Confucius. Mòzı ̌ (‘Master Mò’). A large collection of texts produced by several gen­er­ ations of followers of Mò Dí, a craftsman who founded an influential philosophical, religious, and political movement. Much of the Mòzı ̌ predates the period of interest in this book, but the concerns and rhetoric of several sections of the text known as the Mohist ‘Dialectics’ (Mò Biàn), or the ‘later Mohist’ writings, seem to place them in the same third-­century intellectual milieu as, for example, parts of the Xúnzı ̌ and the Zhuāngzı ̌. Shāngjūn Shū (Book of Lord Shāng). A relatively short collection of texts attributed to Shāng Yāng, also known as Gōngsūn Yāng or Lord Shāng, a mid-­ fourth-­century minister in the state of Qín who was highly influential in the development of Legalist thought. Shènzı ̌ (‘Master Shèn’). A collection of ‘Legalist’ writings attributed to Shèn Dào, about whom little is known beyond that he was associated with the Jìxià assembly of scholars in Qí probably during the late fourth century bc. Xúnzı ̌ (‘Master Xún’). A collection of mostly third-­century writings attributed to Xún Kuàng, an influential scholar, teacher, and official in the Rú tradition. Zhuāngzı ̌ (‘Master Zhuāng’). A corpus of writings presenting a diverse range of partly overlapping doctrinal outlooks later grouped together under the label of ‘Daoism’. The Appendix offers a more fine-­grained description of each of these sources.

Chapter Overview Since a central aim of this book is to reconstruct debates and disagreements between rival currents of thought, the chapters are organized around topics of  philosophical interest that were the subject of explicit discussion and debate in the late Warring States. The following is an overview of the chapter contents.

Introduction  17 Chapter 1: The Way. This chapter examines different views concerning the nature of and grounds for dào (the Way), the central architectonic concept in late Warring States thought. The chapter explores implications of the concept of dào and then considers different views on the metaphysics of dào. It looks at the growing interest in late classical thought in attempting to ground the dào humanity should follow in patterns of nature or in people’s naturally given dispositions. The discussion considers a range of views on which dào is fixed by nature, as well as the claim that people’s nature—­our xìng—­gives us a built-­in dào to follow. It then examines texts that present dào as primarily a natural or cosmogenic process, to which wise human agents can conform by eliminating features of human agency that prevent us from subsuming ourselves in its flow. The chapter next takes up a sharply contrasting view, which I call the ‘craft’ conception of dào, on which human dào is a construct, albeit one that is justified by how effectively it engages with natural conditions, as a dào of building houses is justified by how sturdy and functional the houses are. On this view, only through intelligent use of human capacities can we develop and follow dào. Subtly distinct from the ‘craft’ view is Xúnzı̌’s cultural constructivism, on which human dào is a system of cultural and political norms and institutions developed by epochal cultural leaders, not something found in nature. Xúnzı̌ too holds that the right dào must align with natural conditions effectively, but unlike the craft conception, he insists on the authority of a particular traditional practice of dào, denying that people’s prevailing mores are among the patterns dào integrates and rejecting the pragmatic implications of the craft approach. Last, the chapter looks at the pragmatic pluralism found in parts of the Zhuāngzı ̌, on which dào are pragmatic constructs conditioned by natural features in such a way as to be inherently plural, contextual, and open-­ended. Chapter 2: The State. Chapter 2 surveys views on the origin and justification of political authority and on methods of governing, including moral education, rigorously enforced standards or laws, non-­ interference, and responsiveness to the people. The chapter looks at several accounts of the origin of authority from a state of nature, observing how some tie authority to the people’s moral approval, while others see it as justified by how it secures a fully human way of life. The discussion then turns to a major controversy concerning methods of rule—­ going all the way back to the Confucian Analects—­namely whether governance should rely primarily on moral education or on strictly enforced laws, backed up by rewards and punishments. We explore this controversy at length through a detailed discussion of the perfectionist theories of rule in Guǎnzı ̌ and Xúnzı ̌, the standards-­based approach of

18  Late Classical Chinese Thought the Legalists, and contemporaneous critics’ practical and conceptual analyses of Legalism’s flaws. We also explore different applications of the pivotal, widely endorsed notion of ‘impartiality’ (gōng), which drives both Ruist and Legalist appeals to ‘standards’ or ‘laws’. Last, the chapter looks at ‘bottom-­up’ conceptions of governance found in the Zhuāngzı ̌, which reject the idea that the state should govern by educating the populace or by controlling their behaviour through rewards and punishments. Instead, these texts advocate a type of self-­organizing community, in which authority exists to facilitate people’s own self-­so activity. A perhaps surprising result of the discussion is that across the spectrum of political views—­with the exception of Legalism—­we find a shared conviction that genuine, unforced popular identification with the state is crucial in sustaining the unity needed for a flourishing political society. Chapter 3: Ethics. In this chapter, we look more closely at the content of dào. What is the right or apt way of life? The chapter compares and contrasts rival accounts of norms of conduct and of the well-­lived life. We begin with views from Xúnzı ̌ and Guǎnzı ̌ in which ethical notions are integrated with political thought, since norms of conduct are approached primarily in terms of one’s role in a hierarchical political society. The result is a distinctive role-­ based approach to ethics, which the chapter examines and critiques. We next look at views that tie the well-­lived life to health and to the ideal of fulfilling our inherent nature. Role-­based ethics tends to be complex and unsystematic, while nature-­based views risk being so vague as to permit bad conduct. The chapter looks next at an ethical theory that attempts to avoid these shortcomings, later Mohist consequentialism, which interprets what is morally right as what promotes the benefit of all, while incorporating social roles into the norms by which we promote benefit. The final sections of the chapter explore a very different set of views, found mainly in the Zhuāngzı ̌, that reject mainstream moral concepts such as benevolence and duty altogether in favour of a non-­moralized conception of applying our powers of agency directly to follow dào, understood as a fitting path through shifting and transforming circumstances. Chapter 4: Ethical Cultivation. This chapter examines discussions of ethical cultivation or development—­how we train or orient ourselves to follow dào. Views on cultivation divide along several lines. Some texts treat ethical development primarily as a social and political project, others as a personal, individual concern. Some see it as a matter of extending or manifesting existing, latent dispositions in our character, others as a task of overcoming or reforming unruly, disruptive tendencies. On some views, it is a matter of education

Introduction  19 and acculturation; on others, of eliminating the negative effects of misguided cultural practices. The chapter first discusses texts in Lǚ’s Annals, Guǎnzı ̌, and Xúnzı ̌ that approach ethical development as a political project aimed at leading society to internalize the norms and practices of dào through collective education, habituation, and reinforcement. These contrast with Daoist ‘primitivism’, for which coming to follow dào is also a social process, albeit a negative one of undoing social influences rather than reinforcing them. We then explore texts that treat individual, personal cultivation. A key question in this area concerns the nature of the task: is following dào fundamentally a matter of fulfilling our inherent nature, or does it require reforming our inherent inclinations? If it requires extensive self-­transformation, how do we manage the unruly desires or tendencies that lead us away from dào? The chapter devotes special attention to Xúnzı̌’s views, on which all action is a matter of ‘endeavour’, through which we can reform pre-­existing tendencies and redirect our activity in ways we approve. The discussion then considers a sharply contrasting stance from what I will call the ‘stillness’ discourse, on which following dào lies in setting aside human endeavour entirely, such that the patterns of the world direct our activity. We conclude by considering a different position, based on Zhuāngzı ̌ writings, that draws together elements from both Xúnzı̌’s ‘endeavour’ view and the ‘stillness’ discourse to form a stance that may be more defensible than either. Chapter 5: Epistemology. In late classical thought, knowing is understood in practical terms, as a competence in distinguishing, sorting, and assessing things. Epistemological discussion focuses less on analysis or explanation of knowledge than on how to interact with the world competently, understanding and avoiding potential faults in epistemic performance. In this chapter, we look at the rich analytical treatment of epistemological concepts in the later Mohist dialectical writings and consider their direct realist account of know­ ledge. We then examine Xúnzı̌’s and the Annals’ discussions of epistemic excellence and conscientiousness, both which are concerned with pursuing competent epistemic performance by identifying and applying appropriate criteria so as to avoid bias. The discussion next moves on to explore how, perhaps in response to views such as those in Xúnzı̌ and the Annals, passages in the Zhuāngzı ̌ imply that there can be no genuinely neutral or ultimately correct criteria, nor a fully open-­minded or neutral epistemic stance. Instead, we can aim only for a careful, critical understanding of how the norms we adopt in particular contexts, for particular purposes, may facilitate performance in some respects while simultaneously biasing us in others. The Zhuāngzı ̌

20  Late Classical Chinese Thought material presents a distinctive brand of epistemic virtue or practical wisdom grounded in awareness of different norms of judgement, their relation to the world and to each other, and their potential utility and disutility in particular circumstances. This virtue complements the scepticism presented in some Zhuāngzı ̌ passages about claims to ultimate or final authority. Chapter 6: Language and Logic. Third-­ century texts treat the use of language—­understood as ‘names’ and ‘speech’—as a norm-­governed social practice. Control of language was regarded as a crucial means of guiding society to follow dào and so achieve social order. The central purpose of speech was to guide action, through teachings, commands, and laws, for example. In effect, speech could articulate and guide us in following dào. These views are reflected in the most prominent topic of discussion on language, ‘correcting names’. The first section of this chapter explains the significance of and mo­tiv­ ation for ‘correcting names’ and how this doctrine about the use of words is intertwined with conceptions of dào and social order. Besides introducing prevailing theories about ‘correct names’, the discussion also considers views in the Zhuāngzı ̌ that undermine the very idea of ‘correct’ names and their use in guiding the performance of dào. Since observing shared norms for the use of names was regarded as crucially important for ethical and political reasons, philosophers of language needed to explain the grounds for the proper use of names. This practical and theoretical imperative motivated the later Mohists and Xúnzı̌ to develop rich semantic theories to explain why certain things should be ‘distinguished’ as ‘the same’ or ‘different’ and so take the same name or not. Intriguingly, for students of Western philosophy, these semantic theories make no use of notions similar to universals, abstract forms, or mental ideas, concepts, or representations. Instead, as the middle section of this chapter shows, they explain why objects take the same name by appeal to inherent similarities in things, human perception, and conventional social practices. For late Warring States thinkers, semantic theory is fundamentally intertwined with logic and argumentation. Assertions are understood as predicating ‘names’ of objects. For an assertion to be correct is for the object in question to indeed be ‘the same’ as those normally referred to by that name. Argumentation is thus an activity of giving explanations to support distinguishing certain things as ‘the same’ or not, where ‘sameness’ is understood by appeal to prevailing semantic theories. Given this emphasis on ‘sameness’ relations, logical inquiry focuses mainly on analogical reasoning, and argumentation is seen as primarily analogical. The third major section of Chapter 6 describes the treatment of argumentation in later Mohist thought and in the Xúnzı ̌.

1 The Way Dào—‘way’, ‘ways’, or ‘the way’—is the central organizing concept in classical Chinese philosophical discourse. This chapter will survey prominent, competing views of the nature of and grounds for dào in late Warring States texts and explore the implications of these views. We will look at different views about the metaphysics of dào—­what sort of thing it is and what constitutes it. For precision, the discussion will use the romanized word ‘dào’ rather than an English translation. Classical Chinese nouns typically do not mark plurals, and in many contexts unmarked nouns function as uncountable or mass nouns. So it is sometimes unclear whether ‘dào’ refers to a distinct, unique way, any of a range of ways, or the sum of all ways, for example. I will try to preserve this feature of the original term by using ‘dào’ as a count noun in some contexts and a mass noun in others. The basic meaning of ‘dào’ can be interpreted roughly as ‘path’, ‘road’, ‘track’, ‘course’, or ‘way’. Like these English words, dào can be concrete, abstract, or some combination of the two. A physical path can be a dào, as can a series of concrete steps for performing some task. A body of general policies or patterns can be called dào, as can a loosely framed, uncodifiable way of life, such as the dào of a diplomat or a parent. Dào can comprise a lifestyle, values, attitudes, customs, habits, and skills, as when we might speak of the dào of being a monk, a lawyer, a teacher, a sailor, or a skier. Dào can refer to a culture, such as the dào of an agricultural community or a hunter-­gatherer community. It may refer not only to what we do, but how we do it—­the manner, mode, or style. Dào can be either descriptive or normative. Descriptively, dào can refer to how things happen—­the actual, factual way that something typically proceeds or has proceeded. In this sense, it can refer to such things as regular patterns of nature, to how things go or work, or to customary or habitual ways of doing things. But dào can also be a normatively appropriate or practically effective way to do something, including how we are to act, what practices to follow, what ends or values to pursue, for example, or what method, technique, or approach to use in pursuing some end. In some contexts, used normatively, dào overlaps with what we would consider ethics or morality. However, such Late Classical Chinese Thought. Chris Fraser, Oxford University Press. © Chris Fraser 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198851066.003.0002

22  Late Classical Chinese Thought normative dào may cover not only what we would consider moral norms but those associated with prudence, courtesy, tact, kinship relations, and other social or political relations. Used broadly, dào can refer normatively to the way to live well—­the good social, political, and ethical life. A further ambiguity is that dào can refer either to the course or norms we follow or to our path or performance as we proceed. Suppose we follow a track through the woods. Like the English word ‘path’, dào may refer either to the track that guides us as we walk along or to the flow of our movement as we go. Thus we can speak of dào as a path we follow or as the process of following that path. A conception of dào as a path we aim to follow is normative. A conception of dào as a process can be either descriptive or normative, referring either to how we happen to proceed or to a norm of performance we seek to attain. Here, then, the distinction is between dào as a guide or method to be followed in our performance and dào as the performance itself. This dual understanding of dào is reflected by several texts from the late classical period that explicate dào by appeal to the concept of lı ̌, ‘pattern’ or ‘patterns’. ‘Lı ’̌ originally referred to the grain or the pattern of lines in a piece of stone or wood. In philosophical discourse, the word came to refer to the orderly, coherent patterns by which things are organized and develop or interact. Some texts explain dào as pattern, implying that dào just is the patterns of things with which we interact—­in effect, the grain of things. One passage in the Zhuāngzı ̌, for instance, equates dào with patterns (Zz 16/3). A passage in an essay entitled ‘Methods of Dào’ in ‘Canonical Methods’, one of the Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts, states that ‘there being things that do not conform to dào’ amounts to failing to comply with the patterns of things, whereas ‘things each conforming to dào’ is complying with the patterns (Mwd 82). The implication is that dào and the patterns coincide. By contrast, a passage in the ‘Prince and Ministers’ book of the Guǎnzı ̌ gives the relation between dào and patterns a slightly different nuance, saying that dào refers to ‘conforming to the patterns without error’ (Gz 79/27; 30.8). (There are two Guǎnzı ̌ essays entitled ‘Prince and Ministers’, (I) and (II). Unless otherwise noted, I am referring to (I).) Here, it seems, dào is not patterns but the path by which we conform to them—­the process of following patterns rather than the grain or pattern itself. In discussing dào, then, in this chapter and those that follow, we may find it helpful in some contexts to draw distinctions along two dimensions. The first is descriptive versus normative dào: the actual way things proceed versus an ideal or model way to proceed. The second is what we can call ‘guiding’ versus

The Way  23 ‘performance’ dào: dào as a path that guides us along versus dào as the per­ form­ance of traversing such a path. From the discussion so far, it seems that dào could incorporate or exemplify descriptions or norms employing a range of concepts that explicate the idea of a way, path, or track. Dào might be articulated, partially at least, in terms of laws, regularities, principles, models, values, ends, methods, techniques, rules, guidelines, habits, policies, styles, or manners. All of these concepts seem potentially useful as explanations of or cues to dào. We should take care not to identify the concept of dào with any of these, however, for the simple reason that a way is not the same thing as a principle, law, or rule, nor a method, technique, or style. Instead, we will understand classical Chinese philosophical discourse better if we treat dào as a primitive, basic concept neither reducible to nor wholly translatable into any of these other, perhaps more easily codified or articulated concepts. The role of dào as a primitive is especially clear in contexts where it refers to a process or performance, for then it is clearly not a rule, method, or habit but an ongoing stream or flow of activity. Of course, dào might comprise, or be articulated through, rules, methods, habits, or other items that are elements of or aids to performance. But dào itself is simply a way or path, not a rule, method, habit or other means of indicating the way or path. The notion of dào may seem a novel or unorthodox basis from which to approach ethics, politics, epistemology, or language. I suggest, however, that in practice the concept of dào—­understood roughly as ways, paths, routes, or approaches—­is deeply familiar. Many of us are accustomed to reflecting on or evaluating the various ways that things happen, ways by which we might do something, or ways by which we seek to live. Classical Chinese thought thematizes and develops this common, useful notion. The pivotal role of the concept of dào is crucial to understanding late clas­ sic­al Chinese thought, because the focus on dào shapes the orientation of philosophical discourse—­the concepts, assumptions, and theories employed, the concerns and problems considered, and the solutions proposed. The concern with finding and following dào leads to an emphasis on dynamic patterns of activity over time—­on how things arise, develop, and proceed, rather than on how they stand, what they are, or how they are constituted. Persons are regarded as embodied agents engaged in dào, not detached thinkers or spectators. Discussion focuses on practical performance rather than the­or­et­ ic­al description. Although explicit guidance for following dào has its place, the chief concern is not to represent or describe dào but to follow or perform

24  Late Classical Chinese Thought it. Indeed, description itself is explained in terms of following dào correctly: describing something accurately is itself a performance, one that conforms to norms of language use. More broadly, thought and knowledge are understood through their relation to action and thus to dào. To think is to adopt various attitudes modelled on language use, disposing us to certain patterns of activity; to know is to draw distinctions in conformity to relevant norms. Since thought and action are aspects of dào performance, discrete thoughts or acts are seen as elements of systematic, ongoing patterns of states, attitudes, and activity, not isolated, individual units. Since dào covers the way, manner, or style of our activity as well as its direction, content, and ends, dào performance is understood largely along the lines of skill performance. Following dào is like speaking a language, pursuing a craft, performing a sport, or playing a musical instrument. Accordingly, the emphasis in early Chinese ethics and action theory is on the abilities, habits, traits, and dispositions that contribute to such skills or skill-­like activities. This approach to action contrasts with an intellectualist model that emphasizes reasoning about, deciding on, and then undertaking some discrete act. It explains why, for some late classical texts, the ideal life could be one in which a person seldom engages in explicit, self-­conscious thought or ratiocination: such persons have achieved such mastery of dào that there is rarely a need to self-­consciously think their way through a situation. Complementing this skill conception of action, the concept of dào yields a distinctive approach to normativity, through which our environment presents us with paths that exert normative force in guiding action. The key to this approach is a conception of persons as inevitably finding ourselves on some path, moving in some direction, acting from certain dispositions, employing certain capacities, and pursuing certain ends—­minimally, seeking to fulfil our basic material needs. These dispositions, capacities, and ends can be thought of as constituting our dé—­the Virtue, power, or capacity by which we follow dào. They are shaped by and interact with our social and physical environment to present us with various potential dào to pursue, some of which will proceed more smoothly or effectively than others. We inevitably must move along some dào, in some direction; the question is not whether to do so but which of the available dào to take. The nature of the normative ‘force’ associated with the concept of dào is distinctive, identical neither to what we typ­ic­ al­ly think of as moral obligation nor to prudential self-­interest. It derives from the status of some dào as purportedly ‘better’ than others, either because they take us in a more fitting direction or towards a more fitting end, or because they guide us in a more fitting manner. To perform dào well—­competently,

The Way  25 even masterfully—­is to traverse a path in a suitable direction smoothly, successfully, and sustainably. On this picture, an apt or appropriate dào—­one we normatively should follow—­is one that guides us along an appropriate direction in a smooth, effective manner, where what counts as the right direction or an effective manner is among the issues up for debate. The underlying, architectonic concern with dào thus affects how texts from the late classical period approach the topics treated in this book. Political thought is understood as inquiry into the dào by which to govern a state. According to some texts, sound governance lies in actively leading political society to follow an appropriate dào; for others, it lies responding and conforming to a spontaneous communal dào. In ethics, the fundamental normative and structural concept is dào, rather than, for example, rules, standards, individual acts, intrinsic goods, or admirable character traits. These and other concepts may have a role, to be sure, but they are framed as aspects or elem­ ents of dào, understood as a comprehensive, normatively appropriate way of life. Ethical cultivation is a matter of learning, orienting, or conditioning oneself to perform dào. In epistemology, knowledge is regarded as a competence in distinguishing things and seeing how the patterns of various distinctions relate to each other according to dào. In philosophy of language, the most prominent function of language is to guide action, and language use is regarded as itself an aspect of dào. Some texts hold that language is a means of guiding us to follow dào; others that its use tends to obstruct us from following dào. The discussion in the following chapters will address how a general concern with dào shapes discourse on the topic of each chapter. As might be expected, given the structurally and thematically fundamental place of dào in late classical discourse, many questions about dào are deeply contested. Just what sort of thing is dào? What way of life is the proper dào—­ what is its content or direction? What criteria determine that content or direction—­what factors make some path an appropriate dào? How do we follow dào? How does it guide us? Can it be made explicit and transmitted through speech? Different texts present a variety of stances on such issues. Indeed, as we will see, in some cases what the texts call dào is so different that they are almost talking past one another. In later chapters, we will explore competing theories concerning the correct or appropriate dào (Chapters  2 and 3), the processes by which we learn and follow dào (Chapters 4 and 5), and the role of language—­ if any—­ in promulgating and following dào (Chapter  6). The present chapter will explore different conceptions of what dào is, with an eye to how they shape rival views of its content and the process of promulgating and following it.

26  Late Classical Chinese Thought The discussion will revolve around how our textual sources address three interrelated questions concerning the nature of dào. The first, central question is to what extent the dào that humanity is to follow is determined by the nat­ ural world, independently of human judgement, or is something we construct, most likely in response to natural conditions. A second question is whether the normatively appropriate dào for humanity is unique, such that only a single dào can be justified, or whether it might be plural, such that distinct ways of life could be justified in different circumstances for different communities or individuals. A third question is to what extent dào can be communicated through explicit instructions, standards, or prompts or is strictly implicit and inexpressible, to be learned through a tacit knack or feel rather than explicit guidance. Some answers to these questions will tend to go hand-­in-­hand with others. For example, if the natural world fixes a specific dào for all of humanity, then the dào is likely to be unique and monolithic. If this nature-­fixed dào is innate, then perhaps it may involve implicit, in­stinct­ ive responses and not be subject to explicit formulation. On the other hand, if dào is something individual agents construct for themselves, perhaps different agents might justifiably pursue a plurality of dào. Or, if dào is a specifically social construct, perhaps a single dào must be shared by all, and performance of this social dào must be coordinated through explicit guidelines for members of society to follow. In the remainder of this chapter, we will take the first of these questions—­to what extent dào is determined by the natural world—­as a springboard for discussion, addressing the other two as they arise in course. We will look at several varieties of claims that dào is fixed by nature or that the dào for people to follow just is the dào of Heaven. We will consider also the claim that people’s inherent nature or character—­our xìng—­gives us a built-­in dào to follow. We will then consider the stance that dào is actually metaphysically prior to the natural world—­understood as ‘Heaven and Earth’—for it is the creative process or flow from which the world is produced. On this view, in seeking dào, what we are actually seeking is to guide activity by aligning with this creative cosmogenic process. We will then consider what I will call the ‘craft’ conception of dào. On this conception, dào is analogous to crafts such as pottery or architecture. The natural world does not determine a path by which we must produce certain sorts of ceramics or homes. Through tradition, creativity, and trial and error, we design various artefacts and invent the methods to produce them. Whether these designs and methods succeed, however, depends on natural conditions—­on facts about the materials and how we use them, for example. On

The Way  27 this conception, human sociopolitical dào is an invention, a system of social organization and norms that reliably achieve human social ends, in the context of natural conditions. Dào is a construct or posit, not present in nature, but natural conditions—­including naturally occurring features of human life—­determine at least partly whether some dào is successful and thus justified. A closely related but subtly different view is Xúnzı ̌’s cultural constructivism. Like the craft view, Xúnzı ̌ holds that dào is something humanity creates, not something found in nature, and that the apt dào brings about social order and prosperity because it engages effectively with natural conditions. But dào is not simply a practical invention, like a craft, that social leaders should regularly tinker with and adjust in response to changing circumstances or shifts in society’s values and needs. For Xúnzı ̌, the dào of humanity comprises authoritative norms instituted by epochal ethical, political, and cultural leaders, which guide humanity to achieve a uniquely orderly, refined form of life. This traditional dào is justified not only by its pragmatic efficacy but by admirable cultural and aesthetic features that give it a privileged, authoritative status. For its proponents, such a dào is the right path not merely because it is ef­fect­ ive but because it has a distinctive cultural value or beauty. Last, the chapter considers a stance from the Zhuāngzı ̌ that contrasts sharply with Xúnzı ̌’s. On this Zhuāngist view, dào is shaped by interaction between our ends, our circumstances, and natural processes and features, including our own proclivities. But rather than fixing a unique, authoritative dao, these factors present a field of potential paths, which may shift and turn over time. Following dào is a matter of subtle, open-­ended adaptation to circumstance.

Dào and Nature The relation between dào and the natural world is a particularly prominent, crucial issue in late classical discourse. The crux of the issue is the extent to which the dào for us human agents is fixed by reality independently of our activity versus created or determined in some way by our actions. In classical Chinese philosophy, the reality in question amounts to the natural world, along with, according to some outlooks, various supra-­human deities, spirit-­ entities, and ancestral ghosts that inhabit it along with us. Chinese thinkers do not appeal to abstract, transcendent principles such as Plato’s Form of the Good, nor to a divine reality that transcends nature. The one school of

28  Late Classical Chinese Thought thinkers who do regard dào as exemplified by a deity—­ Mòzı ̌ and his followers—­worship a nature-­deity immanent in the natural world. No text holds that an abstract or transcendent reality exists beyond the natural world and natural processes, and all agree that the natural world as we encounter it is fully real, not illusory or merely apparent. Warring States writings refer to nature or the natural world in several ways. Probably the most common classical Chinese word for nature is ‘tiān’, or ‘Heaven’, a term that refers to the sky, to nature as a whole, and to the patterns or forces of nature. ‘Tiān’ was also the name of the Zhōu dynasty high deity, which the Zhōu regime claimed bestowed legitimacy on their sovereign through its mandate, the so-­called ‘mandate of Heaven’ (tiān mìng). In some Warring States texts, such as the Mòzı ̌, Tiān continues to function as a quasi-­ personal deity. In others, the conception of tiān overlaps considerably with the English notion of Nature with a capital ‘N’—not a deity, but nature semi-­ personified as a force that produces and controls things and events in the natural world. In the discussion that follows, I will interpret tiān in this sense as ‘Heaven’. The word tiān is also one half of another expression for nature, ‘tiān dì’, or ‘Heaven and Earth’, which refers to the natural environment—­the landscape, waters or seas, and sky. A further term relevant to this discussion is ‘xìng’, which is often interpreted as the ‘nature’ of a thing in the sense of its inherent character, constitution, or dispositions. The xìng of a stone is to be hard, for example. Xìng and Heaven are causally related, since the xìng of things is commonly understood to be bestowed on them by Heaven. A further conception of nature will emerge from the discussion below, since, as we will see, some cosmogenic texts depict the natural world as we encounter it—­ Heaven and Earth—­as emerging from a more primaeval, undifferentiated natural state, sometimes referred to as the ‘ultimate unity’ (tài yī). Nature itself can be said to follow a dào, the dào of nature. Our question, then, is to what extent the dào of nature determines the dào for us, human agents and communities. Numerous early Chinese texts agree that natural patterns and conditions shape or influence the dào of humanity. The question is to what extent. On one end of a range of views, some texts suggest that dào is wholly determined by natural factors. We can think of this stance as a form of realism about dào, since it contends that reality dictates the dào we should follow. On this view, a privileged, uniquely authoritative dào is present in nature, waiting for us to discover it. An alternative stance is that the dào might be shaped by the natural world in some less rigid or comprehensive way. Perhaps, for example, Heaven does

The Way  29 not wholly determine a unique dào for us but only determines certain ends—­ obvious ones being physical survival and security—­and the conditions we must deal with to meet those ends—­such as the conditions for agricultural production or the climate we must consider in creating clothing and shelter. Nature does not tell us how to grow crops, make clothing, or construct dwellings, but it does determine which sorts of practices and designs will work and which will not. Of course, human activity typically encompasses a range of ends beyond mere survival. So yet another stance might be that dào is mainly a matter of human invention, but it is constrained by natural conditions, as nature determines which of various dào we might develop are feasible, given our capacities and interests. By analogy, any path is shaped by the geography through which it travels, along with the capacities and ends of those who traverse it. We may determine our own path for ourselves, in the course of our activity, but nature determines whether some route can indeed be a path for creatures like us. A path that required us to scale sheer walls or leap great distances would not be practicable for most humans, for example. Moreover, that we have the capacities and ends we do is at least partly the result of the natural processes by which we came to exist.

Dào as ‘Given’ by Nature One strongly realist stance is that dào is determined by or lies in patterns inherent in the natural world. An early, influential source for this type of stance is the Zhōu dynasty religious and political doctrine of the mandate of Heaven. To justify their overthrow of the depraved last ruler of the Shāng dynasty (ca. seventeenth century–1046 bc), the founders of the Zhōu developed a doctrine that the legitimacy of political rule lay not simply in hereditary succession but in the sanction of the high deity, Heaven (Tiān), which would grant or withdraw its mandate in recognition of the ruler’s moral virtue or lack thereof. (I will use the capitalized ‘Tiān’ for the name of the deity, the lowercase tiān for the more general notion of ‘nature’. The Chinese graph is the same in both cases.) The misrule of the last Shāng ruler prompted Heaven (Tiān) to withdraw its mandate, the Zhōu leaders claimed, which it then bestowed on the first Zhōu king. Crucially, Heaven’s mandate was not granted arbitrarily but in response to the quality of a ruler’s virtue and conduct, including how effectively and benevolently he governed and how reverently he served Heaven. Insofar as Heaven is a deified, quasi-­personal conception

30  Late Classical Chinese Thought of nature, on this picture the natural order enforces a moral dào that humanity is to follow. Early Ruism, as exemplified in the Analects, an early collection of sayings by Confucius and various associates, depicts dào as a cultural tradition of ethical, social, and political norms embodied in the virtues of the gentleman, typically expressed through conduct and practices embodying ceremonial propriety (lı ̌). Some passages imply that this dào is endorsed by Heaven (Tiān), here treated as a force or quasi-­deity to which we are accountable. In Analects 9:5, for example, Confucius is depicted suggesting that Heaven is committed to preserving the Zhōu cultural and ethical tradition that he practices and teaches. In 3:13, he warns against committing offences against Heaven. In 7:23 he claims that Heaven produced his personal virtue. In 3:24, an interlocutor suggests Heaven will use Confucius as a watchman’s alarm bell to awaken the world, which has long neglected dào. Such passages suggest that Heaven endorses the Confucian conception of dào. However, the text presents no systematic, explicit account of how Heaven underwrites dào, nor does it explicitly discuss the dào of Heaven itself. Indeed, section 5:13 famously states that Confucius’s students were unable to hear the master discourse on the dào of Heaven. An explicit conception of the natural order as proceeding according to a particular dào appears in the thought of the early Warring States thinker Mòzı ̌ and his followers. For the Mohists, Heaven (Tiān) is a nature-­deity that exemplifies and enforces an authoritative political and ethical dào. Hence, they claim, its intentions provide a model or standard (fǎ) from which we can learn the proper dào. The dào for humanity to follow is thus a feature of the non-­human cosmic order, to which we are to conform. Intriguingly, the Mohists do not, or at least not obviously, claim that Heaven dictates the dào—­ that the nature-­deity’s intention or will is the determining factor that fixes what the dào is. Their explicit claim is only that Heaven perfectly exemplifies and takes the lead in fulfilling the dào. It is characteristic of the practical, non-­ essentialist orientation of early Chinese thought that the question of whether Heaven’s intentions determine the dào or only exemplify it is not thematized as an issue that must be addressed. In late classical thought, such explicit appeals to Heaven as a deity—­and thus to the natural order as ‘enchanted’ with values and a capacity for agency—­are less common. The more prevalent idea is that Heaven (tiān) in the sense of natural patterns and forces might determine a distinctively appropriate dào for humanity to follow—­especially given the premise that any practicable dào must fulfil basic material needs.

The Way  31 A simple example of the inspiration for this line of thought is that the nat­ ural world determines the seasons of the year and thus, in an agricultural society such as pre-­imperial China, to some extent determines the way of life any sustainable society must follow. Food will be sufficient only if crops are planted and harvested at appropriate times; people can maintain their health only by wearing heavier clothing in winter, lighter clothing in summer. In late classical thought, a number of calendrical or almanac texts develop this notion of dào as patterns inherent in nature that humanity must follow to live well. Such texts typically set forth elaborate prescriptions for action in accordance with the changing seasons. A compact example of such a text is ‘The Four Seasons’, book 40 of the Guǎnzı ̌. ‘The Four Seasons’ is a political text that aims to explain how to administer the state by ‘complying with how Heaven runs its course’ (Gz 103/18; 40.1) or ‘conforming to how Heaven and Earth proceed’ (105/10; 40.7), such that the ruler and his state will receive the ‘rewards of Heaven’ while avoiding the ‘misfortunes of Heaven’ (103/22; 40.1). The underlying theory is that the four seasons represent the ‘main courses’ of the two fundamental polar energies or vapours, the negative yīn and positive yáng, and that yīn and yáng are in turn ‘the main lı ̌ (patterns) of Heaven and Earth’ (103/23; 40.1), which are produced by a cosmogenic dào (105/20; 40.8). These patterns form an unending cycle of natural forces and corresponding administrative tasks that wax and wane over the four seasons, with which the work of governing the community must coincide. ‘If rulers in their affairs are sure to adhere to these patterns (lı ̌), they will persist for long. Those who fail to align with them die; those who neglect the patterns perish’ (105/22; 40.8). To conform to the natural order, then, administrative orders must be issued at the proper times, as determined by the course of the seasons. This is ‘the foundation of the state’ (103/19; 40.1). The alignment between tasks and seasons extends far beyond obviously season-­dependent activities such as planting in spring and harvesting in autumn. For example, jobs to be undertaken in spring include restoring and cleaning altars to the spirits and repairing dams, bridges, ditches, and canals; tasks for summer include shoring up boundaries and burying the dead; items for autumn include mending city and home walls and prohibiting gambling; and duties for winter including preventing migration and seeing to the needs of the widowed and orphaned. If tasks are not undertaken at appropriate times, the seasons may be disrupted, leading to unseasonable winds, floods, drought, frost, and destruction of crops, among other consequences. A failure to fulfil our role by conforming to the normal course of nature can causally disturb that course. The text

32  Late Classical Chinese Thought places special emphasis on the timing of ‘punishments and favours’, which were widely considered the key levers of political power, covering criminal punishment and charity but presumably also administration of the civil service and social welfare system. Favours must begin in spring and develop through summer; punishments begin in autumn and flow through winter (105/21; 40.8). In a typical example of late classical and early imperial correlative cosmology, the text also associates each season with a respective direction, cosmological feature, and inherent power. Spring is associated with the east, the stars, and wind; summer with the south, the sun, and yáng; autumn with the west, the planets, and yīn; and winter with the north, the moon, and cold. Since royal favours are associated with the yáng movement and thus the sun, an eclipse of the sun indicates that attention to favours is needed in order to regain the proper relation to natural factors. Punishment is associated with the yīn movement and thus the moon, so an eclipse of the moon indicates that attention to punishment is needed. The stars are associated with harmony and government, so a comet indicates attention to these is needed. A considerably more elaborate example of this calendrical, correlative mode of thought is presented in an almanac called the ‘Monthly Orders’ (Yuè Lìng), which was divided into twelve sections to form the calendrical framework used to organize the first of the three major parts of Lǚ’s Annals, which dates from about 239 bc. The text is preserved whole as book 6 of the Lı ̌ Jì, or ‘Record of Rituals’. In this text, each month of the year is correlated with astronomical observations; weather processes; different numbers, flavours, odours, and musical notes; seasonal activities of animals; daily rituals for the Son of Heaven, or supreme ruler; and elaborate seasonal ceremonies, such as the ploughing ceremony in spring. Entries for the different months present guidelines for managing agriculture, husbandry, household work, military affairs, construction projects, trade, criminal justice, and the penal system. As in ‘Four Seasons’, the text warns of the dire consequences of undertaking tasks in the wrong season—­unseasonable storms, flooding, drought, pestilence, crop failure, famine, insect swarms and infestations, bandit attacks, and enemy invasions. Of course, these almanacs are not philosophical discourses on dào, and the correlative basis for their instructions is largely fanciful. (No doubt some of the advice on agriculture, husbandry, and seasonal maintenance is tried-­and-­ true.) For our purposes, they illustrate a background view present in the late classical intellectual and cultural milieu by which a cosmic dào—­which we will discuss further below—­generates a natural world that proceeds in a

The Way  33 manner to which human life must conform. As the ‘Monthly Orders’ says, ‘Do not alter the dào of Heaven; do not cut off the patterns (lı ̌) of Earth, do not disorder the guidelines of humanity’ (Lscq 1.1; 1.6). On this view, the ‘guidelines of humanity’ are to a large extent determined by ‘the dào of Heaven’ and ‘the patterns of Earth’. The dào of the natural world causally constrains the most prudent, efficacious way to live; to pursue a course of conduct at odds with the inherent patterns of things is disruptive and dysfunctional. In this context, a descriptive dào of nature may take on normative implications. Human communities can be regarded as naturally or inherently committed to ends such as prosperity and stability. A community can succeed in these ends in the long term only by pursuing them through a consistent, sustainable social dào. Any social dào that is instrumentally successful in pursuing these ends will be grounded in the patterns of the natural world. It may seem, then, that the dào for humanity to follow is in some sense or to some degree derived from the inherent course of nature. Among more explicitly philosophical texts—­theoretical discussions, rather than practical handbooks like the almanac texts—­we also find passages contending that dào is fixed by nature, and our task is to conform to it and thereby achieve practical success. Several passages in ‘Canonical Methods’, one of the Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts, indicate that we discover dào in nature. One states that civil culture lies in ‘movement and rest aligning with Heaven and Earth’ (Mwd 72), while another identifies a cyclical process of alternating between the polar extremes of yīn and yáng as both ‘the dào of Heaven and Earth’ and ‘the patterns (lı ̌) of humanity’ (74). Understanding what complies with or opposes natural patterns is ‘the guideline of dào’ (74). So in observing the world, someone who grasps dào surely carefully observes the origins of affairs and examines their forms and names. Once forms and names are fixed, one can locate the adverse and the favourable, differentiate life and death, and settle preservation and loss, prosperity and decline. Then one can align these with the constant dào of Heaven and Earth so as to fix wherein fortune or misfortune, life or death, preservation or loss, prosperity or decline lie. Then in a myriad undertakings one never errs from the patterns and one assesses everything in the world without misjudgment. (Mwd 94)

Here the ‘constant dào of Heaven and Earth’ is the basis for managing human affairs. It guides all action and judgement, indicating what leads to good fortune or bad, life or death, success or failure, and flourishing or decline. One

34  Late Classical Chinese Thought can discover this dào by studying how things originate and arise, identifying the ‘forms’ things take, and carefully distinguishing them by different ‘names’. A brief third-­century text preserved in book 2 of the Guǎnzı ̌ claims that the crux of success in rulership is to follow the dào of Heaven. ‘If one wishes to rule as king over the world yet deviates from the dào of Heaven, the world cannot be ruled over.’ If one does attain the dào of Heaven, ‘his affairs are as if they happen of themselves. . . . Having attained the dào, no one knows he does it; his efforts being successful, no one knows he carried them out. Hidden and formless is the dào of Heaven’ (Gz 3/26; 2.6). Following the dào of Heaven brings success in practical affairs, since one proceeds according to inherent patterns of nature. Indeed, the dào goes so smoothly that things seem to proceed of themselves, rather than as the result of the ruler’s actions. ‘Those whose efforts conform to Heaven, Heaven aids them; those whose efforts oppose Heaven, Heaven goes against them’ (Gz 4/1; 2.7). The claim that dào is hidden and formless contrasts with the passage from the ‘Canonical Models’ that implies dào can be articulated through names, which label observable ‘forms’, or objects and patterns. Other texts directly contend that dào is ineffable. The Guǎnzı ̌ ‘Arts of the Heart (I)’ essay, for example, holds that dào refers to norms or regularities (zé) by which things proceed, to which we can respond appropriately when prompted. Yet to recognize the ‘guidelines of dào’, one must grasp ‘unspoken, non-­undertaken (wú wéi) matters’ (Gz 96/9; 36.2)—factors that are not verbally articulated and do not issue from human initiative. (An example might be harvesting fruit when it reaches just the right degree of ripeness, where that degree is not something that can be explicitly defined.) Dào is something in which we can rest at ease, but we cannot explain it (96/4; 36.1). It is ‘vacuous and formless’ (96/1; 36.1), a matter of quietly responding to things when prompted rather than acting in advance of them (96/14; 36.3).

Dào and People’s ‘Nature’ Another dimension along which some texts contend that the natural world sets forth dào for us is through the concept of our inherent, dispositional nature, or xìng (pronounced ‘shing’). Xìng is associated with what we do spontaneously, without learning or work, as part of normal, healthy functioning. Uncontroversial examples of xìng include physiological functions such as the eye’s ability to see or the inherent disposition of most humans to live longer than twenty years. The connection to dào is that perhaps our xìng determines

The Way  35 a path for us to follow, or perhaps the proper path simply is to fulfil our xìng. If so, then in bestowing our xìng on us, nature in effect determines a dào for us. A few passages in the late fourth-­century text Mèngzı ̌ (latinized as Mencius) present the claim that people’s xìng is good, in the sense that it aligns with moral virtues, and hence a failure to live up to the virtues amounts to a failure to fulfil the normal capacities associated with xìng. (This is an implication of Me 6A:6; 6/I.6.) One passage indicates that to nurture one’s xìng is to serve or work on behalf of Heaven (7A:1; 7/I.1). By implication, to fulfil one’s capacity for manifesting the virtues is to serve Heaven. Another passage states that the ethically cultivated gentleman considers his xìng to be such that the moral virtues are rooted in the heart and manifested in the countenance, posture, and movements (7A:21; 7/I.21). The gentleman regards xìng to include the sage’s relation to the dào of Heaven (7B:24; 7/II.70). The text stops short of such strong claims as that dào is built into our xìng or that fulfilling our xìng just is dào. But it clearly implies that moral virtue is a fulfilment of xìng, and thus a service to Heaven, and that for the gentleman the dào of Heaven should in some sense be regarded as part of a morally exemplary person’s xìng. A prominent motif in some sections of the Zhuāngzı ̌ is that the path to follow is to fulfil our xìng. One passage advocates identifying with the ‘great flow’ of natural processes and ‘joining with Heaven and Earth’ by fulfilling our xìng such that we attain Virtue (dé, or adept agency) (Zz 12/40). Xìng is regarded as providing inherent standards or norms associated with the ‘spirit’ (shén) of each living thing (12/39). So-­called ‘primitivist’ writings collected in the Zhuāngzı ̌ reject conventional moral norms and education in favour of a simple, uncultured lifestyle. Moral values such as benevolence and righteousness are regarded as conflicting with the correct path of dào and the Virtue by which we follow it (8/2). The proper course is instead to conform to ‘the facts of one’s xìng and life circumstances’ (8/8). Another primitivist text valorizes activity conforming to creatures’ ‘genuine xìng’ (9/1) and deplores attempts to control, shape, or govern things in ways contrary to their xìng (9/5). The ideal human society—­one conforming wholly to dào and dé—­would fulfil people’s ‘constant xìng’ of plowing and weaving to feed and clothe themselves and allow them to live together in unity and simplicity according to Heaven, without social factions or distinctions of rank. A pair of obscure fragments in the later Mohist dialectical texts seem concerned to reject attempts to take xìng as a standard of conduct grounded in Heaven. ‘Expounding for a criminal that Heaven is right while his xìng is to be a criminal is to sing that Heaven is wrong’ (Mz 44/9). The worry seems to be that appealing to xìng as a justification for standards of conduct eliminates

36  Late Classical Chinese Thought any normative constraint on one’s behaviour. A criminal could argue that how we tend to act reflects our xìng, and since xìng is bestowed by Heaven, however we spontaneously conduct ourselves is correct. The criminal can claim his own xìng is to act violently and so his criminal actions are justified.

Dào as the ‘Source’ The view we have been considering is that the dào for humanity to follow is fixed by patterns in the natural world. In discussing ‘The Four Seasons’, from the Guǎnzı ̌, we mentioned the text’s underlying cosmological view that the four seasons are among the patterns of Heaven and Earth, which in turn arise from dào. This view reflects a further conception of dào. For some texts, dào is not merely patterns inherent in nature, but whatever drives or generates the path of the natural world as a whole. Indeed, in some texts associated with ‘Daoist’ thought or the syncretic category of thought known as ‘Huáng-­Lǎo’, dào is reified into a primordial, undifferentiated, cosmogenic source—­ analogous to a wellspring—­that, as a dynamic process or way, generates, drives, and is immanent in the natural world—­in heaven, earth, and the myriad things. Any patterns manifested in nature are produced from this fundamental source-dào. The source-dào provides a path for humanity insofar as it imbues the world with a grain or flow that enables and guides our activity. In phrasing evocative of the earlier Dàodéjīng, for example, the silk manuscript ‘The Dào-Source’ (Mwd 172–77) depicts a ‘supreme dào’ that is originally a vast, undifferentiated, vacuous unity, formless and nameless, filling and embracing everything with a faint spirit or sentience. Things and events in effect self-­generate by means of it, without it taking action to produce them. By receiving it, the myriad things live; by receiving it, the various affairs are completed. People all rely on it, though none know its name; people all apply it, though none see its form. ‘Oneness’ is its label; emptiness its dwelling; non-­action its substance; harmony its function.  (Mwd 172–74)

Because it is a primordial, undifferentiated unity, the origin from which every­thing else emerges, the source-dào itself is formless and unnameable. As we will discuss further in Chapter 6, naming was understood to be based on differentiating various kinds of things, paradigmatically on the basis of similarities or differences in their physical form. Since the source-dào is an

The Way  37 indefinite, shapeless totality that cannot be set apart from and paired or contrasted with anything, it cannot be named, and since it cannot be named, it cannot be made explicit and transmitted. Since it is shapeless, without determinate features or forms, it is ‘empty’ (xū), a term that refers to things being open, vacant, indeterminate, and unfixed. By recognizing the reality of the undivided, unformed, creative emptiness that is the dào-source, the text claims, practitioners can join with ‘the vitality of Heaven and Earth’ (174), thereby tapping into the cosmic processes by which things arise and develop. This grasp of how to work along with the flow of natural processes supposedly yields success in practical affairs. Adept practitioners ‘obtain the root of dào, grasp the few to know the many, and obtain the keys to affairs, such that they can apply the upright to straighten the crooked’ (176). A similar description of dào as a formless, all-­encompassing unity occurs in one section of Lǚ’s Annals (Lscq 5.2). Dào is described as the purest vitality (jīng), which has no form or name and cannot be seen, heard, or described. Forced to call it something, we can call it the ‘ultimate oneness’. This oneness generates two aspects—­on some interpretations, heaven and earth—­which in turn produce yīn and yáng. These alter and transform in an endless cosmic process, primal chaos dividing up and merging together over and over again. This cycle—­the ‘wheel of Heaven and Earth’—drives the movements of the heavens, the changes of the seasons, and the emergence of the myriad things from the ultimate oneness. The text claims that the sages of old modelled themselves on this oneness, applying it to handle administration, manage their health, and govern their states. The Zhuāngzı ̌ contains several passages that allude to related conceptions of a cosmic dào. Most widely known is probably a short passage from book 6, ‘The Great Source-­Master’, that describes dào as being real and reliable yet having no form and taking no action (Zz 6/29–31). (The book’s title is itself a reference to the source-dào.) This dào is ‘its own basis, its own root, inherently present since antiquity, prior to Heaven and Earth’. It imbues ghosts and deities with their spirit-­energy and generates Heaven and Earth. It is spatially vast and temporally extensive but cannot be regarded as high, deep, long, or old, presumably because it is immanent everywhere, at all times, while possessing no fixed, determinate features. Another Zhuāngzı ̌ passage explains that dào produces everything, insofar as it generates ‘vital spirit’ (jīngshén)— in effect, life-­energy and sentience—­and the resulting vitality generates physical forms, which in turn are the means by which the myriad things produce each other. Dào is the way by which ‘Heaven cannot but be high, Earth cannot but be broad, the sun and moon cannot but proceed, and the myriad things cannot

38  Late Classical Chinese Thought but flourish.’ It sustains all things, which draw from it without causing it any loss or insufficiency (22/30–36). On this family of views, then, dào is a formless, nameless, undivided, indeterminate ‘source’ of everything, understood not as a fixed point of origin from which things issue but as an ongoing, sustained creative process by which everything arises and develops. Since this source is conceptualized as dào, it is regarded as a reified ‘how’ or ‘way’ that things are generated and proceed, rather than a force, principle, or law of nature. Moreover, since it is an indivisible unity, immanent in things instead of acting on them, it encompasses the totality of all activity and the underlying patterns or causes by which that activity occurs. This all-­embracing scope is reflected in passages that characterize dào as indefinably expansive—‘unfathomably deep, like an ocean’, ‘towering above, like mountains’ (Zz 22/34). ‘The largest things do not reach its end, the smallest are not left out, and so the myriad things are complete in it. So vast, vast, there is nothing it does not contain. So deep, deep, it is immeasurable’ (Zz 13/60). A noteworthy dialogue in the Zhuāngzı ̌ between two figures named ‘Know-­ Little’ and ‘Vast Impartial Accord’ clarifies the conception of dào as a totality (Zz 25/59–82). Dào unites the myriad things and their various patterns into a whole, much as a vast forest aggregates all the diverse vegetation within it into a single ecosystem. Unlike a forest, however, dào cannot itself be demarcated and considered a discrete thing, comparable to other things. The dialogue offers an analogy: ‘the myriad things’ is an expression by which we use an arbitrarily large number—­a myriad, or ten thousand—­to speak of everything there is. The expression by no means implies there are exactly ten thousand things in the world. Similarly, if we say ‘There were a million people at the concert’, we mean only that it was extremely crowded, not that there actually were exactly one million people. By analogy, the dialogue explains, ‘dào’ is a label for the vast whole that impartially includes everything—­heaven and earth, yīn and yáng, all the tangible forms and intangible energies in the cosmos. Used this way, ‘dào’ is merely an appellation we ‘borrow’ for convenience, not the actual name of some determinate thing. Moreover, the text adds, what ‘dào’ refers to cannot be conveyed, whether through speech or silence, because it encompasses patterns latent in the undetectable, infinitely receding origins from which things issue and the unknown, endlessly emerging results of what they become. How might this notion of dào as the totality of things and processes bear on the issue of the dào for human agents to follow? One approach is reflected in what we can call the ‘Great Dào’ view, which ‘All Under Heaven’, book 33 of

The Way  39 the Zhuāngzı ̌, associates with a figure named Shèn Dào (see the glossary). (‘All Under Heaven’ appears to be a Hàn-­dynasty survey of earlier thought that was incorporated into the Zhuāngzı ̌ as a concluding review.) The Great Dào embraces all things without distinguishing them as this or that, right or wrong. The myriad things are all parts of it. All ‘have respects in which they are acceptable and respects in which they are unacceptable’ (Zz 33/44). So ‘if you select, you fail to be comprehensive; if you instruct, you fail to cover things. Dào leaves nothing out’ (33/45). Acting on this construal of the Great Dào, Shèn Dào ‘discarded know-­how and abandoned self, instead just going along with the inevitable; he took following along with things as the pattern (lı ̌) of dào’. Shèn advocated becoming like ‘an insentient thing’, free from ‘the trouble of establishing a self ’ and ‘the burden of employing knowing—­ whether moving or still, [such a thing] does not depart from the patterns (lı ̌)’ (33/50). Since dào encompasses everything, on this view, a direct way to conform to the patterns of dào is to abandon agency entirely and simply let oneself to be pushed along by things. ‘Proceed only when pushed; go only when dragged.’ ‘A clump of earth does not stray from dào’ (33/50). The Great Dào view is thus one way of developing the idea that dào just is the vast course of nature, and, accordingly, humanity can conform to it simply by following along with the course of things. If dào just is the overall path or flow of the natural world, then in principle we could conform to it perfectly by doing nothing at all—­by becoming an insentient clump of flesh, pushed along by events. Conversely, however, it also seems that anything else we might do would conform to dào as well. Since this view reduces dào to simply the sum total of whatever happens, even a life of wanton disregard for one’s own or others’ welfare would still fall within dào. Conceiving of a ‘Great Dào’ that is nothing more or less than the actual, overall process of the cosmos empties the concept of dào of normative content. The distinction between normative and descriptive dào collapses. Shèn himself apparently favoured the ‘insentient clump’ approach over the ‘anything goes’ approach because it is less troublesome: we need not ‘establish a self ’ by using our cognitive capacities to affirm values and ends and exercise choice. In his view, the path of least resistance by which to merge with the dào is in effect to relinquish our cap­ acity for agency and forgo a recognizably human life. Critics at the time reportedly joked that ‘Shèn Dào’s dào isn’t a practice for living people but a pattern (lı ̌) for dead people’. This version of the Great Dào view thus brings to the forefront a pivotal point of disagreement in late classical discourse concerning the relation

40  Late Classical Chinese Thought between dào and nature. All sides agree that human activity is engaged with the natural world, that any justifiable dào must align or interact with the world, and that our dào must thereby derive guidance from the world, in some respect and to at least some extent. Certain relatively extreme views, such as Shèn Dào’s, go on to contend that the appropriate dào for humanity is one on which we wholly subsume ourselves in the course of nature, extinguishing self-­directed human activity. By doing so, our course of life sup­ posed­ly attains a kind of perfection and privileged authority, as our activities become imbued with the Virtue of Heaven itself. As a passage in ‘Forced Intentions’, another book of the Zhuāngzı ̌, puts it: The sage’s life is Heaven proceeding; his death is things transforming. . . . He responds only when stimulated, moves only when pressed, arises only when forced. He discards knowing and reasons and follows the patterns (lı ̌) of Heaven. . . . His life is like drifting, his death like coming to rest. He does not consider, does not plan . . . in emptiness and tranquillity he merges with the Virtue (dé) of Heaven.  (Zz 15/10–14)

Like Shèn Dào, this passage offers a vision of perfect conformity to the patterns of the cosmos that at the same time allows us to escape the need to ‘employ knowing’ to guide our actions and ‘establish a self ’ by ‘selecting’ a path. On this view, features of intentional agency such as ‘knowing and reasons’ or considering and planning are precisely what separate us from the Virtue of Heaven and, by extension, from the dào of the cosmos. But as Shèn Dào’s critics presumably noted, if dào is to be practicable by human agents, living a recognizably human life, it cannot require us to wholly subsume ourselves in the course of nature, ‘merging with the Virtue of Heaven’. Practically, of course, unless we knock ourselves unconscious, we simply cannot become insentient clumps. More important, conceptually the proposal that we forgo self-­directed, intentional agency is incoherent, because the attempt to do so must itself be intentional. Even if there were some prac­ tic­al­ly feasible way just to drift along with dào, we would still need to take the step of intentionally setting ourselves adrift, and thus our course would remain an intentional matter, not merely ‘Heaven proceeding’. A deeper conceptual problem is that human dào cannot be a nature-­given course that simply draws us along, pushed by Heaven’s dé. Consider a physical path through the woods. The path is shaped by natural features, to be sure, but it is constituted as a path only by interaction between these features and the capacities, ends, and intentions of the agents who follow it. The path is not

The Way  41 a path unless agents take it to be so. As Book 2 of the Zhuāngzı ̌ remarks, ‘dào are formed by proceeding along them’ (2/33). Contrary to both the Shèn Dào view and the ‘merge with Heaven’ view, to ‘proceed’ along some dào is in­ev­it­ ably to exercise ‘knowing’ to ‘select’ and follow it intentionally, in pursuit of certain ends. Even if we grant that human life is part of a vast cosmic dào, the cosmic dào does not answer the question of what dào to follow, because it does not set us on some particular, determinate course. Moreover, in the context of late classical thought, one could argue that for human beings, our capacity for self-­directed agency is in fact a central feature of our Heaven-­ given Virtue (dé, referring to agentive powers or capacities). We can grant that the cosmic source-dào causally generates our psycho-­physiological constitution, places us in certain life circumstances, and so in a sense bestows on us the capacities and the causal context from which our activity issues. Still, obviously, we can act only by applying these capacities, in this context, for ourselves. To seek to wholly merge with the Virtue of Heaven—­if such a relation were possible—­ would be to forsake the Virtue that Heaven itself bestowed on us.

The Craft Conception of Dào This criticism of extreme views on which following dào entails merging with natural processes also raises nagging questions about some more moderate views we looked at, on which dào is a path or pattern fixed by the natural world. For if dào is determined by Heaven, for example, why is the path not more obvious? Epistemically, why is dào difficult to identify, such that there is any debate about it? As a simple illustration of how nature might determine dào, we noted that nature determines when to plant and harvest crops. But the timing of planting and harvesting is rarely a matter of sharp disagreement, as the content of dào often was. Moreover, if dào is fixed by natural patterns or processes, then insofar as humanity too is part of the natural world, why don’t we follow it automatically, as other creatures seem to? Why isn’t it a path we follow spontaneously, as we do the uncontroversially natural process of birth, growth, ageing, and death? One plausible response to these questions is to set aside the idea of dào as wholly fixed by nature and instead adopt what we might call a ‘craft’ or ‘engineering’ conception of dào. On this approach, dào is not revealed by nature. Nor is it a predetermined pattern latent in nature, awaiting our discovery.

42  Late Classical Chinese Thought Instead, it is a body of ways of doing things that human societies develop in response to features of our natural and social context, in light of our ends as we determine them in that context. It is analogous to crafts that we develop such as metallurgy or ceramics. Techniques such as smelting, casting, and forging metals or forming, drying, and firing clay are effective only because of how they engage with natural conditions, specifically facts about materials and chemical and physical processes. But nothing in nature determines that humanity should or must produce some particular collection of metal or ceramic artefacts or develop some particular set of techniques for doing so. Analogously, dào can be effective only if it engages with natural conditions, including the conditions of human life, specifically facts about our capacities, our social and economic circumstances, and our natural environment. But nothing in nature determines what particular ends we should pursue—­ beyond fulfilling our basic material needs—­or what specific path we should follow to reach them. A prominent example of this conception of dào appears in the third-­ century text ‘Prince and Ministers (I)’, book 30 of the Guǎnzı ̌. The discussion considers dào from the perspective of the ruler of a state, framing it as inherently social and political—­not something individuals construct for themselves but a shared path that a community follows together, under the leadership of their prince. ‘Dào is that by which the sovereign guides the people’ (Gz 79/3; 30.4). Dào and the corresponding Virtue ‘issue from the prince’ (79/4; 30.4)—and, by implication, not from nature. The point is not that the prince arbitrarily decides what dào will be but that it is his role is to identify or develop dào and lead the community to follow it. To do so, he works from natural and social conditions, combining and unifying ‘constant’, regular features of Heaven, Earth, and social propriety (78/26; 30.3). He identifies per­ tin­ent social relations and rectifies social roles, clarifying a system of patterns (lı ̌), conformity to which constitutes dào. Once dào and the associated Virtue (dé)—the power or capacity that enables performance of dào—­are settled, the people have a ‘track’ to follow (79/27; 30.8). On this approach, dào is how people live, yet it is not inherent in us (80/20; 30.10). ‘The key to the myriad things’, it is recognized and applied by sage-­kings and enlightened princes (80/21; 30.10). But it is not a naturally existing entity or process. It is an ‘abstract construct’ or ‘abstract application’, which proceeds only when practised by those who grasp it and otherwise does not obtain (80/22; 30.10). It offers a ‘constant’ or ‘reliable’ path by which to govern the people and achieve prosperity (80/21; 30.10). Hence any enlightened ruler will value it—­indeed, whether ruling a small state or a vast realm, the key to success lies in following an apt dào (80/24; 30.10).

The Way  43 The text draws an analogy to a smith working metal or a potter working clay: these artisans can fashion anything they wish, provided they have the skill (Gz 80/26; 30.10). Similarly, dào allows the adept ruler to obtain anything he wishes from his subjects or eliminate anything he dislikes, if he is an adept enough ‘artisan’. By implication, dào is akin to a craft of social and economic management directed at reliably producing social stability and prosperity, two ends the text assumes every ruler will share. Dào rests on natural and social facts about Heaven, Earth, and human social relations, much as an artisan’s techniques rest on facts about the materials manipulated. But like a craft, it involves norms and methods that the artisan must invent and develop. In some texts, this craft or engineering approach yields a highly pragmatic, adaptable conception of dào. ‘Correcting the Age’, another political discussion from the Guǎnzı ̌, stresses the importance of ‘balance’ in the dào of rulership, by which it means adjusting policies to changing times, ongoing conditions, and variable customs. Enlightened rulers of old adopted a range of policies, the text contends, in accordance with the times. The sage understands the dào of order and disorder and is learned in the origins and outcomes of human affairs. In governing the people, he aims only to benefit them. So he takes his stand in ‘balance’, neither longing for the past nor lingering in the present. He changes with the times and evolves with prevailing customs.  (Gz 113/32; 47.4)

The key is flexibility and responsiveness. ‘In affairs, nothing is more urgent than setting the proper task; in governing, nothing is more valuable than attaining the proper balance’ (113/29; 47.4). In ancient times, those who wished to correct the age and regulate the realm surely first observed the administration of the state, considered affairs, examined the customs of the people, identified the roots from which order and disorder spring, and recognized wherein success and failure lie. Only then would they undertake affairs.  (Gz 113/1; 47.1)

A specific example is that disharmony among the people and instability in the state may arise either from the ruler’s failings or from his subjects’ errors. If the ruler punishes people unreasonably, taxes too heavily, or squanders the people’s strength through rash, hasty commands, the people will be overworked and destitute and may become aggressive and uncooperative. In such cases, the fault lies with the ruler, and more generous policies are needed. Conversely, if the ruler treats the people leniently, yet they are wanton, selfish,

44  Late Classical Chinese Thought and deceitful, the error lies with them, and stricter policies are justified (Gz 113/4; 47.1). On the craft conception, then, dào is not unique or monolithic: different dào can be justified in different circumstances. ‘Prince and Ministers’ and ‘Correcting the Age’ both assume an authoritarian political system that is likely to recognize only one dào at any one time, but this dào is open to change and development. The conception of dào as a craft of governance brings to the fore another prominent issue concerning which different accounts of dào diverge. Is dào something that can and should be made explicit, or is it by its nature implicit, perhaps even inherently obscure and ineffable? We looked above at claims that dào is a fundamentally obscure, mysterious creative process—­roughly, the course of nature—­that cannot be discerned or named and so cannot be made explicit. In sharp contrast, ‘Prince and Ministers’ contends that since dào is the means by which the ruler guides the people, it is crucial to offer explicit guidance by which to follow it. On this conception of dào, there is a ‘constant’ or ‘reliable’ dào by which to govern the people and there are ‘constant methods’ for producing wealth (Gz 80/21; 30.10), which can be presented explicitly through ‘orders’ and ‘standards’. (That a ‘constant dào’ can be presented as an explicit guide is of course precisely what the famous opening lines of the Dàodéjīng deny: ‘Dào can dào [guide or be taken as a guide], but that is not constant dào.’) An enlightened prince is one who can ‘represent his dào in the state, applying it to the common people, such that it is adequate to cultivate officials and transform his subjects’ (78/14; 30.1). To do so, the prince must make the dào clear, so that those who receive his orders are not confused (78/13; 30.1). He does this by being skilled at establishing explicit ‘standards’ (fǎ) (79/27; 30.8), which include verbal instructions and laws along with concrete models and examples, and by ensuring that the names or titles (míng) and the social roles (fèn) referenced in these standards are clear and correct. He checks that names are used correctly and social roles are clear and thus that the community interprets the job titles, roles, duties, and names of objects implicated in ‘standards’ in the same, consistent way. Hence ‘the people are not confused about dào’ (79/3; 30.4). So for a prince, ‘nothing is as valuable as his statements’ (79/5; 30.4), for it is through ‘statements’ or ‘speech’ that he clarifies dào and guides his subjects in following it.

The Way  45

Dào as a Cultural Construct The thought of the Xúnzı ̌ presents a clean break with the idea that the dào for humanity to follow is the dào of nature. A pivotal passage in Xúnzı ̌ explicitly contends that dào is not the dào of nature, but a dào that humanity actively adopts. Specifically, dào is what the gentleman or prince—­an idealized, virtuous political and cultural leader—­takes as dào (Xz 8/24, 12/43). As in ‘Prince and Ministers’, dào for Xúnzı ̌ is inherently social and political: individuals do not construct dào for themselves but perform various roles in a hierarchically organized social dào instituted and promulgated by political leaders. The differences between the Xúnzian approach and ‘Prince and Ministers’ are subtle. The latter explicitly states that dào is something constructed or instituted. Whereas we might think of ‘Prince and Ministers’ as presenting a ‘craft constructivist’ account of dào, Xúnzı ̌ presents a ‘cultural constructivist’ account. According to Xúnzı ̌, the uncultivated, natural conditions of human life are conflict-­riven, disorderly, and impoverished, no better than conditions among animals. People’s xìng—­our nature, or inherent, untutored dispositions—­is ‘bad’ or ‘vulgar’, such that without education and cultivation, we tend simply to pursue unrestrained sensory satisfaction, leading us into strife and dis­ order. What is distinctive of human life—­what separates us from and raises us above nonhuman animals—­is our ability to form communities within which each member has a ‘part’ or ‘role’ (fèn). This ability in turn rests on our cap­ acity to learn and act according to a coherent social and ethical dào—­ specifically, according to norms regarding what is ‘right’ or ‘duty’ (yì) for performers of different social roles in various circumstances. Social roles and associated norms are the basis for cooperation and unity, which in turn facilitate pooling and division of labour. Through such cooperative labour human communities achieve material prosperity (Xz 9/69). Our ability to follow ethical norms governing cooperative, interrelated social roles is also the basis for transforming ourselves, through education, from vulgar creatures acting on our brute xìng (nature) into refined, orderly performers of ‘the dào of propriety and duty’, who manifest the beauty of eth­ic­al, socially appropriate norms. For Xúnzı ̌, the dào, the role-­based ethical norms it establishes, and the resulting cooperative, prosperous community are the crux of a distinctively human form of life, one that reliably provides for people’s material needs while being refined, orderly, and beautiful. Intriguingly, the dào and the good life humanity attains through it are intrinsically social and political. The dào can be fulfilled only by a hierarchically organized community acting

46  Late Classical Chinese Thought together, not by individuals acting on their own, as the norms it comprises are inherently associated with hierarchical, relational social roles. The hierarchical structure of such a dào community also explains why, for the Xúnzı ̌, dào is inherently political, imposed on society by virtuous political leaders. Dào is articulated through action-­guiding, normatively significant ‘distinctions’ that determine how we recognize different roles, relations, statuses, and objects. (See the Glossary entries for the word fēn and fèn.) All human dào comprise such distinctions (Xz 5/28). They are what underwrite norms of thought, language, and conduct, and so, ultimately, they are what make us human: ‘That by which humans are human . . . is that they have distinctions’ (5/23). Crucially, for Xúnzı ̌, these distinctions and the patterns they articulate are not present in nature. Rather, they are instituted by brilliant cultural-­ political heroes—­the historical sage-­kings or the ideal gentleman-­prince—­as a result of accumulated learning and work. Heaven can produce things but cannot distinguish things. Earth can bear up humanity but cannot bring good order to humanity. Within the cosmos, the myriad things and humankind await the sage and only then are divided. (Xz 19/78)

The sages or gentlemen institute dào by imposing organized, action-­guiding patterns (lı ̌) of distinctions on a natural world that in itself lacks any normative significance. Heaven and Earth are the origin of life; propriety and duty are the origin of order; the gentleman is the origin of propriety and duty. . . . So Heaven and earth produce the gentleman, and the gentleman patterns (lı ̌) Heaven and earth. . . . Without the gentleman, Heaven and earth would not be patterned, and propriety and duty would lack a coherent system.  (Xz 9/64)

As part of imposing an ‘organizing pattern’ (lı ̌) on nature, the gentleman-­ prince institutes norms governing what is ceremonially proper and what fulfils one’s duty in social interactions. By doing so, he brings good order and cultural refinement or beauty to human life. This emphasis on the aesthetic dimension of the dào as a source of cultural elegance is a key feature of the Xúnzian approach, which I am here taking as a cue for labelling it ‘cultural constructivism’. For Xúnzı ̌, the ancient sage-­kings instituted the norms of propriety and duty because they ‘abhorred’ the disorder in human communities, an attitude that seems at least partly aesthetic (Xz 9/17, 19/2).

The Way  47 Although the orderly patterns and the system of norms that the sage-­kings or gentleman-­princes institute are not fixed by nature, they are constrained by natural conditions. To be sustainable, society’s dào must yield social stability and economic prosperity. To fulfil these ends, the content of dào must engage with natural conditions and processes effectively. Heaven proceeds in a regular way. . . . Respond to it in an orderly way, and good fortune ensues; respond to it in a disorderly way, and misfortune ensues. . . . One’s dào makes it so.  (Xz 17/1)

Nature thus provides a check on the content of dào. The appropriate dào must ‘align’ with natural conditions so as to yield good order and prosperity. Heaven has its seasons, earth has its resources, humanity has its [norms of] good order; just this is what’s called ‘being able to align’.  (Xz 17/7)

The dào of the gentlemen and sages fulfils this requirement because the gentle­man or prince stands ‘in alignment with Heaven and earth’ (9/65). Thus although the dào is a social, cultural construct, the distinctions and norms it institutes join with natural conditions so as to ensure success in attaining humanity’s practical ends. Xúnzı ̌’s position may seem to face a tension here. On the one hand, it contends that the distinctions and patterns through which dào is articulated are the invention of wise leaders. On the other, it acknowledges that these distinctions and patterns must align with natural processes and features that obtain independently of our activity. Might this second point be tantamount to conceding that the distinctions and patterns are present in nature after all? Is Xúnzı ̌ indirectly acknowledging that nature is in fact inherently organized according to certain patterns? The Xúnzian denial that nature is ‘patterned’ might seem to violate common sense. Doesn’t the existence of different species, for example, refute the claim that only the sage divides up the myriad things? The Xúnzian response to these questions reflects a profound insight into the nature of dào. One passage acknowledges the obvious presence of differences between things in nature, pointing out, for example, that nonhuman animals of course have relations between parents and children and differences between males and females. What other species do not have, according to the  text, is the affection proper to parents and children or the norms of

48  Late Classical Chinese Thought ‘separation’ appropriate for human men and women (Xz 5/27). The point is that nat­urally existing differences do not in themselves guide action for us—­ and thus do not constitute dào—­unless we adopt practices that treat them as normatively significant. On a Xúnzian view, biological parent–­child or male–­ female distinctions do not imbue the parent–­child or male–­female relation with normative significance or indicate how those who stand in these relations should behave towards each other. In themselves, then, such naturally occurring distinctions do not constitute dào. Dào lies in the normative significance that we attach to them. We can clarify the relation between naturally occurring differences and dào by looking at how Xúnzı ̌ explains the use of ‘names’ (míng), specifically general terms, such as ‘horse’ (Xz 22/15). For Xúnzı ̌, all horses take the name ‘horse’ because they share features that our language community deems ‘the same’. Horses and other objects in nature have a variety of features by which our sense organs can differentiate them. But prior to our adopting a practice of distinguishing and responding to these features in some way—­such as by taking them as a basis for grouping animals sharing certain features together and dubbing them ‘horse’—the similarities or differences between these features are irrelevant to our dào. Once we do adopt such a practice, however, our dào must ‘align’ with natural features in order to be practically efficacious. If our dào is to use horses for riding, our practices for distinguishing horses from other animals will need to reliably pick out just the adult horses and not dogs or goats. Like ‘Prince and Ministers’, Xúnzı ̌ contends that the practice of dào can be directed though explicit verbal guidance, and so the prince must ‘correct’ or ‘rectify’ the use of names to ensure instructions are followed correctly (Xz 22/7). Dào can be explicitly signposted through the prince’s commands, through explicit rules of propriety and duty, through concrete ‘standards’ or ‘models’ (fǎ), and by learning from a reliable teacher’s good example. The Xúnzian pos­ ition is nuanced, however. Basic or standard guidelines for following dào can be made explicit, but as a type of skill performance, dào rests fundamentally on an implicit knack or feel for handling concrete cases, not all of which will conform neatly to typical models. In unusual cases, explicit, preformulated standards may not apply, but those adept in dào will have the practical mastery to adapt and extend it appropriately (Xz 3/15, 8/99, 9/13, 10/66). How different is Xúnzian ‘cultural constructivism’ from the ‘craft constructivism’ of ‘Prince and Ministers’? Both agree that the dào for humanity to follow lies in social practices adopted by the community under the direction of astute political leaders seeking to attain order and prosperity. ‘Prince

The Way  49 and Ministers’ describes this as a process of uniting and systematizing regularities in nature and proprieties of social interaction while clarifying the norms governing social roles and relations, thus forming the patterns (lı )̌ we follow in performing dào. This description dovetails considerably with the Xúnzian conception of alignment with nature. Some Xúnzian rhetoric might seem to suggest the sage-­kings’ dào imposes an organizing structure on an unstructured, disorganized natural world. In fact, however, as we saw, Xúnzı ̌ holds that ‘Heaven proceeds in a regular way’, and so if we ‘respond to it in an orderly way’, good fortune follows (Xz 17/1). In both texts, then, following dào is a matter of adopting a system of orderly, norm-­governed responses to natural regularities. Xúnzı ̌ emphasizes a crucial point about which ‘Prince and Ministers’ is less explicit, although it is probably committed to the same stance: although natural conditions shape our path, the actual dào we adopt—­and thus the norms we apply—­can be determined only through the exercise of human agency. Dào lies in distinctions or patterns that—­whether socially or individually—­we must draw for ourselves in response to nature, not merely find there. One dissimilarity between the Xúnzian stance and that of ‘Prince and Ministers’ lies in their treatment of prevailing social mores. For ‘Prince and Ministers’, people’s existing norms of propriety are among the regular patterns that the prince’s dào draws together. Because of his pessimistic view of people’s inherent, natural dispositions, Xúnzı ̌ denies the existence of any ethically admirable dispositions in people prior to the sage-­kings’ invention of norms of propriety and duty. For Xúnzı ̌, in the area of human conduct, dào is a matter of imposing order on an originally disorderly natural state. A crucial further difference between the two approaches is that Xúnzı ̌’s ‘cultural constructivism’ allows for a conservative, authoritarian outlook incompatible with the more pragmatic implications of a ‘craft constructivist’ approach. If dào is developed in response to natural and social circumstances, it would seem that as circumstances change, society’s dào is likely to need adjustment. Accordingly, as we saw, ‘Correcting the Age’ argues that the dào of governance requires balancing various factors and modifying policies according to changing conditions. The norms that constitute dào may evolve considerably over time. Xúnzı ̌ rejects these implications. The sage-­kings of old possessed an exceedingly rare combination of ability and determination by which they developed a uniquely effective and aesthetically admirable eth­ ic­al and political dào (Xz 23/70). The version of that dào as it comes down to us from the gentlemen-­princes of the Zhōu dynasty offers the right com­bin­ ation of generality and detail to be followed in perpetuity (5/31), the focus of

50  Late Classical Chinese Thought all later learning (21/81). Hence circumstances never change enough for the dào to evolve significantly over time. ‘[The normatively relevant] kind distinctions do not produce contradictions; although time passes, the patterns remain the same’ (5/36). Why does Xúnzı ̌ take this deeply conservative, even reactionary view of dào? One reason may be that, on a Xúnzian view, overcoming humanity’s ethically awful nature is so difficult that once a dào is in place that does so reliably, it is crucial to preserve it, for those who propose to modify it cannot be confident of matching the discernment of the sage-­kings. Of course, a pragmatist voice like that of ‘Correcting the Age’ would probably reply simply that any adjustments to dào are provisional and if ineffective can be remedied. But another, perhaps more fundamental explanation of the Xúnzian stance is that it may be driven more by cultural identification than by pragmatic ef­fect­ ive­ness, as craft constructivism is. Xún Kuàng and his followers identified deeply with the high culture they attributed to Zhōu dynasty traditions and the specific, thick conception of social order this culture embodied. A min­ imal conception of good order—­the simple absence of crime and conflict, for example—­is compatible with a range of social dào. But a thinker who equates ‘good order’ with a specific, hierarchical form of social organization, along with a particular system of ritualized, role-­based norms of conduct, as Xúnzı ̌ does, is likely to see his favoured cultural dào as in effect defining what it is to live an admirable, fully human life. This point helps to explain why Xúnzı ̌ sees the dào he advocates as distinctively ‘elegant’ and ‘beautiful’. Hence Xúnzı ̌ resists the suggestion that this dào could be modified without undermining social order and skewing the ideal ‘alignment’ with nature.

Pragmatic Pluralism about Dào A constructivist approach raises the obvious possibility that a plurality of dào could be justified in different circumstances, perhaps for different agents with different needs, values, or capacities. Parts of Zhuāngzı ̌ extend this idea into a radical, pragmatic pluralism about dào. For the famous second book of Zhuāngzı ̌, ‘Discourse on Evening Things Out’, for example, the very idea that there could be a uniquely authoritative or privileged dào bespeaks a failure to understand dào. Dào are always potentially plural, and the grounds for any particular dào are inevitably internal to that dào itself. Hence no one dào can claim privileged justification.

The Way  51 ‘Evening Things Out’ appears to use the word ‘dào’ in several overlapping ways. One is roughly as a mass noun referring to a totality or a field of paths that are or can be followed. Dào in this sense is present everywhere—­there are a variety of paths that different agents can take up in different circumstances—­ and no legitimate distinction holds between what is ‘genuinely’ dào and what is not (Zz 2/25). As a proponent of the ‘Great Dào’ view would agree, any way of actually proceeding is dào. Any dào anyone actually follows is part of what we could call the ‘dào-field’ of nature. In this respect, dào ‘has never had boundaries’ but instead ‘connects [everything] into one’ (2/36, 2/55), for the overall totality of dào draws no action-­guiding distinctions for us. As ‘Autumn Waters’, another, doctrinally overlapping Zhuāngzı ̌ text, puts it, dào in itself has no biases, no boundaries, and no specific direction, but instead inclusively embraces the myriad things (17/43). Another use of dào in ‘Evening Things Out’ is to refer to a particular path some agent or agents undertake in some context. In this sense, the text speaks of dào being ‘formed’ by proceeding along it (Zz 2/33). Dào in this respect includes any practice that agents actually pursue. In following such dào, agents pick out features of the things they interact with and draw various distinctions between them, as relevant to the ends they pursue. In doing so, they deem things ‘this/right’ or ‘not’ with respect to various action-­guiding ‘names’, or labels for kinds of things, thereby grouping things together and deeming them similarly ‘so’ or not (2/33). These ‘deeming’ attitudes are the source of recognized boundaries between things (2/22, 2/55). Such boundaries and distinctions between ‘this’ versus ‘not’ do not obtain in the world prior to their being formed in the mind. Like Xúnzı ̌, then, ‘Evening Things Out’ holds that the action-­guiding ‘divisions’ between things that articulate a particular dào are instituted by the distinction-­ drawing practices agents adopt as they interact with natural conditions—­specifically, with features of things that can be deemed similar or different in various ways. Nature in itself does not fix a particular dào for us to follow. Unlike Xúnzı ̌, however, ‘Evening Things Out’ emphasizes that such distinctions can be drawn in indeterminately many ways, some mutually exclusive, and hence any dào we might take up is always only one of a potential plurality of dào, each of which picks out certain features of things while overlooking others. Any dào that is actually practised develops or pursues certain ends or ways of proceeding while neglecting or sacrificing others. In the text’s terminology, all such dào are ‘formed’ or ‘completed’ in certain respects while ‘deficient’ in others (Zz 2/35). Other dào with contrasting ‘completenesses’ and ‘deficiencies’ are always available.

52  Late Classical Chinese Thought For ‘Evening Things Out’, these points have important implications for the justification and enlightened practice of dào. Any dào that can actually be practised is dào—­it is part of the dào-totality, and it is practicable and hence engages with the natural world at least partly successfully. Accordingly, no particular dào can claim to be the unique or privileged dào that all of humanity should follow. For proponents of different dào to argue about which of their dào is ‘correct’ is analogous, the text implies, to two people quarrelling about which of them is really standing ‘here’ and which is ‘there’. Just as the reference of these demonstratives is determined self-­reflexively by the speaker’s location, justifications of particular dào inevitably invoke action-­guiding distinctions that are expressions of that very dào and thus will not convince someone who rejects it. To persuade practitioners of another dào to accept ours, we would need either to convert them by non-­argumentative means or to find points of overlap between the two and show that values or ends both sides affirm are better fulfilled by our dào. An ‘adept’ agent—­one with ‘understanding’ or ‘clarity’ (míng)—grasps that the dào we follow are formed out of the dào-field by our attitudes and practices, that no particular practical dào can claim universal or ultimate authority, and that all practicable dào are ‘complete’ in certain respects and ‘deficient’ in others (Zz 2/31, 2/36, 2/47). So how do such agents proceed in their own dào performance? The dào adept sees competent dào performance as a matter of setting aside fixed norms and instead applying contextual discretion to adapt to circumstances by provisionally taking whatever path is responsive, successful, or ‘free-­flowing’. This approach to dào is reflected in a third use of the word ‘dào’ in the text, to refer to what ‘Evening Things Out’ depicts as adept dào performance. ‘Dào’ is to draw distinctions flexibly ‘in accordance with’ (yīn) particular circumstances so as to ‘harmonize’ various factors or parties interacting in some situation (Zz 2/30, 2/37, 2/39). The mark of adept dào-following seems to be pragmatic efficacy, as expressed by terms such as ‘useful’, ‘successful’, and ‘free-­flowing’ (2/36), efficacy itself being assessed by ends that change con­ text­ual­ly. (We will take up the question of how to evaluate dào performance in Chapter 3.) Dào in this sense is roughly the art of smoothly finding our way through changing circumstances as we encounter them. The conditions we encounter may issue from a mysterious, cosmogenic source-dào of nature, but that dào only sets certain preconditions for the dào we follow, without determining it. Our dào is something each of us must find for ourselves, using resources similar to those we employ in performing skills. Other persons may interact with us by following a joint or parallel dào, but the dào of ‘Evening

The Way  53 Things Out’ is not intrinsically social, in the way the dào advocated by the Xúnzı ̌ is. Nor can dào in this sense be made explicit, since it shifts and turns in different contexts, for different agents. Verbal hints or prompts may assist us in finding it, but it cannot be transmitted, for reasons similar to how skill mastery cannot be transmitted. It depends on an implicit feel for and uncodifiable, agile responsiveness to one’s situation, such that even the adept performer may not know in advance how it will go (2/37). This pragmatic view of dào as an adaptive process is illustrated by the famous Zhuāngzı ̌ story of a butcher, Páo Dīng, who carves up oxen as gracefully as if performing an elegant ritual dance to the rhythm of a symphony (Zz 3/2). Marvelling at the butcher’s work, his employer, an aristocrat, wonders aloud how skill could reach such heights. Páo Dīng responds that what he actually cares about is dào, not merely skill (3/5). He goes on to describe the process by which he developed and performs his craft, how he overcomes challenges, and the satisfaction his work brings. The implication is that the process of learning and performing a complex craft exemplifies an adept approach to following dào. Crucially, Páo Dīng talks less about what he does in his work than how he does it. His focus is on the process, not the concrete technique (how he holds the knife, for example). He describes how he advanced from being a beginner, who saw only whole oxen, to an intermediate, who directly perceived the joints and seams where the knife would cut, to an advanced expert, who acts ‘by spirit’, without any reflectively self-­conscious process of observing the ox and deciding how to cut. He carves smoothly and gracefully because he ‘complies with natural patterns (lı ̌)’—cutting along the major gaps, being guided by the main seams, and thus working ‘in accordance with (yīn) what’s inherently so’ in the structure of the ox. He emphasizes that, despite his advanced skill, he regularly encounters intricate, knotty situations in which the patterns are obscure—­the gaps and seams are difficult to find. He handles these by cautiously preparing, slowing down, focusing his vision, and moving the knife subtly, until the meat suddenly comes apart. Having resolved the difficulty, he steps back and looks around in relaxed satisfaction before wiping and putting the knife away. According to this passage, then, dào amounts to a process of acquiring and exercising competence in detecting and responding to ‘patterns’, finding one’s way through ‘gaps’, and regularly working through difficulties. Undertaking some dào may involve a lengthy period of learning and internalizing a way of perceiving and interacting with things. Once we have acquired a dào, acting on it can become spontaneous and automatic. The adroit practice of dào lies

54  Late Classical Chinese Thought in working with the inherent grain of things, navigating around obstacles while according with the solid, immovable facts and so finding space through which to move. Pivotally, dào is not simply a matter of applying expertise to familiar circumstances. It also includes regularly finding one’s way forward through unfamiliar, difficult situations, without knowing in advance exactly how to go on. On this view, then, dào refers not only to a well-­formed path and a manner of following it but to the process by which we apply creative, adaptive capacities to find a way forward when the path is difficult or blocked. Accordingly, dào cannot be codified or made explicit through fixed, predetermined standards. Páo Dīng’s experience implies that the performance of dào can be deeply satisfying, and his employer exclaims that from the butcher’s remarks he has learned how to ‘nurture life’, or provide what is crucial to living well (Zz 3/12). For this text, then, performing dào well is the key to living well, and we can seek to live well by emulating how the butcher approaches his craft. We start with the path, ends, skills, and dispositions our life circumstances present to us, seek to find the grain and the gaps, remain alert to difficulties, and shift or modify our approach in response to them. Here, then, dào is a continually extended, open-­ended, adaptive path we take in response to the patterns we encounter.

2 The State For many late classical texts, dào is inherently social and political: it can be fulfilled only through collective performance by members of a political ­society. For others, dào need not be inherently political, but the activity of following dào inevitably has a social dimension. Humans typically live in communities, pursuing paths that converge with and cross others’ in various ways, making it necessary to find ways to coordinate and cooperate in the paths they follow. For both of these groups of texts, the purpose, role, and activities of the state—­or, more precisely, the sovereign, who personifies the state—­are topics of vital interest. Indeed, nearly all late classical philosophy either directly concerns politics, has obvious political dimensions, or im­pli­ cit­ly yields political applications. This chapter will survey third-­century bc views regarding the origin and justification of the state and the aims and methods of government. We will look at several accounts of the origin of authority in an exit from a state of nature, noting how in some accounts the role of the people in approving authority is crucial, while in others their role is passive, authority being justi­ fied instead on perfectionist grounds, because of how it lifts society into a genuinely human form of life. We will consider the long-­standing debate con­ cerning rule by regulations and punishments versus rule by moral education, evaluating the relative merits of the Ruist emphasis on education and the Legalist reliance on punishment. As we will see, a key feature of late Warring States political thought, shared by Ruist and Legalist approaches, is a concern with impartiality in governance. The Legalist appeal to strictly enforced standards is fundamentally a proposal for achieving impartiality. As critics of Legalism—­in particular, Xúnzı̌—show, however, this proposal fails. We then look at a radical alternative to both approaches to political authority: the Zhuangist path of fostering a ‘self-­so’ community, in which authority exists to facilitate the inherently self-­organizing activity of the people.

Late Classical Chinese Thought. Chris Fraser, Oxford University Press. © Chris Fraser 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198851066.003.0003

56  Late Classical Chinese Thought

Origin of the State An informative path into late classical political thought is to examine how texts of the period depict the origin of political society and the initial justifi­ cation for political authority. The earliest account in the Chinese tradition of the formation of political society from a state of nature is the Mohists’, an early version of which was probably formulated in the middle to late decades of the fifth century bc. The Mohist state of nature is characterized by a plurality of conceptions of what is right, or ‘duty’ (yì). Each person follows their own norm of what is right, insisting that theirs is correct and others’ wrong. The plurality of conflicting views of right and wrong leads to estrangement within families, the collapse of social cooperation, wasted resources, and ultimately widespread chaos, ‘like that among the birds and beasts’ (Mz 11/5). The Mohists contend that the solution to this disorder is to select a worthy and capable sovereign to unify society’s conception of what is right by promulgating and enforcing shared norms, guiding everyone to ‘identify upwards’ with the same norms regard­ ing what is considered right. The sovereign’s political authority is justified by his success in unifying society’s norms and thus achieving ‘good order’. (The word for ‘good order’ here is zhì, also interpretable as ‘control’, ‘govern’, or ‘manage’.) The Mohists’ discussion does not appeal to an explicit social con­ tract between the sovereign and the people. But it is clear that the sovereign can succeed in unifying society’s norms only if the people in some sense agree to and identify with his rule. The Mohist theory presents several motifs that resonate throughout clas­ sic­al political thought. One is that the purpose of the state is to achieve social and political unity by guiding the populace to follow shared norms of con­ duct, thus achieving ‘good order’. Another is that a chief method of govern­ ance is top-­down moral education. In their statements and conduct, the leadership articulate and model what is morally right and wrong and then require everyone to conform. A third is that the process of moral education and thus achieving good order is explicitly shared and social, involving praise and censure from social superiors and peers, coupled with rewards for con­ formity and punishments for noncompliance. A fourth is that attaining good order requires that people genuinely identify with or seek to conform to the sovereign and other political leaders. Although conformity is enforced by punishing the occasional miscreant, the Mohists thought that society as a whole could not be coerced into ‘identifying upward’ (Mz 12/52). Rulers needed to set forth norms that would win people’s allegiance and then observe

The State  57 them consistently, or else the people would ally together below against them. These themes arise repeatedly in later discussions of the origin of the state and methods of rule. Late classical texts present several accounts of the exit from a state of nature into political society. The Guǎnzı̌ essay ‘Prince and Ministers (II)’ posits that in a state of nature before the invention of hierarchical authority or marital relations—­and thus fixed kinship relations—­people lived like beasts, in herds, seeking to subjugate each other by force. The clever cheated the ignorant; the strong dominated the weak. The weakest members of society—­the old and young, the widowed and solitary—­struggled to survive. In this account, then, the state of nature was intolerable mainly because the strong cruelly mis­ treated the weak. One or more wise persons intervened to lead humanity out of the state of nature by marshalling the strength of the masses to end violence and abuse. They promoted benefit and eliminated harm for the people, correcting the people’s Virtue (dé), and the people took them as teachers. Thus the arts of dào and the practice of Virtue issue from worthy people. As the norms and patterns they followed took shape in the people’s minds, the people turned to dào. Names and things being distinguished and the divisions of right and wrong clarified, rewards and punishments were implemented. Superior and subordinate ranks were instituted, the people formed a single body, and the state capital was established. Thus what makes a state a state is that the ­people come together as a body to make it a state. What makes a prince a prince is that issuing rewards and punishments makes him the prince. (Gz 81/19; 31.1)

Political authority here seems to originate in popular moral authority. The benefits the wise bring to the people lead them to take the wise as teachers, adopting the norms (yì) and patterns (lı̌) of the dào they follow. Identification with these norms and patterns leads the people to cooperate in following dào and in acknowledging the authority of those who teach them dào. The com­ munity settles how ‘names’ (míng) will be used to distinguish the various ‘things’ referred to in guidelines and laws and so clarifies explicit standards of right and wrong that articulate their shared dào. Once these are clarified, rewards and punishments can be allocated accordingly. Hierarchical social ranks are created—­the teachers presumably becoming political leaders—­and the people come to identify as one unit, thus creating the state. The factor that justifies political authority seems to be people’s acknowledgement of certain

58  Late Classical Chinese Thought worthy persons as teachers of a dào with which the people identify. Authority is established through institution of a hierarchical system in which the prince holds the power to issue rewards and punishments (in effect, a system of civil and legal incentives and disincentives). There is no formal social contract, but people’s approval or identification with their leader’s dào is crucial to estab­ lishing authority. Further remarks a few lines later underscore the idea that political author­ ity stems from moral authority. The ruler wins the people to his side by prac­ tising a dào they identify with. ‘If all the realm affirm his dào as dào, they come to him; if they do not affirm his dào as dào, they do not come’ (Gz 81/27; 31.2). People’s allegiance is driven by the perception that the state practises dào and so is morally worthy. ‘When a state that follows dào issues orders and decrees, men and women give their full allegiance to the sovereign; when it proclaims standards and issues statutes, worthies and officers fully devote their abilities to the sovereign’ (81/29; 31.2). By contrast, the state falls into disorder when a ruler ‘violates dào and abandons standards (fǎ)’, instead doing whatever he pleases, ‘acting on his personal biases’ (82/5; 31.4). What exactly is the content of the dào referred to? ‘The dào of making Virtue (dé) flourish, correcting errors, preserving the state, and settling the people’ lies in generous charitable relief in times of disruption; recruiting worthy and tal­ ented candidates for public office, who practise ceremonial propriety and fil­ ial devotion; prohibiting licentiousness and idleness, while separating men and women; ensuring those of high and low rank perform their duties with­ out overstepping their place; and maintaining consistent norms and stand­ ards (82/9; 31.4). The Xúnzı̌ does not present an explicit narrative in which people move from a state of nature to an organized political society, but in several passages it speculates about what would occur without a political hierarchy or shared norms of ceremonial propriety, or lı̌ (a word pronounced the same as but written differently from lı̌, ‘pattern’). (Ceremonial propriety refers to norms or protocol for interacting with others in various social circumstances, ran­ ging from everyday manners such as polite greetings and conversation to din­ ing etiquette to marriage and funeral rites to official state ceremonies. For more discussion, see Chapter 3.) A key premise of the Xunzian stance is that without hierarchical political organization, people are unable to cooperate in working towards any end. Xúnzı̌ rejects the possibility of a community of equals who willingly cooperate with each other. To ‘unify’ for any joint pur­ pose, people must be divided into ranks by which some ‘employ’ and ­others ‘serve’.

The State  59 When roles (fèn, ‘parts’) are equivalent, there are no differences; when power is equal, there is no unity; when the masses are of equal rank, they cannot be employed. . . . Two people of equally high rank cannot serve each other; two of equally low rank cannot be employed by each other.  (Xz 9/15)

People in a state of nature would be unable to cooperate so as to increase the supply of material goods. Hence their shared desires for the same, finite stock of goods would drive them into conflict with each other. [People’s] power and status being equal and desires and dislikes the same, [the limited supply of] material goods cannot satisfy everyone and conflict will surely arise. Conflict will surely lead to disorder and disorder to poverty. The former kings despised such disorder, so they instituted ceremonial pro­ priety (lı̌) and duties (yì) to divide society into various roles, making there be the ranks of poor and rich, noble and lowly. This was sufficient for society to be brought under supervision. This is the basis of providing for the realm. (Xz 9/17)

This and similar passages suggest that sagely leaders organized society into a social and political hierarchy to avoid violent disorder and so provide eco­ nomically for all. The implication is that political authority is justified by its beneficial consequences: without it, humanity would fall into disorder and economic distress. Elsewhere, however, Xúnzı̌ extends these ideas into what we might call a social teleological view. Political society is justified because people in a state of nature would fail to live a recognizably human life. A dis­ tinctively human form of life is a social achievement, attainable only through participation in a hierarchically organized political community. Xúnzı̌ con­ tends that what distinguishes human life from that of other animals is that we, but not they, have ‘distinctions’ (biàn, Xz 5/24) and role-­associated duties (yì, 9/70). That is, we guide action according to norms associated with social, often relational distinctions and roles such as parent versus child or man ver­ sus woman (5/24). This feature is what makes us ‘the noblest in the world’. These distinctions, roles, and corresponding duties are realized through com­ munity life, by which we attain harmony and unity and so combine our strengths. So humans cannot live without a community. If they form a community without divisions [into various social roles], conflict arises. Conflict leads to disorder, and disorder leads [the community] to disperse. [The community]

60  Late Classical Chinese Thought dispersing, people become weak, and being weak they cannot overcome things. So they cannot get to live in palaces and homes.  (Xz 9/73)

‘Living in palaces and homes’ here represents a distinctively human way of life, unavailable to other creatures, that is achievable only through the institu­ tions of political society. Intriguingly, unlike ‘Prince and Ministers’, in the Xúnzı̌ people’s identification with the leadership or the state plays no role in the transition to political society. Very likely this is because Xúnzı̌ takes a pes­ simistic view of people’s inherent, untutored nature, or xìng, on which people in a state of nature lack the ability to join the sage-­kings in ‘despising’ disorder and recognizing the value of organized society governed by propriety and duty. (Xúnzı̌’s view of people’s nature is discussed in Chapter  4.) Only after their initiation into such a society are they capable of recognizing its value. ‘Relying on the Prince’, an essay in Lǚ’s Annals (Lscq 20.1; 117), follows Xúnzı̌ in tying features characteristic of human life to the existence of a pol­it­ ical community. People’s inherent nature is such that their innate abilities are not enough to overcome other creatures—­their claws are not enough for self-­ defence, their skin is not enough to protect against the cold and heat, their muscles and bones are not enough to pursue benefit and avoid harm; their courage isn’t enough to defeat or frighten off fierce attackers. Yet they reap the benefits of the myriad things, control other creatures, and protect themselves from the weather. ‘Isn’t this only because they prepare [for these things] in advance by joining together to form communities?’ The text straightforwardly explains that political society is justified by its consequences, the mutual bene­fits of living in a community: ‘Benefit issuing from a community, the dào of the prince stands.’ ‘So the dào of the prince being established, benefit issues from the community, and the preparations needed for human life can be completed.’ By contrast, ‘in the past, in high antiquity, there was once no ruler’. People knew their mothers but not their fathers. There were no social or political distinctions or ranks to guide interaction between people, no norms of pro­ priety, ‘no conveniences such as clothing, shoes, or belts, palaces or homes, or accumulation of goods; no resources such as tools and machines, boats and carriages, or city walls and defences. These are the harms of lacking a prince.’ Indeed, the text claims, conditions in a state of nature are not a matter of speculation: many alien tribes in fact live without rulers, in conditions akin to a Hobbesian war of all against all. ‘Their people live like deer, birds, or beasts; the youthful command the elderly, while the elderly fear the strong; the power­ful and violent are considered worthy and honoured; day and night

The State  61 they harm each other, with no time to rest, exterminating themselves.’ Perceiving this misfortune, the sages concluded that the best course was to establish political leaders. ‘So the significance of rulers and subjects must be clarified.’ Rulers—­the Son of Heaven (the sovereign over all the realm), the princes of states, and high officials—­are installed for the good of the state and realm, not for their own self-­interest. ‘What is the dào of the ruler? To benefit [the ­people], not to seek benefit [for oneself].’ As in the Xúnzı̌, then, political authority is established by ancient sages who intervene for the good of all. In the Annals’ account, it is justified by its beneficial consequences and does not depend on the agreement or approval of the common people.

Methods of Rule For ‘Prince and Ministers (II)’, political authority is justified by earning ­people’s allegiance: people identify with the ruler’s dào and come together to form ‘one body’ as a community. An obvious question, then, is how is the ruler to undertake dào and win the people to his side? For Xúnzı̌, dào must be implemented to achieve the benefits of orderly social life and raise humanity to its proper level as the ‘noblest’ of creatures. Society must be divided into a system of hierarchical social roles governed by coherent norms of propriety and duty. How is this system to be instituted and practised? In short, by what methods do the texts explain how the state is to pursue the goods that justify political authority? ‘Prince and Ministers (I)’ and Xúnzı̌ both address this and related issues at length. The Annals devotes less attention to this topic, so we will discuss it only briefly in passing, calling attention to how it complements the other discussions. ‘Prince and Ministers (I)’ presents a hierarchical, authoritarian system in which all persons have defined roles that, if fulfilled, lead society to achieve ‘unity in Virtue (dé)’ or ‘shared Virtue’. The prince clarifies the dào the com­ munity will follow, such that those who must follow his decrees are clear about their tasks. He ensures that responsibilities are explained consistently, so that all are clear about their duties. The enlightened ruler is one who can realize dào in the state, applying it to the people such that administration con­ forms to it and those below obey it (Gz 78/14; 30.1). The crux is that the sov­ ereign establishes a system of standards (fǎ) that presents clear guidelines for conduct, while those below meticulously conform to their duties and follow the ruler’s decrees. If both fulfil this requirement, they achieve ‘shared Virtue’—shared, unified commitment to and competence in pursuing

62  Late Classical Chinese Thought common values or ends—­and the ruler’s authority is sustained (78/29; 30.3). As we saw in Chapter 1, dé refers to the Virtue, power, or capacities by which we follow some dào. In effect, it is the capacity or proclivity for action by which we act as we do. So to claim that those ‘above and below’ in the hier­ archy share ‘the same Virtue’ is to claim that they share unified, coordinated capacities and propensities, such that they will act together in complementary ways to seek shared ends. The ruler devotes himself to exemplifying virtue, while those below follow the guidelines associated with their roles. Propriety (lı̌) being manifested above, the resulting good features flow down to the people, and so the com­ mon people identify with the ruler while devoting their full efforts to agricul­ tural production (Gz 78/31; 30.3). In effect, members of the community esteem how those above them in the political hierarchy perform their duties and display decorum and tact in keeping with their roles, and so they are motivated to cooperate with them. The aim is for the ruler to be enlightened, the prime minister trustworthy, the heads of the five bureaus solemn, the gen­ try honest, farmers simple, and merchants and artisans decent. All levels of the social hierarchy fulfilling the virtue associated with their social role in this way, they come together as a single body to form a well-­regulated, prosperous society (78/32; 30.3). Using an analogy that applies as well to the Xúnzian model discussed next, we might say that political society is akin to an orchestra or army. Individuals each have assigned roles and corresponding duties in a hier­arch­ ic­al organization. As individuals, they largely lack political agency. Instead, agency is collective: the ruler assesses, plans, and manages; those below perform their assigned duties. ‘Those above and below carrying out their different responsibilities according to their roles, they come together again as one body’ (79/12; 30.5). An intriguing claim about this division of labour is that the ruler is not expected to be especially talented or capable in any one area of specialization. Only his subjects are. His role is to set standards, manage administration, and evaluate performance. If he is especially capable in some area, he may be biased by his specialization and thus fail to be ‘impartial’ (79/14; 30.6). If the ruler is not impartial (gōng), he will regularly be too generous in allo­ cating rewards and too merciful in enforcing punishments. This is the state lacking institutional standards (fǎ). If in governing a state one lacks stand­ ards, the people will form factions and ally together below, employing devi­ ous means to achieve their personally biased (sī) ends. If the system of

The State  63 standards is constant (cháng), then the people are not divided but join together with their superior, wholeheartedly devoting their loyalty. (Gz 79/14; 30.6)

This passage introduces several concepts pivotal to debates in late classical political thought and epistemology (regarding the latter, see Chapter 5). One is the ideal of ‘impartiality’, or gōng, also interpretable as what is ‘objective’ or ‘public’. ‘Impartiality’ is widely regarded as a requirement for sustainable, suc­ cessful political rule. It refers to judging and acting in line with open, public, agreed-­on criteria. Impartiality forms a polar contrast with ‘personal bias’, sī, also interpretable as ‘self-­interest’ or as ‘subjective’ views or motives. ‘Personal bias’ refers to judging or acting on one’s own partial, subjective, typically self-­ interested grounds, rather than by impartial criteria. This passage exemplifies the widely held view, in late classical thought, that impartiality can be assured by guiding judgement and action according to clear, explicit ‘standards’ or ‘models’ (fǎ). To function properly, the standards must be ‘constant’, cháng, or enforced consistently and reliably. (In Chapter 1, we considered views that insisted dào must be ‘constant’.) As the passage ­illustrates, the four concepts are linked. Impartiality is required to enforce standards ‘constantly’, and constant, strict enforcement of standards is a mani­ fest­ation of impartiality and a means of avoiding personal bias—­and, here, of achieving unity and earning loyalty. (In Chapter  1, we also looked at views that claimed dào can be signposted with explicit standards.) Discussions of early Chinese political thought sometimes equate ‘stand­ ards’ with laws, but the meaning of the word ‘fǎ’ is considerably broader than that of ‘law’. ‘Fǎ’ includes laws but also, more generally, standards, methods, regulations, and models. The primary use of fǎ in early texts is to refer to weights and measures, which provide objective, reliable standards of length, weight, and volume, and to artisans’ tools, such as the ink line, compass, and set square, which provide models or exemplars of shape to use in practical tasks (Gz 14/8; 6.2). Generally, then, ‘fǎ’ refers to tools, measures, models, paradigms, or exemplars used to ensure correct, consistent performance. By extension, fǎ may be any sort of regular, consistently enforced performance standard, method, or law. So the passage above is claiming that if the ruler fails to enforce consistent, impartial criteria in rewarding and punishing, the state will lack constant, reliable standards of conduct. The passage also reflects the common assumption in late classical political texts that the properly functioning political society has no factions or parties. Security and stability are understood to require a unified, coherent hierarchy,

64  Late Classical Chinese Thought as in an army or a corporation. Political affairs are seen as a field of manage­ ment or administration, not a matter of balancing the competing interests of different groups in society. The only legitimate interests are shared concerns for social stability, state security, and economic production. The text also reflects an early Chinese approach to issues we associate with rule of law. As understood in this period, a system of standards (fǎ) is not, by any means, what we would consider rule of law. Formally, the prince is above the laws and other standards and can change them at will. The texts have no conception of a constitution or of law-­governed procedures for establishing or modifying laws. The prince is under no obligation to make the content of the standards just or fair or to respect any set of basic rights. Early texts insist that standards must be applied consistently and impartially, not that their content must be impartially or fairly justified. But prevailing views about standards do overlap with our conception of rule of law in holding that the state can function properly only if the standards are clear, public, observed ‘constantly’, and applied evenly to all. Indeed, without such standards, ‘Prince and Ministers (I)’ warns, the prince is liable to be overthrown. The prince who possesses dào is skilled at clearly establishing standards (fǎ) and not interfering with them out of personal bias (sī); the prince who lacks dào, having already established standards, sets them aside to act on his per­ sonal biases. If the sovereign sets standards aside to act on his personal biases, his ministers will take bias to be impartiality (gōng). Not violating the impartial dào is then a matter of not violating a biased dào. [The ministers] pursuing the [supposedly] impartial dào while embedding their personal biases in it, if this goes on for long without being discovered, could their treachery not become more and more serious? Their treachery becoming more serious, in major cases there will be the misfortune of usurping and killing the sovereign, while in minor cases there will be the upheaval of fac­ tionalism and civil war. The reason these happen is because the ruler’s Virtue is not established and the state lacks constant standards.  (Gz 79/27; 30.8)

If standards are not enforced consistently and impartially, everyone ultimately develops the habit of acting for themselves, without loyalty to the sovereign, who is in practice identical with the state. The result is that no one holds any loyalty to sovereign or state, and all are prepared to overthrow the sovereign or split into warring factions if doing so accords with their personal biases or appears to be in their self-­interest. Impartial, constant standards are the key to stability and unity.

The State  65 In applying the standards, the prince must not withhold rewards from those who do well, and so the people will not selfishly keep benefits to them­ selves; he must not spare punishment of those who transgress, and so the people will not resent his authority. If authority and punishment are not applied excessively, the people will turn to and identify with the sovereign (Gz 80/30; 30.11). Ultimately, although it is the prince who sets forth and leads the people in following dào, maintaining good order is a collective project, in which the prince must ‘proceed from the consensus of the community’: If you listen to the people separately, they are ignorant, but if you listen to them collectively, they are wise. Even a prince with the virtue of the sage-­ kings Tāng or Wǔ conforms to the talk of the people in the marketplace. Thus the enlightened prince follows the people’s hearts, finds security in their dispositions and nature, and proceeds from the consensus of the com­ munity. Thus his decrees are issued without resistance and punishments are established but not used. The former kings were good at forming one body with the people. By their forming one body with the people, the entire state protected the state, the entire people protected the people, and so the people would not easily do wrong. . . . Those above and below sharing the same expectations about norms of correctness, men and women among the com­ mon people all join in maintaining good order.  (Gz 81/1; 30.13)

Ideally, then, the common people are not mere passive objects of governance but active participants in the project of realizing the dào. Another important Guǎnzı̌ text, ‘Five Aids’, presents an overlapping approach to governing that emphasizes winning the community’s support and attaining ‘harmony’ through convergence in norms of propriety and duty. The text sets forth desiderata for a ruler who aspires to greatness: a brilliant reputation, significant achievements, prominence among other states, and a lasting place in history, along with territorial security, power in action, victory in attack, strength in defence, and ultimately kingly rule over all the world. These goals, it contends, can be achieved only by earning the people’s support. The most effective approach to winning their support is to benefit them, and the dào by which to benefit them is education (Gz 26/28; 10.2). So the effective ruler has well-­managed fields, flourishing towns and cities, a stable court, and well-­ordered bureaus. Impartial standards (gōng fǎ) are implemented, while biased (sī) crookedness is prevented. The granaries are full, the prisons empty. Worthy persons advance, corrupt people retreat. His

66  Late Classical Chinese Thought officials promote integrity and uprightness and demote toadying and ­flattery. His gentlemen honour martial courage and despise profit-­seeking. His commoners like farming and loathe gluttony. Hence resources are sufficient and provisions plentiful. Thus those above are surely generous and un­demand­ing; those below are surely obedient and not resentful. Those above and below join together in harmony, observing propriety (lı̌) and duty (yì). So the ruler is secure at rest and powerful in action, victorious in battle and strong in defence, and thus with a single battle he can bring order to the various lords.  (Gz 26/28; 10.2)

This general description is followed by a detailed discussion of actions to take in five areas—­undertaking public works on the people’s behalf, promulgating ethical guidance for various social roles and circumstances, promoting norms of propriety for different social roles, setting standards for job duties, and considering practical, concrete factors in evaluating policies. In effect, the prince aims to win people’s loyalty and proactive cooperation through com­ petent management of resources and personnel, effective public works, char­ it­able assistance, moral education, and intelligent discretion in implementing policies. The pivotal importance of impartiality (gōng) is reiterated in Lǚ’s Annals, where one essay claims that ‘in governing the realm, the former sage-­kings of old surely put impartiality first. Attain impartiality, and the realm will be at peace’. From history, we can see that ‘one wins the realm through impartiality and surely loses it through partiality’. For this text, political authority is estab­ lished and justified through impartiality: ‘In all cases, a sovereign’s being established arises from impartiality’ (Lscq 1.4/4). Another Annals essay con­ curs on the need to win the common people’s support. ‘The former kings first conformed to the people’s hearts and so attained great achievements and fame.’ The key to successful rule is ‘to win people’s hearts through Virtue’ (9.2/42).

Xúnzı ̌’s Perfectionism Xúnzı̌ presents an authoritarian, hierarchical political system that overlaps that of ‘Prince and Ministers (I)’ and is grounded in similar moral values. However, Xúnzı̌ places greater emphasis on the ruler’s role in educating his subjects and sets aside the populist ideals of listening to the people, following their hearts, or ‘proceeding from the consensus of the community’. For Xúnzı̌,

The State  67 the crucial feature of political society is a hierarchical system of organization in which each person has a ‘part’, ‘role’, or ‘rank’ (fèn), for which there are associated norms of duty (yì). The system is realized through an authoritarian political structure that assigns people to roles and educates them as to the duties—­the norms of conduct—­appropriate for their role. How can people form communities? I say, by division into roles (fèn). How can roles be put into practice? I say, by norms of duty. So if duties are used as a basis for roles, there will be harmony; if people are in harmony, they are unified; if they are unified, they have much strength; if they have much strength, they are robust; if they are robust, they can overcome things. So they can get to live in palaces and homes. So people can order themselves according to the four seasons, control the myriad things, and inclusively benefit the entire realm, for no other reason than that they obtain these things from norms of duty for various social roles.  (Xz 9/71)

Members of political society learn to cooperate in performing their duties by conforming to norms of propriety (lı̌) and standards (fǎ) of conduct associ­ ated with different roles in an elaborate hierarchical system. Propriety lies in there being ranks of noble and common, differences between elder and younger, and grades for all levels of poverty and wealth, minor and major importance. . . . Those at the rank of officer and above must be regulated by norms of propriety and music; the common people must be controlled by standards and measures.  (Xz 10/16)

The ruler implements dào through norms of ceremonial propriety (lı̌) and standards (fǎ)—of which propriety provides the ‘major divisions’ (1/28). A key is to clarify tasks and responsibilities, enforce standards consistently and impartially, and reward and punish accordingly. [This is] the major outline of the ultimate dào: exalt propriety and put stand­ ards highest, and then the state will have constancy. Promote the worthy and employ the capable, and then the people will know the right direction. Systematically conduct impartial investigations, and then the people will not doubt. Reward the diligent and punish the idle, and then the people will  not be indolent. Listen to each side and inspect all parts equally, and then the realm will turn to you. Then clearly divide responsibilities, rank affairs, recruit the skilled and assign offices to the capable, leaving nothing

68  Late Classical Chinese Thought unmanaged. Then the impartial dào will be opened up while personally biased gates are blocked off, and impartial duties will be clear while biased matters cease.  (Xz 12/57)

Here again there is a prominent emphasis on the ‘constancy’, or consistency and reliability, with which norms are observed. Particularly important is the pairing of propriety (lı̌) and standards (fǎ), presumably including laws, regu­ lations, job requirements, and various rules and examples of appropriate con­ duct. The dào is not simply a matter of demanding that people follow rules or meet standards, but of guiding and encouraging them to treat each other according to consistent norms of propriety and thus decorum and tact. Accordingly, governance requires setting a good moral example and taking responsibility for subordinates’ moral education and character development, a dimension of governance later Ruist thinkers referred to as ‘transformation-­ through-­education’ (jiào huà). Sociopolitical unity and cooperation are achieved through convergence in customs and ethical judgements, themselves the result of shared moral education promulgated by the state. Drawing on this shared educational background, the sovereign on the one hand demands com­ pliance with various norms of conduct, while on the other, he aims to win the people’s genuine support through his admirable treatment of them, according to shared ethical norms, which earns their moral esteem. Ultimately, the aim is for the ruler’s use of rewards and punishments to align with the prevailing mores that have been cultivated across society, such that he rewards only those the people genuinely admire while punishing those they jointly condemn. Thus lead people by amplifying the sound of Virtue, guide them by clarify­ ing propriety and duties, care for them with the utmost loyalty and trust­ worthiness, assign them places by promoting the worthy and employing the capable, and display their ranks with titles, uniforms, commendations, and rewards. Assign them tasks only at the proper times, lighten their burden, unify them with harmony, nurture and provide for them as you would care for an infant. Administrative decrees having been fixed and the customs of the people unified, if there are those who depart from custom or do not obey their superiors, then the common people will all detest and hate them, like an inauspicious thing that must be expelled. Only then, from such con­ duct, do punishments arise. . . . Afterwards the common people will all clearly know to follow the standards of their superiors, emulate the intent of their superiors, and find ease and delight in them. Thus if there are those who can transform themselves to be good, cultivate themselves, correct

The State  69 their conduct, train in propriety and duty, and show respect for dào and Virtue, the common people will all esteem and respect them and feel close to them and praise them. Only then, from such conduct, do rewards arise. (Xz 15/95)

Adept governance for Xúnzı̌ thus involves a complex blend of measures. The ruler must promulgate and enforce role-­related duties, norms of propriety, and explicit standards or models of conduct. Material incentives and coercion—­rewards and punishments—­are employed, but they must be allo­ cated in line with broad-­based public opinion and balanced against benevo­ lent care for the people and consideration of their circumstances. The ruler must also acknowledge his subjects’ competence by promoting the worthy and capable. In so doing, he seeks to establish a social and administrative hierarchy of morally worthy officials who have earned the esteem and respect of the community. Crucially, political stability depends on the ruler’s ensuring people’s security by treating them with basic decency: Select the worthy and good, promote the sincere and respectful, encourage filiality and brotherliness, take in the orphaned and widowed, and assist the poor. In this way, the common people will be secure with the government. Only when the people are secure with the government will the prince be secure in his position.  (Xz 9/20)

By promoting the deserving, encouraging family virtues, and offering char­it­ able assistance to the needy, the ruler earns the people’s sincere cooperation and support. Ultimately, I suggest, successful governance for Xúnzı̌ rests on a relation of political and moral reciprocity: ruler and subjects share and conform to mutual expectations, the ruler treating the people virtuously and the people responding with loyalty and cooperation. The precise nature of this reciprocal relation is distinct from that we found in ‘Prince and Ministers’, which empha­ sizes listening to the people and ‘following the people’s hearts’ in a way that Xúnzı̌ does not. But each of the texts examined so far has stressed the im­port­ ance of building a genuine consensus between ruler and subjects, by which those above and below share clear, common expectations concerning the norms around which society is organized—­a unified, shared dào. Observance of these norms provides a basis for the ruler to win the people’s genuine sup­ port. Arguably, for both stances political authority is justified by virtue of its constitutive role in their perfectionist ideal of social flourishing.

70  Late Classical Chinese Thought Clearly, on both approaches, the relation between the ruler and the people is complex and subject to various tensions. On the one hand, both approaches seek to achieve impartiality and constancy by promulgating and enforcing clear standards. But both also stress the importance of factors that introduce elements of subjective discretion, contextual flexibility, and indeterminacy or vagueness. Both assign an important place to the role of moral leadership or moral education in building social coherence and respect for the leadership, but the process of moral development is fallible. Both see ceremonial propri­ ety as a guide to social interaction, but the demands of propriety are often fluid and imprecise, requiring discretion and tact. Both advocate earning the people’s esteem, but people’s attitudes may sometimes be biased and incon­ stant. Both urge the ruler to respond to people’s actual circumstances—­ assisting them in times of hardship, for instance—­but such responsiveness may come at the cost of enforcing constant, fixed standards. In the context of late classical political thought, we can easily see these or related tensions rais­ ing a set of interrelated questions about possible alternative approaches to governance. Might it be possible to govern effectively, achieving the social coherence needed for a stable, flourishing political society, while relying only on means that are completely, reliably constant and impartial? Could a state function without moral education or development, without the need for fal­ lible, contextual discretion, and without the bother of having to build political solidarity by earning the people’s approval? These are the sorts of questions that motivated the influential approach to governance that later became known as fǎ jiā, or ‘the School of Standards’, commonly known as ‘Legalism’.

Legalism ‘Legalism’ is a translation of Fǎ Jiā, a retrospective label coined by Hàn-­ dynasty archivists for a loosely overlapping family of political views stressing the importance to governance of fǎ, or fixed, institutionalized, publicly prom­ ulgated standards, along with other institutional and administrative factors, while eliminating any role for moral education or cultivated discretion. Legalist thought seeks to make governance a matter of the reliable, mech­an­ ic­al operation of institutions carefully crafted to consolidate and build the power and wealth of the state, as personified in an autocratic ruler. The term ‘Legalism’ is inadequate in two respects. First, as we have seen, the word ‘fǎ’ refers to explicit, institutionalized standards or measures, not primarily to laws. When referring specifically to what we would think of as

The State  71 laws, the texts use a range of terms, such as lǜ (ordinance, statute), lìng (edict, decree), xíng (penal code), and jìn (prohibition). These fall under the rubric of but do not exhaust the category of fǎ (standards). So ‘the School of Standards’ might be a more direct English rendering of fǎ jiā than ‘Legalism’ is, with the caveat that ‘school’ here designates only certain loose simi­lar­ ities in doctrinal tendencies, not a tightly related group of thinkers or texts. Second, even the Chinese term ‘fǎ jiā’ is to some extent a misnomer, since the use of standards is only one among several core themes in these ­writings. Impartiality, positional power, managerial techniques, rewards and punishments, and a minimalist approach to moral psychology are all equally prom­in­ent. In terms of their overall tendency of thought, we could also informatively describe them as ‘realist’, ‘institutionalist’, or ‘totalitarian’. If we keep these caveats in mind, however, the label ‘Legalist’ is not wholly unsuitable. Fǎ are indeed prominent in so-­ called Legalist texts, and a ­passage in Hánfēizı̌ implies that, as an institution, ‘fǎ’ refers to ‘statutes and decrees being clear in the offices and bureaus, punishments and penalties being certain in the people’s minds, rewards bestowed on those meticulous about the standards, and penalties applied to those who violate decrees’ (HFz 131/9; 43.1). The emphasis on obeying statutes and decrees backed by rewards and punishments suggests that ‘Legalism’ is not too misleading a designation for this political orientation. Let me first summarize the Legalist approach to governance and then pre­ sent a series of passages from the texts to illustrate it. Legalist thought starts from the justifiable premise that any political society must maintain unity among its members through a shared disposition to support and cooperate with the state. A community can form and sustain a political society only if its members jointly observe some common set of norms, duties, rights, regulations, or laws. If the society is to be stable, observance of these shared guidelines must be consistent and reliable. Hence they must be followed and enforced constantly (cháng) and impar­ tially (gōng). A promising means of fulfilling these requirements is to establish a body of public, explicit standards (fǎ) that all members of society will ­follow jointly, without bias in interpreting the standards or in allowing exemptions for privileged groups. So far, this line of thought overlaps considerably with Mohism. The Mohists held that political society originated from the need to resolve the divergence of norms in a state of nature by guiding all members of society to ‘identify upward’ with a unified conception of what is right. The Mohists also intro­ duced the idea of presenting explicit standards (fǎ) to guide in judging,

72  Late Classical Chinese Thought expressing, and acting on what is right. A major difference between Mohism and Legalism is that the Mohists saw their ultimate, unifying standard as morality itself. All speech and conduct, including all government policies, had to conform to what they regarded as the basic standard of moral right, namely ‘promoting the benefit of all the world’. Government policies had to be morally justified. In a sense, then, the authority of the standards was higher than that of the ruler. A ruler’s failure to live up to moral standards would be grounds for criticizing and perhaps allying against him, and, the Mohists believed, Heaven, their deity, would punish and replace an unworthy ruler. Conversely, a worthy ruler could earn the people’s loyalty and identification partly on moral grounds. People would consider it morally wrong not to sup­ port a leader who reliably pursued and promulgated ‘the dào of benevolence and right’. For the Mohists, the typical person’s individual moral judgement, along with peer pressure in the community, provided strong motivation for most people to obey a morally justified regime. Punishment would be needed only for a minority who did not cooperate (Mz 11/25). By contrast with Mohism, Legalist thought is wholly amoral. Legalist texts are unconcerned about the moral status of the standards, institutions, or methods they advocate. They do not attempt to justify their outlook in terms of recognizably moral terms, such as benevolence (rén) or rightness (yì). For the Legalists, the socially and politically binding standards that all must fol­ low are simply whatever the ruler decides, and the ruler is accountable to no higher or external authority. To be sure, some standards are better than ­others. A prudent, wise ruler will establish standards that consolidate power and increase the state’s material wealth and military strength. But no other ends are relevant. There is no deeper or higher aim or justification than sim­ ply sustaining and if possible strengthening the state. When Legalist texts speak of ‘impartiality’ (gōng), they are not referring to impartial justification, as we might in discussing ethical theory. They are referring to impartial, con­ sistent enforcement of shared, publicly specified standards. Since moral justification is irrelevant, people’s moral motivation is also irrelevant. For Legalist texts, the idea that people might see themselves as answering to any norms or guidelines other than those their ruler gives them is at best useless—­because such motivation is not perfectly reliable—­and at worst dangerous—­because it may interfere with conformity to the ruler’s standards. The political system should assume nothing about people’s educa­ tion, judgement, ethics, or character, nor about their capacity for improving themselves, because all of these are fallible and inconstant. Social unity and cooperation with the state cannot be attained by persuading people to

The State  73 identify with shared institutions, values, common welfare, or cultural mores, because none of these yield completely reliable motivation. The only effective, fully reliable approach to governance is to presuppose the absolute minimum about people’s motivation and capacities. The system should be designed to work from a wholly reliable motivational lowest common denominator. This simple, minimal motivation, Legalists propose, is that all people like what is materially beneficial to them and dislike what harms them. Given such basic likes and dislikes, everyone will respond positively to rewards and negatively to punishments, especially if the latter are unavoidable and severe. Since people have no reason to cooperate with the state other than rewards and punishments, the ruler must demand total obedience to a comprehensive system of standards. For if people are permitted to decide for themselves what to do, they may pursue diverse, personally biased ends, disrupting the unity and impartiality of the system. For parallel reasons, the ruler cannot share or delegate the power to establish standards or adjudicate their application, as any form of power-­sharing would allow the officials under him to act on their personal biases and establish their own centres of power to compete with the ruler’s. A modern constitutional state practises separation of powers on the assumption that different branches of government are all loyal to the constitu­ tion and act from the shared values it embodies. By contrast, in the Legalist state the sovereign’s power and standards are the only unifying factors. Any sharing of the power to set or adjudicate standards potentially undermines the sovereign’s authority, the state’s unity, and the impartiality with which the standards are applied. Allowing any room for subordinate officials to exercise judgement in allocating rewards and imposing punishments opens the way to inconstancy and personal bias, as it gives them an opportunity to act on their subjective biases in enforcing the standards. In the worst-­case scenario, by giving them control of the state’s punishments and favours, it gives them an opportunity to form their own faction of loyal beneficiaries of their bias, thus effectively carving out part of the state under their own rule, a process that may lead to the disintegration and collapse of the state. To preserve his unify­ ing power over the entire state and to ensure the standards are enforced impartially, then, the sovereign must specify standards and associated rewards and punishments so clearly and precisely that they can be applied mech­an­ic­ al­ly, without expert judgement or discretion. The role of the officials who enforce the standards is not that of a judge, who actively interprets the law. It is more like that of a clerk, who simply registers the case at hand, consults the statutes, and reads off the corresponding reward or penalty.

74  Late Classical Chinese Thought

Impartiality and Standards Prominent Legalist writings from the late classical period include portions of the Guǎnzı̌, certain sections of the Book of Lord Shāng, and much of the Hánfēizı̌. A further source is the mostly fragmentary Shènzı̌, which I have ten­ tatively included in the discussion even though the material is of uncertain date. Let’s look more closely at some of the ideas in these texts. ‘Standards and Prohibitions’, book 14 of the Guǎnzı̌, opens by expressing the Legalist concern with using undisputed standards to unite society in fol­ lowing impartial, unbiased norms of conduct. ‘If the system of regulation by standards (fǎ) is not open to argument, the people do not each pursue their personal biases’ (Gz 39/30; 14.1). Impartial enforcement of standards is a key to sustaining the state and its authority: If the prince establishes unified norms and criteria, the various officials observe his standards. If the superior clearly lays forth his regulations, those below all conform to the guidelines. If the prince does not establish unified criteria, surely many of those below will turn against the standards and establish their own biased patterns [of thought and conduct]. Thus people will apply their own biased norms, disregarding the superior’s regulations, and take what they’ve heard from others as their dào. So those below split with the officials over the standards, while those of high status divide authority with the prince. Danger to the state surely starts from this. (Gz 40/1; 14.2)

Power or authority must be maintained through strict, impartial observance of a unified body of standards. If people are permitted to determine their own, potentially biased grounds for action or to interpret the standards for themselves, the ruler’s authority fractures and the state risks collapse. So if the prince of a state cannot unify people’s hearts, unite the state’s authority, enforce consistency among the norms of the gentlemen, and fully implement the sovereign’s governance so that it provides standards for those below, then even if he possesses vast territory and an immense population, these still cannot make him secure.  (Gz 40/11; 14.4)

Stability requires total unity in norms and standards. Without it, people may follow guidelines for action other than the ruler’s, thus implicitly or explicitly acknowledging a rival source of authority. Any divergence in norms or

The State  75 standards undermines the ruler’s authority and threatens the existence of the state, since it raises the possibility that the unified political society might collapse. A fragment preserved in the Shènzı̌ takes a similar stance, explaining that the major function of standards (fǎ) is to eliminate personal bias (sī), while that of the prince is to bring unity to the people. Among the functions of standards none is greater than preventing personal bias; among the functions of the prince, none is greater than preventing contention among the people. Now if standards are established yet personal biases still proceed, the biases contend with the standards, a situation even more disorderly than having no standards. If a prince is established yet ­worthy people are esteemed, the worthy people contend with the prince [for influence], a situation even more disorderly than having no prince. So in a state that possesses dào, standards being established, biased arguments do not proceed; the prince being established, worthy people are not esteemed. The people are unified by the prince; affairs are decided by the standards. This is the great dào of the state.  (Sz 5/20; 8.5)

How can the ruler ensure unity and reliability in complying with and en­for­ cing norms? Even his own judgement is potentially fallible. So, according to ‘Relying on Standards’, another Guǎnzı̌ text, ‘The sagely prince relies on standards (fǎ), not expertise; methods, not persuasion; impartiality (gōng), not personal bias (sī); and the great dào, not minor things’ (Gz 109/29; 45.1). The enlightened king focuses on two constant factors: ‘clarifying standards and strictly observing them’ and ‘prohibiting personal biases among the ­people, instead employing them [for the state]’ (110/16; 45.3). The text repeat­ edly stresses that standards are the means of maintaining unity and thwarting the malicious influence of personal or self-­interested bias: ‘Standards are that by which the superior unifies the people and employs those below; personal bias is that by which those below infringe on the standards and disrupt the ruler’ (110/17; 45.3). ‘Standards are the ultimate dào in the world’ (110/20; 45.3), because of how they ensure consistent administration according to impartial norms. A ruler who strictly observes them cannot be misled by close confidants, relatives, or favourites, nor by the learned, wealthy, or powerful. Whether people are closely or distantly related to him, near or far from him, of high or low rank, beautiful or ugly, he judges them by guides and

76  Late Classical Chinese Thought measures. When he executes people, they do not resent it; when he rewards ­people, they are not indebted. He implements these through a system of standards, as impartial as heaven and earth. Thus officials have no biased assessments, officers no biased arguments, the common people no biased pleading—­all empty their chests to obey their superiors. The superiors assess things on the basis of impartial correctness and judge things on the basis of a system of standards, and so managing the realm is not a burden. (Gz 111/21; 45.8)

By contrast, an inferior prince ‘looks at things with personal bias and so there are things he doesn’t see. . . . Personal bias is the dào of blocking and obstruct­ ing oneself and losing one’s position’ (Gz 111/24; 45.8). In the worst case, the sovereign follows no consistent standards at all. The sovereign sets aside impartial standards to listen to biased arguments, so the various ministers and common people all pursue policies based on their personal biases and promulgate these in the state. They form factions and alliances to establish their personal biases, seek private hearings with the sovereign, and recommend their cronies for employment, in this way disrupting the impartial standards. People employ their minds to seek favour from their sovereign, while the sovereign has no guidelines and measures to prevent it.  (Gz 111/25; 45.8)

According to the Shènzı̌, governing without fixed standards (fǎ) leads to unre­ strained expectations and hence resentment when these inevitably fail to be fulfilled. If the prince dispenses with standards and governs on his own, punishments and rewards, allocation and deprivation, issue from the prince’s heart. Then even if the right people are rewarded, they hope for more without limit; even if the right people are punished, they hope for less without end. If the prince dispenses with standards, using his own judgement to decide what is greater or lesser, then the same achievements will be rewarded differently and the same crimes will be punished differently, and from this resentment arises. . . . A great prince relies on standards, not himself, deciding matters by standards. Where standards are applied, each receives their reward or pun­ ishment according to the proper allotment (fèn, ‘role’, ‘part’), holding no expectations of the prince. In this way, resentment does not arise and su­per­ iors and subordinates are in harmony.  (Sz 4/17; 6)

The State  77 Various texts emphasize that the ruler himself is as susceptible to personal or self-­interested bias as anyone else, and so to ensure impartiality he too must adhere strictly to the standards. The ruler has the power to set the standards—­ their content being justified by what promotes the economic wealth and mili­ tary might of the state—­but once they are established, he must not deviate from them. Indeed, one function of standards identified in the Book of Lord Shāng is that, like rule of law, they prevent government officials from abusing their power over the people. For if the standards are clearly promulgated, such that everyone is familiar with them, ‘officials will clearly know that the people know the standards and decrees, and so the officials dare not treat the people contrary to the standards, while the people dare not violate the stand­ ards’ (SJS 26/32/3).

Hánfēizı̌ and the ‘Two Handles’ The role of standards in ensuring impartiality and reliability is equally prom­ in­ent in Hánfēizı̌, the collection of texts that elaborates Legalist thought most extensively. So, at the present time, if you are able to eliminate biased crookedness and pursue impartial standards, the people will be secure and the state in order; if you can eliminate selfishly biased conduct and implement impartial stand­ ards, the army will be strong and enemies weak. So if, in examining suc­ cesses and failures, there is a system of standards and measures to apply to the various ministers, the ruler cannot be deceived by fraud and fakery. (HFz 8/1; 6.2)

The Hánfēizı̌ rejects the prevailing view that moral education is crucial to good order. The Confucian Analects famously states, ‘Guide them with regu­ lations and regulate them with punishments, and the people will avoid trans­ gression but have no shame; guide them with virtue and regulate them with propriety, and they will have shame and reform themselves’ (Analects 2.3). The implication is that moral education directed by an exemplary leader is actually more effective in keeping order than regulations and punishments are. The regulate-­and-­punish approach prompts people to do only the min­ imum needed to avoid punishment, not to do what is right. Arguably, it rein­ forces self-­interested bias, since it encourages only concern for avoiding punishment. Any time people are likely to escape punishment—­whenever

78  Late Classical Chinese Thought they are unsupervised, for example—­they will feel free to violate the regula­ tions. By contrast, moral role modelling and education aim at internalizing the target norms, such that people rectify their own errors even when no one is watching. A common Confucian view is thus that moral education is actu­ ally more effective than law enforcement in regulating conduct. The Hánfēizı̌ essay ‘Eminent Learning’ dismisses this approach out of brute scepticism that moral virtues can be learned. ‘Teaching people benevolence and duty, this is like claiming you can make them intelligent and long-­lived.’ Intelligence and longevity are a matter of ‘inherent nature and fate’, and ‘nature and fate are not something learned from others’ (HFz 153/17; 50.9). So ‘in governing a state, the sage does not rely on others’ doing well by him’, because ‘within the borders of the state one can’t count even ten such people’. Instead, the sagely ruler ‘employs their inability to do wrong’. ‘A ruler with sound methods does not simply go along with accidental goodness but fol­ lows a dào that is certain to be so’ (HFz 153/10; 50.8). A fragment from the Shènzı̌ makes a similar point. The dào of Heaven is that ‘according with’ (yīn) things yields great achievements, while trying to change them yields paltry ones. Hence in employing the people, a ruler should act on the facts about how they actually are—­their inherent character­ istics (qíng)—without trying to change them. ‘No one fails to act for their own sake. . . . So apply people’s acting for their own sake, not their acting for your sake.’ ‘If you try to change them so that they act for your sake, none of them will employable’ (Sz 2/15; 2). The stance of the Hánfēizı̌ is not that all people are inherently bad, but that their conduct tends to be a product of their circumstances. Rulers must select methods of rule that suit their times. In Confucius’s day, more than two hun­ dred years earlier, people might have responded to the influence of virtuous rulers and moral education. But the population was smaller then, and per­ haps resources were more abundant. Nowadays, the population is large and resources are limited. A reliable approach to governance cannot be based on optimistic expectations about people’s character but must be based on funda­ mental, unchanging facts about their dispositions: In all governance of the realm, one must proceed on the basis of people’s inherent character (qíng). People’s inherent character is such that they have likes and dislikes, and so rewards and punishments can be used. If rewards and punishments can be used, prohibitions and decrees can be established, and the dào of governance is in place.  (HFz 142/10; 48.1)

The State  79 ‘Establishing Standards’, a text from the Book of Lord Shāng, takes the same stance: People by their inherent character (qíng) have likes and dislikes, and so the people can be governed. The ruler of people cannot fail to carefully consider likes and dislikes. Likes and dislikes are the basis for rewards and punish­ ments. Now people by their constitution like high rank and salary and dis­ like punishments and penalties. The ruler of people institutes these two to control the people’s intent and establishes what he wants through them. (SJS 9/15/1; 9.2)

For the Hánfēizı̌, rewards and punishments are the ‘two handles’ of govern­ ance, ‘the means by which an enlightened ruler guides and controls his sub­ jects’ (HFz 9/15; 7.1). Instead of education, persuasion, consensus, or moral leadership, the ruler governs by wielding absolute institutional power to allo­ cate rewards and punishments: The prince grasps the handles while occupying a position of power, and so his decrees are carried out and what he prohibits ceases. The handles are the controls over life and death; positional power is his resource for prevailing over the masses. If things are instituted or discarded without guidelines, then the ruler’s decision-­making power is misused; if control over rewards and punishments is shared with subordinates, then the ruler’s authority is divided. (HFz 142/11; 48.1)

This passage draws together the three major components of Hán Fēi’s vision of effective governance, each of which different parts of the text credit to a different, fourth-­century bc predecessor. The first is the fundamental im­port­ ance of positional or institutional power (shì), a point one Hánfēizı̌ text at­tri­ butes to Shèn Dào (fl. 310 bc?) (HFz 127/31; 40.1), a thinker associated with the Jìxià academy, after whom the Shènzı̌ is named. Positional power is what enables the ruler to control the masses. It is the power by which he sets stand­ ards, enforces them, makes decisions, and has them obeyed. As the passage says, the prince can employ the ‘two handles’ only while ‘occupying a position of power’. It is crucial, then, for the ruler to occupy a position from which he has the institutional loyalty and coercive means to command obedience. The second component is managerial methods (shù), a concept another Hánfēizı̌ discussion credits to Shēn Bùhài (d. 337 bc), former prime minister of Hán.

80  Late Classical Chinese Thought ‘Wielding the handles of death and life’, or rewards and punishments, is among these methods, which also cover the ruler’s executive role in applying positional power to assess officials’ abilities, assign them positions, and evalu­ ate their job performance (HFz 131/8; 43.1). Appropriate ‘methods’ keep the prince accurately informed in managing the state bureaucracy. He must never delegate this executive role to his ministers, or his authority splinters and his positional power is undermined, since the ministers could abuse the power entrusted to them to form factions and build institutional power of their own, apart from the ruler’s. The third component is the use of standards (fǎ), which Hán Fēi adopts from Shāng Yāng (Lord Shāng) (d. 338 bc), former chief min­ ister of Qín. Standards are what guide ministers’ performance. They include clear decrees and orders from the ruler, reliable rewards, and inescapable punishments (HFz 131/9; 43.1). As the passage indicates, the prince exercises power through decrees and prohibitions, but his decisions must be checked against guidelines, or he is derelict in applying his decision-­making power. Integral to the impartial functioning of standards, then, are the ‘two ­handles’—rewards and punishments—­that drive people to comply with the standards. For the system to function perfectly, rewards must be attractive and dependable, while punishments must be inescapable, applied universally, regardless of social rank or relation to those in power, and so severe that no one would ever knowingly disobey. Rich rewards and heavy, certain punish­ ments bring everyone’s self-­interest wholly into line with the ruler’s standards. In some cases, rewards and punishments recognize exceptional or poor per­ form­ance. Lord Shāng famously set standards that rewarded soldiers for the number of enemy heads they took in battle and punished them for failure (SJS 19/25/9; 19.2). But their basic purpose is simply to ensure obedience by mak­ ing the cost of noncompliance horrifically brutal, as in the traditional ‘five punishments’ of tattooing the face, amputating the nose, chopping off one or both feet, castration, and painful execution, sometimes extending to the per­ petrator’s entire family. The aim of punishment is purely instrumental, not retributive. Indeed, Legalist texts emphasize that extreme, disproportionate punishments are justified because they are purportedly an effective means of ending all punishment. Now the prohibitions of the former kings executed people, amputated their feet, and tattooed their faces—­it’s not that they sought to injure people but in this way to prohibit crime and end misconduct. So to prohibit crime and end misconduct, nothing is as good as heavy punishment. If punishment is

The State  81 heavy and certain, the people will dare not try to offend, and so no one in the state will be punished.  (SJS 17/22/1; 17.4)

‘Reliance on Standards’, from the Guǎnzı̌, explains the logic. People are to per­ form their roles as commanded and never decide for themselves what to do, for in this way any urge to act on personal or self-­interested bias is eliminated. ‘So the superior commands and the subordinates respond, the ruler acts and the ministers follow—­this is the dào of good governance’ (Gz 112/1; 45.9). Accordingly, provided people follow commands, they should not be pun­ ished, even if their efforts meet with failure. Punishing them despite their obedience might incite people to deviate from the standards out of concern for their self-­interest (112/2; 45.9). By contrast, if they diverge from the ruler’s commands, then even if their actions are beneficial, they should be punished with death, since allowing ‘reckless initiative’ would be to allow individuals to act on their personal biases (112/2; 45.9). The Hánfēizı̌ illustrates this point in a famous anecdote. The Marquis of Hán once fell asleep drunk. Noticing he was cold, the keeper of caps covered him with a robe. On awakening, the Marquis was pleased. Still, he punished both the keeper of robes for failing to do his duty and the keeper of caps for overstepping his (HFz 10/1; 7.2). Total conformity to a system of impartially enforced standards, underwritten by grisly punishments for noncompliance, yields a perfectly unified political society whose members all dedicate themselves fully to the interests of the state.

Responses to Legalism Legalism seeks to ensure the security and stability of the state by forcing its subjects to follow a common set of ruthlessly enforced standards of conduct. To ensure complete reliability and impartiality, the system seeks to exclude all sources of subjective bias in applying and enforcing the standards, while pre­ supposing no motivation beyond the most basic preferences and aversions, which it harnesses chiefly through brutal corporal punishment. This approach was the target of penetrating criticisms in other late classical texts. The most prominent criticism is simply that the Legalists’ lowest-­ common-­denominator approach to moral and political psychology, which dismisses any motivation other than likes and dislikes—­in practice, greed and fear—­is too reductive, ignoring people’s characteristic positive, cooperative

82  Late Classical Chinese Thought responses to the moral character of a worthy ruler. Rule by virtue and moral norms may be fallible, but it is actually more effective than rule by standards alone, critics claim, because it capitalizes on people’s natural psychological make-­up and inherent dispositions. ‘Exalting Virtue’, an essay in Lǚ’s Annals, argues that ‘severe punishment and rich rewards are the policies of a declin­ ing age’. In governing the realm, ‘nothing is as good as governing with Virtue, nothing is as good as practising moral right. [If one governs] with Virtue and right, people are encouraged [to act appropriately] even without rewarding them. Vile conduct stops even without punishment’ (Lscq 19.3; 111.1). ‘Suitable Authority’, another essay in the Annals, makes a complementary point. A ruler can win the people’s genuine support only by treating them well. ‘Govern them by benevolence and right; make them secure through care and benefit; guide them with loyalty and trustworthiness; strive to eliminate their misfortunes; consider how to deliver good fortune’ (Lscq 19.5; 113.2). Otherwise, the ruler controls at most only the people’s physical form, not their affections. Policies such as the Legalists’ disregard people’s inherent nature and dispositions. Governing by rewards and punishments, issuing numerous decrees while condemning people for disobeying, or making heavy demands and punishing failure are all approaches that only breed resentment towards the ruler. But ‘to have a large but resentful population is worse than having none’ (Lscq 19.5; 113.1). In focusing solely on likes and dislikes, rewards and punishment, Legalism overlooks the power of other sources of motivation, such as admiration, gratitude, reciprocity, and resentment. Xúnzı̌ converges with the Annals on these points, contending that Legalism’s crude, simplistic psychology will prove counterproductive in prac­ tice. One Xúnzı̌ text depicts Xún Kuàng presenting this argument in a face-­to-­ face discussion with Lı̌ Sī, a prominent Legalist statesman who later became prime minister of Qín. (Ironically, Lı̌ Sī and Hán Fēi are both thought to have been students of Xún Kuàng. Apparently, neither took Xúnzı̌’s views to heart.) Lı̌ Sī claims that Qín has become the most powerful state in the world not by practising the moral norms of benevolence and duty but by pursuing what­ ever policies are most expedient. Xúnzı̌ responds that the ‘expedient’ policies to which Lı̌ refers are actually inexpedient. Moral values are actually more effective in building political strength and unity. Benevolence and duty are how to refine government; if government is refined, the people feel kinship with their superiors, take delight in their ruler, and look lightly on dying for him. . . . [By contrast, Qín lives] in

The State  83 constant fear that the rest of the world will unite to crush it. This is what’s called the military power of a declining age, which lacks fundamental unity. (Xz 15/74)

If a sovereign ignores the actual complexity of people’s motivation and gov­ erns merely on the basis of rewards and punishments, people will quickly abandon him in a crisis. If people do things for the sake of rewards and celebration, then on seeing harm and injury they stop. So rewards and celebration, punishments and penalties, and power and deception are inadequate to get people to fully devote their strength or give their lives. If the ruler above deals with the common people below without propriety, duty, loyalty, or trust and merely thinks of applying rewards and celebration, punishments and penalties, and power and deception to press them into providing advantages to him, then when an army of invaders arrives, if the people are employed to hold an endangered city, they will surely betray him. If they meet the enemy in battle they will surely turn their backs and run. If assigned a difficult and demand­ ing job they will surely flee, suddenly scattering or revolting against their superiors. (Xz 15/91)

A dào that treats people only as objects of rewards, punishments, and ma­nipu­ la­tion ‘is inadequate to unify the community and beautify the state’ (15/94). Since the Legalist approach reinforces only self-­interest, any time people con­ clude their interest may lie in abandoning or betraying the regime, they will. A regime that people will abandon instantly in a crisis is one that is primed for failure and is at best only borderline legitimate, since it cannot claim to have achieved stable social order or genuine unity among its subjects. Beyond these points about the practical defects of Legalist methods, Xúnzı̌ presents the raw materials for a deeper critique, although the texts do not frame the discussion as specifically directed at Legalism. Several Xúnzı̌ pas­ sages present profound reflections on the functioning of standards (fǎ) that wholly undermine the Legalist approach, placing fundamental constraints on any system of rule by explicit guidelines, including even the modern concep­ tion of rule of law. These Xúnzian ideas continued to influence discourse in the Chinese tradition concerning the priority of standards (fǎ) versus the per­ sonal character or qualifications of those in office (rén, ‘persons’, ‘people’) for two millennia. They remain deeply relevant to political life today. The crux of

84  Late Classical Chinese Thought the Xúnzian view is that standards cannot function without the apt judge­ ment of those responsible for applying them. A system of standards thus can­ not attain Legalist-­style impartiality by excluding the element of human judgement, for without expert judgement, standards are inert. This point explains Xúnzı̌’s criticism of Shèn Dào as ‘blinkered by standards, such that he failed to recognize [the importance of] moral expertise’ (Xz 21/21). Xúnzi devotes careful attention to how standards function, because they are every bit as important to Xúnzian ethics and politics as they are to Legalism. Describing the role of standards in personal cultivation, for ex­ample, one passage says: To be keen on the standards (fǎ) and practise them is to be an officer. To concentrate on them and embody them is to be a gentleman. To completely understand them without limit is to be a sage. If people lack standards, they are at a loss as to what to do.  (Xz 2/35)

In assigning a key role to standards, Xúnzı̌ follows the Mohists, who intro­ duced standards as a solution to the problem of finding reliable criteria by which to guide and evaluate conduct. Any sort of undertaking, the Mohists contended, requires reliable, objective standards by which to direct per­form­ ance and check results (Mz 4/1). This point holds for the grand work of gov­ erning a state and leading people to follow the dào just as it does for the everyday work of artisans such wheelwrights and carpenters. How do stand­ ards work? Here it helps to understand that the word ‘fǎ’ refers not only to standards but to models, which the Mohists consider one type of standard. Indeed, ‘fǎ’ can be used as a verb meaning ‘to model on’ or ‘to emulate’. Accordingly, in Mohist writings, the paradigm case of applying a standard involves perceptually comparing whether something is similar enough to the standard to count as emulating it satisfactorily. For example, the carpenter holds the set square up against an edge to see whether they match, indicating the edge is indeed square. Anyone can see whether the two align or not. Standards thus provide clear, public criteria by which anyone can evaluate performance. The common people can use them to assess the conduct of high officials and rulers, for example. Mohist texts tend to oversimplify the role of standards. Once we find appropriate, reliable standards, they imply, distinguishing right from wrong is ‘like dividing black from white’ (Mz 27/72). However, one Mohist essay does acknowledge a difference between how skilled and unskilled artisans use standards such as the compass, set square, ink line, or plumb bob. ‘The skilled

The State  85 can match them exactly. The unskilled, although they cannot match them exactly, still surpass what they can do by themselves’ (4/3). Standards are helpful to all, but only in the hands of the skilled do they yield fully reliable results. Xúnzı̌ develops and extends this point along several dimensions. As a refu­ tation of Legalism, the core Xúnzian claim is that only when applied by the right person can standards function effectively. There are persons who produce good order; there are no standards (fǎ) that produce good order. . . . Standards cannot establish themselves; kind [distinctions] cannot apply themselves. If the right person is in place, they are maintained; if the right person is missing, they are lost. Standards are the starting point of good order; the gentleman is the source of the ­standards. So if there are gentlemen, then even if there are few standards, they are sufficient to cover all cases. Without gentlemen, then even if standards are in place, [officials] will fail to implement them in the proper sequence and will  be unable to respond to changing affairs, which is enough to produce disorder.  (Xz 12/1)

Simply instituting a system of standards, no matter how elaborate, is not sufficient for good governance, because the standards must be applied by ‘the right person’, the educated, morally worthy ‘gentleman’. They cannot operate mechanically, on their own. Things do not sort themselves into the normatively relevant ‘kinds’ the standards identify and respond to. The kind distinctions are implemented through our practices, and so standards can function properly only in the hands of those competent in the practices. Standards are indeed a starting point from which good governance devel­ ops, but competent gentlemen are the source of the standards—­whose who establish them—­and thus the persons with the expertise needed to interpret and apply them. Even if there are few standards, the qualified gentleman knows how to extend them to cover all cases, despite differences in the par­ ticulars of various situations. Without this expertise, even with extensive, detailed standards, unqualified officials will still fail to apply them compe­ tently to complex, changing circumstances. The point is not simply that a system of standards functions more ef­fect­ ive­ly when applied with educated discretion. It is that there simply is no such thing as a standard that operates independently of any personal judgement. The Legalist ideal of governing by standards that function automatically, and thus wholly impartially, without relying on the potentially fallible judgement

86  Late Classical Chinese Thought of those who administer them, is a myth, founded on a misunderstanding of how standards work. Even apparently simple and straightforward standards such as the compass and set square require some degree of expert judgement to apply. The artisan must know exactly where to position the tool and just how much variation from the standard is allowable. To apply a standard appropriately, one must understand the purpose behind it, the intended result, and thus exactly which features to evaluate and precisely how to assess them. Even if they have extensive experience, those who do not understand the significance of the standards yet take the measurements of the standards to specify what is correct will surely produce disorder. So an enlightened ruler urgently seeks the right persons, while an ignorant ruler urgently seeks his own positional power.  (Xz 12/4)

Robotically proceeding by the numbers without grasping the underlying aim of the standard is a recipe for bad judgement and misgovernment. Rather than misguidedly taking the standards to apply themselves and obsessively monopolizing positional power, as the Legalists advocate, the enlightened ruler seeks to recruit officials with the appropriate education and discretion to administer the standards. Xúnzı̌ reinforces these points by highlighting the role of teachers in learn­ ing to apply standards. The Mohists recognized the role of social and political leaders in promulgating standards. However, they did not explicitly ac­know­ ledge that precisely how to apply standards is itself a learned skill. As we saw, they do point out that full conformity to the standards may require skill. But beyond this, simply assessing whether a standard has been met may require a trained eye. Acquiring the needed skills and judgement will typically require guidance from experts. Specifically addressing personal ethical development, Xúnzı̌ emphasizes that standards are applied as part of a three-­way relation involving the learner, the standards, and a teacher. Not to affirm teachers and standards, instead preferring to do things on one’s own—­to give an analogy, this is like relying on the blind to distinguish colours or the deaf to distinguish sounds.  (Xz 2/39)

In the context of ethical development, for the Xúnzı̌, the relevant standards are the norms of ceremonial propriety (lı̌):

The State  87 Propriety is how we correct ourselves; teachers are how we correct propriety. Without norms of propriety, how would we correct ourselves? Without teachers, how would we know that propriety is this [concrete example of apt conduct]? (Xz 2/37)

Standards provide criteria of correct conduct, but the criteria themselves must be interpreted correctly. Teachers show us what counts as proper appli­ cation of the standards. Only through a teacher’s guidance do we learn whether some particular conduct is indeed ceremonially proper—­polite, tact­ ful, appropriate—­in a particular context. The text discusses the teacher’s role in the context of personal ethical practice, but the point generalizes. Part of learning to use any standard is learning what counts as meeting it, and this process typically involves emulating and extending the judgement or per­ form­ance of teachers or role models. ‘Persons’, or personal character and judgement, thus have an ineliminable role in learning to use standards. A further problem is that no system of standards can address all possible cases in advance. Inevitably, novel or complex cases will arise, and the officials responsible for applying the standards will need to employ discretion to inter­ pret or extend them. Earlier we quoted the Guǎnzı̌ text ‘Standards and Prohibitions’ claiming that to eliminate personal biases, the system of stand­ ards must not be open to argument. In a landmark piece of early legal phil­ oso­phy, Xúnzı̌ asserts almost precisely the opposite view. The application of standards must be discussed and argued, so that experts can work out how best to extend the standards to further cases. A parallel point applies to the Legalist insistence that officials must never overstep the predefined duties of their post. If officials do not communicate and work together, Xúnzı̌ contends, cases that do not coincide neatly with the predefined duties of one bureau or another will fall through the cracks. If standards (fǎ) are applied without argument, then cases the standards do not cover will surely be neglected. If officials attend only to the duties of their posts without working together, then cases not assigned to a specific post will be disregarded. So applying standards while arguing about them; carrying out one’s duties while connecting one’s work with others’; there being no plans withheld, no good things overlooked, and a hundred tasks completed without error—­only the gentleman is capable of this.  (Xz 9/11)

Applying standards is complex work, which requires qualified personnel across bureaus to discuss how different cases should be handled and to

88  Late Classical Chinese Thought co­ord­in­ate their efforts. Expertise and educated judgement are essential. The implication is that it is through discussion and cooperation that gentlemen will resolve how to apply the standards, by proceeding in a manner that is impartial, fair, neutral, and harmonious. So impartial fairness is the scale by which to adjudicate affairs of govern­ ment; neutral harmony is the rope from which the scale is suspended. In cases for which there is a standard, proceed according to the standard; in cases for which there is no standard, act on the basis of kind relations—­this is the highest in adjudicating affairs. Being partial to one faction without consistent guidelines—­this is the worst in adjudicating affairs.  (Xz 9/12)

Standards are extended on the basis of ‘kind’ relations—­analogical relations—­ between the novel case and related precedents. The analogical judgement involved in determining what standard to apply will inevitably require expert discretion concerning what counts as a relevant similarity. Since no system of standards can provide an algorithm for handling every case, the role of such discretion is essential. Of course, assigning a central role to discretion intro­ duces a risk of bias, as the Legalists contend. How, then, can we ensure impar­ tial, fair outcomes? The Xúnzian response seems to be: by employing qualified personnel, encouraging them to critically discuss the grounds for their deci­ sions, identifying an analogical basis for applying the standards, and aiming to adjudicate on the basis of fairness and neutrality. This process is of course complex and fallible, but these features reflect the genuine, unavoidable diffi­ culty of the task. Xúnzı̌ is confident that if the system can recruit and train the right persons, good order will prevail. By contrast, to rely on standards with­ out recruiting the right persons to administer them is to invite failure. So there are cases in which good standards are in place yet disorder prevails, but from ancient times until now, we have never heard of a case in which gentlemen are in place yet disorder prevails.  (Xz 9/14)

The Xúnzian stance wholly affirms the importance of standards as a means of achieving consistency and impartiality in government. But standards can be applied only through the judgement of qualified experts. They do not remove fallible, personal discretion from the picture. The solution to avoiding bias is not to attempt, impossibly, to rely on standards alone, eliminating any role for case-­by-­case judgement, as the Legalists propose. It is to recruit and cultivate expertise, distribute decision-­making authority, and invite discussion of the

The State  89 standards and their application. The concept of standards effectively covers the operation of any system or institution organized around an explicit code of regulations or guidelines. So the Xúnzian stance amounts to the claim that the functioning of any such system or institution is only as reliable as the judgement and ethical character of the personnel charged with administering it. To give a contemporary example, the mere existence of a constitution incorporating rule of law means little unless it is observed and enforced by competent officials with a shared cultural and ethical commitment to the val­ ues and ideals the constitution seeks to embody. A corollary is that identifica­ tion and cooperation with the state are unlikely to follow from the imposition of rigid standards, as the Legalists claim. Properly understood, standards function primarily as a means of expressing, reinforcing, and practising shared values and norms, not of manufacturing them.

The Self-­So Community Legalism treats the people of the state as little more than intelligent livestock, a resource to be exploited. By contrast, Xúnzı̌ urges that for the ruler himself to be secure, he must first make the people secure, by providing for their wel­ fare and interacting with them according to shared norms of propriety and duty. ‘Prince and Ministers’ displays stronger populist tendencies, contending that ‘the enlightened prince follows the people’s hearts’. Still, both the Xúnzian approach and that of ‘Prince and Ministers’ are primarily top-­down and potentially heavy-­handed, as the ruler seeks to impose standards of conduct on society and demands that people cooperate by performing their assigned roles. All three approaches assume that a high degree of unity shaped and directed from above is needed to maintain a political society. The Zhuāngzı̌ presents a range of views that contrast sharply with all of those examined so far. Various passages in the Zhuāngzı̌ express deep scepti­ cism about the very idea of top-­down governance that seeks to impose a fixed conception of ‘good order’ (zhì) on society, the implication being that organic communities will converge on a ‘good enough’ state of order if they are largely left alone. This scepticism provides grounds for rejecting both the more popu­ list stance of ‘Prince and Ministers’ and the more authoritarian stance of Xúnzı̌, let alone the amoral totalitarianism of the Legalists. Zhuāngist political views can be difficult to characterize, since they do not correspond closely to familiar positions in recent political philosophy. Writings on governance in the Zhuāngzı̌ typically doubt the wisdom and

90  Late Classical Chinese Thought efficacy of an activist, reformist approach to governing or bringing order to society. They reject the otherwise widely accepted project of governing by educating the populace and the prevailing assumption that government should shape people’s behaviour through rewards and punishments. In these respects, we can characterize them as ‘minimalist’. Most also advocate non-­ interference in people’s lives, allowing people to live together in a ‘self-­so’ manner, each following a path that comes to them so-­of-­itself. A society that practised such non-­interference would probably allow extensive individual liberty. But the Zhuangist stance cannot accurately be labelled a form of liber­ alism, because it does not value, appeal to, or even identify a concept of indi­ vidual liberty or respect for individuals. Nor is the Zhuangist view aptly described as laissez-­faire, since the texts depict something more than a mere ‘night-­watchman’ approach to governance. Some passages acknowledge that government has constructive tasks to undertake; others seem to endorse gov­ ernment activity that nurtures and facilitates the flourishing of the commu­ nity and its members. Zhuangist political thought also generally does not espouse anarchism. One passage discussed below has an anarchist flavour, as it envisions a community without hierarchical ranks. However, other passages treat a political hierarchy of some form as a typical, given feature of social life. Some passages are theoretically modest, making no strong claims about the basis for the political relations they envision. Others make ambitious claims about people’s inherent nature or Virtue to support their political stance. Let’s first look at several passages whose assertions seem theoretically less ambitious and accordingly perhaps easier to defend. One prominent theme is minimalism about the activities and aims of government. The texts reject the formidable project of morally ‘transforming’ the populace, reshaping their dispositions to conform to norms the ruler sets. Instead, several passages advocate simply identifying the tasks that must be handled on the communi­ ty’s behalf and ensuring that competent people are in place to perform them. The legitimate task of government is simply to manage practical matters. (The texts do not spell out what these are; presumably they treat basic needs such as public works, dispute resolution, and peace-­keeping.) One conversation in book 7, ‘Responding to Emperor-­ Kings’, directly rejects a mainstream, activist approach to governance. Echoing ideas similar to those proposed by ‘Prince and Ministers’ and Xúnzı̌, the text considers the claim that ‘a ruler [should] issue his own guidelines and norms, such that all obey and are transformed by them’ (Zz 7/4). This approach, the text asserts, amounts to ‘fake Virtue’. It boils down to little more than pretending, for the task proposed is impossible, the means suggested utterly ineffective: ‘with

The State  91 respect to governing the realm, this is like trying to wade across the sea, dig a hole in a river, or make a mosquito carry a mountain’. Indeed, focusing on ‘guidelines and norms’ is akin to steering into a trap; those who advocate it have less sense than birds who ‘fly high to avoid the harm of stringed arrows’. Governance is not a matter of moral education or of changing people—­these are impossible tasks. Instead, the wise ruler focuses only on what is of pri­ mary, immediate importance: ‘He ensures things are upright and only then acts; he simply confirms he is able to handle his tasks, that’s all.’ The crux is competent management, which involves considerably less to do than main­ stream political thought assumes. This emphasis on simple competence is echoed in other passages. ‘Sagely government’ is no more than ‘offices are established only as suitable; officials are appointed only according to their abilities. Actions are taken only having thoroughly looked into the factual situation’ (Zz 12/72). Yet this minimalist approach is said to win people to the ruler’s side. The ruler simply ‘undertakes his own conduct and speech, and the realm is transformed. Wherever his hand gestures and gaze is directed, people from the four quarters all come.’ Another conversation recalls the remarks about ‘fake Virtue’, presenting and dismissing a received conception of good government. On the received conception, ‘you must strive to be reverent and modest and to promote the impartial and loyal, without partiality—­then who among the people will dare not conform?’ (Zz 12/47). This approach is hopeless, the text indicates. ‘With respect to the Virtue of emperor-­kings, this is like the praying mantis that threatened a speeding carriage with its arms—­it is surely not up to the task.’ How then should a prince proceed? Here the text elaborates on the quiet, charismatic influence of the competent ruler: When a great sage governs the realm, he stirs up the people’s hearts such that they fulfil the teachings and change their habits, fully extinguish their malicious attitudes, and all advance their individual intentions. This hap­ pens as if it were the self-­driven activity of our inherent nature, the people not knowing whence it is so.  (Zz 12/50)

Here the ideal ruler is depicted as guiding people not through formal stand­ ards or moral education as much as by inspiring them to improve themselves. The text does not spell out how the process works; an educated conjecture might be that the sage presents a charismatic, inspiring role model to emulate. But a pivotal feature of the process is that it resembles the workings of our inherent nature—­such as the eyes’ ability to see or ears’ to hear—­involving

92  Late Classical Chinese Thought development of each person’s ‘individual intentions’, without any obvious source outside them or coercive force. The passages examined so far imply an approach to government that reduces direct interference in people’s lives while nevertheless inspiring them to cooperate. Two further passages especially emphasize working with how people are in themselves, in the process questioning the very idea of govern­ ing through active, coercive control. ‘May I ask about managing the realm?’ ‘Let your heart wander in plainness, merge your vital breath with the vastness, follow along with what is self-­so (zì rán) of things, allowing no personal bias, and the realm will be in good order.’ (Zz 7/10)

An implication is that actively imposing a particular conception of govern­ ance or order on society is itself a ‘personal bias’ (sī). Indeed, the very ­methods other texts advocate as means of attaining impartiality (gōng)—such as speci­ fying and enforcing fixed standards—­seem to be regarded as themselves manifestations of bias. The ruler is instead to govern as if ‘wandering’ through a plain, undifferentiated vastness—­and thus following no particular path or direction—­setting aside personal views of how things should be. The crux is to conform to people’s own tendencies and activity—­what comes ‘self-­so’ or ‘so-­of-­itself ’ for them, without external influence. A ruler who can flow along with the people’s existing propensities finds that society is already in good order, in and of itself. The succeeding passage offers one vision of how these ideas might be applied: The governance of the enlightened king—­his achievements cover the realm yet seem not to come from him. His transforming influence reaches the myriad things yet the people do not rely on him. No one mentions his name; he makes it such that things are happy in and of themselves. He stands in the unmeasured and wanders where there is nothing at all.  (Zz 7/14)

The enlightened king does not entirely refrain from acting, but his actions so wholly conform to people’s own tendencies that his achievements and influ­ ence seem theirs alone, not his, and no one attributes the results to him. He fosters circumstances in which all persons find their own delight, in and of themselves. Meanwhile, he himself ‘wanders’ without any particular end, path, or measurement standard. By implication, he is attached to no particu­ lar dào or standards and so does not impose them on the community.

The State  93 For this pair of passages, the ruler’s actions and policies are to be driven wholly by the values, interests, or dào of the people—­and, perhaps, other creatures—­rather than aiming to shape, guide, or educate them. He is to facilitate their efforts to live their lives in their own self-­so way. The emphasis on what is self-­so or brings happiness for each opens room for the prospect that a plurality of paths may be involved; not everyone will follow the same dào. The ruler is not formally accountable to the people, nor do the passages advocate protecting individual liberty. Yet the sagely ruler conforms to the people’s paths, not his own, and a likely result would be a high degree of lib­ erty to pursue what comes self-­so for each member of the community, per­ haps constrained by the requirement not to obstruct what is self-­so for others. A cognate political stance found in some Zhuāngzı̌ writings is more ambi­ tious theoretically, as it appeals to a conception of people’s inherent nature (xìng) as guiding them to live alongside each other in shared Virtue. The opening lines of one essay summarize this stance: I’ve heard of leaving the realm alone; I’ve never heard of governing it. You leave it be from fear [that as a result of your ‘governing’] the people of the realm will corrupt their nature; you leave it alone from fear they will move away from their Virtue. If all the realm neither corrupt their nature nor move away from their Virtue, is there such a thing as governing the realm? (Zz 11/1)

If people follow their inherent nature and Virtue, the social world proceeds in good order in and of itself without needing any ‘governing’. The text contends that whether the ‘governing’ in question brings pleasure or suffering to ­people’s nature, it equally disrupts their inherent Virtue—­or proclivities for action—­and what is contrary to Virtue cannot last. Indeed, ham-­handed gov­ ernance, whether benevolent or cruel, will disturb people’s emotional balance so much that it harms their health. The disruption may lead to extremes of both antisocial viciousness and laboured displays of goodness, and no rewards or punishments will be adequate to remedy the situation. The solution, the text proposes, is government by ‘non-­ action’ (wú wéi)—that is, non-­ interference—­which allows people to ‘live at peace with the facts of their nature and fate’ (Zz 11/13). A crucial, implicit premise here arises from the conceptual relation between inherent nature and health. The concept of inherent ‘nature’ (xìng) includes normal growth and functioning that occurs without deliberate intention, direction, work, or learning. (It is people’s xìng to grow five fingers, for

94  Late Classical Chinese Thought ex­ample, to have eyes that can see, and to live a reasonably long life.) This growth and functioning are regarded as integral to flourishing health. To dis­ rupt ­people’s nature is thus in effect to damage their health. Hence the text takes it as obvious that people can live healthy, flourishing lives only when allowed to live ‘at peace’ with their ‘nature and fate’. (‘Fate’ here refers to their life circumstances, covering factors extraneous to their ‘nature’.) Society-­wide attempts to control or reshape people’s nature are misguided and likely to fail, because they obstruct people’s natural functioning and so damage their health. At the same time, the text assumes an optimistic view of people’s inherent dispositions and proclivities. Left to live ‘at peace with the facts of their nature and fate’, the text implies, people will settle into stable social rela­ tions without active governance. A more extreme version of this theoretical orientation is sometimes called ‘primitivism’, as some passages espouse a simple, primitive community life. A prominent example of this view is the Zhuāngzı̌ essay ‘Horses’ Hooves’. ‘Horses hooves can tread on frost and snow, their coats can protect against wind and cold; they chomp grass and drink water; lifting their feet, they jump about—­this is the genuine nature of horses’ (Zz 9/1). But along comes the master horseman, who announces he is good at ‘governing’ or ‘managing’ horses and proceeds to brand, bind, tie, rein, and whip them as he trains them to race, prance, or pull carriages. By the time the horseman is done, ‘more than half the horses have died’. Those who seek to ‘govern’ the realm similarly disrupt people’s nature by forcing them to comply with ill-­fitting demands and standards, thus harming them. How instead should one govern? I think someone good at governing the realm isn’t like this. The people have a constant nature, weaving for clothing, ploughing for food—­this is called ‘unity in Virtue’. Unified, without factions; call this ‘Heaven’s release’. . . . In the age of ultimate virtue, people live together with the birds and beasts, in kinship with the myriad things. Whence would they know of prince and commoner? Unified in ignorance, they do not depart from their Virtue; uni­ fied in lacking desire, this is called plain simplicity. In plain simplicity, the people fulfil their nature.  (Zz 9/6)

The Guǎnzı̌ ‘Prince and Ministers’ essay discusses attaining ‘unity in Virtue’ or ‘shared Virtue’ through collective conformity to the ruler’s standards and obedience to his commands. Here ‘unity in Virtue’ issues from people’s inher­ ent, ‘constant nature’ and so is present without explicit political direction. This common Virtue and shared, constant nature are manifested in a simple,

The State  95 agrarian way of life. Apt governance preserves people’s plain, rustic lifestyle and so allows them to fulfil their nature. If their inherent Virtue and the dào it guides them to follow have not been abandoned, explicit moral norms and cultural practices are redundant, even harmful. ‘If they have not abandoned dào and Virtue, why adopt benevolence and duty? If they have not departed from their inherent nature and characteristics, why apply ceremony and music?’ (9/12) Governance should involve no more than allowing things to proceed according to their inherent nature, which shapes their shared Virtue and so directs them along a shared dào. This appeal to native, innate pro­ gramming may explain why this is the rare Zhuāngzı̌ passage that seems to endorse anarchism: it describes a mythical ‘age of ultimate Virtue’ in which communities recognize no difference between a princely ruling class and commoners. (In a separate, cognate account of the ‘age of ultimate Virtue’, however, a sovereign remains present, although he does not interfere with the people [Zz 12/81].) To the extent that primitivist writings posit a fixed, inherent nature or Virtue that cannot justifiably be modified or controlled, they take on a heavy theoretical burden. The claim that people possess such a nature is implausible. ‘Horses’ Hooves’ assumes an especially tough argumentative challenge, as it contends that people’s nature directs us towards a single, specific way of life. We can imagine other voices in the Zhuāngzı̌ replying that the variety of apparently fulfilling ways of life people actually undertake suggests either that we have no fixed nature or that one dimension of our nature is a capacity for learning, invention, and adaptation. Hence our nature fixes no specific, priv­il­ eged lifestyle or set of social norms as especially suitable or justified. (For further discussion of late classical debates over people’s nature, see Chapter 4.) Their literal stance aside, however, there is an alternative, weaker way of reading these passages on which they make a defensible point. The passages are responding to the prevailing authoritarian attitude that governance is a matter of imposing ethical norms or explicit standards on people—­actively controlling them—­to bring them into line with the ruler’s conception of good order. To some extent, this attitude is shared by all of the views surveyed in previous sections of this chapter. In rebuttal, the ‘nature’ (xìng) passages point out that individuals and small communities are not a blank slate upon which those in power can inscribe whatever norms they wish. People have inherent, at least partly shared dispositions tied to their health and flourishing. These dispositions can and typically do lead communities to self-­organize and achieve at least some degree of ‘unity in Virtue’ of their own accord, without interference or guidance from above. Attempts at governance that disrupt or

96  Late Classical Chinese Thought conflict with these dispositions may be a recipe for harm and conflict. Indeed, primitivist texts wholly reject the idea that human communities originate from a disorderly state of nature that must be brought to good order through the invention of political authority. Any human community, they imply, will have at least some degree of ‘unity in Virtue’ and thus self-­organization and cooperation. Even if a formal government is needed to resolve coordination and cooperation problems as the scale of society grows, it will be effective and sustainable only if its operations are continuous with people’s nature. This rough idea—­that policies and actions cannot simply be imposed from above, but must align with and complement people’s existing dispositions and inclinations—­links smoothly with the implications of the other Zhuāngzı̌ passages we considered that do not appeal to a fixed conception of people’s nature. The two groups of passages jointly present a loose set of complemen­ tary themes, including maintaining continuity with people’s inherent nature, seeking conformity to what comes self-­so for them, subtly facilitating their self-­ directed activities, and eschewing grand schemes to reform or regulate them. Is there a basic principle that motivates or unites these points? Consider again the texts’ scepticism about controlling and morally reforming people through explicit guidelines and norms. This approach to government sets itself against facts and forces of nature, several passages imply. It is as prepos­ terous as trying to wade through the sea or drill a hole in a river. In Chapter 1, we explored a Zhuangist perspective from which dào involves nuanced, con­ textual responsiveness to factual patterns, which may alter and shift in unex­ pected ways. Quite likely, an understanding of dào roughly along these lines also underwrites the political views we have been examining. Recall the butcher who ‘complies with natural patterns’ and works ‘in accordance with what’s inherently so’ (Zz 3/6). These descriptions echo the characterization of adept political leadership as conforming to what is self-­so for people, facilitat­ ing their existing propensities so that they thrive, ‘happy in and of themselves’. Following dào is a matter of effectively responding to circumstances as we find them, not heavy-­handedly seeking to impose ourselves on the world, and so governance must be an activity of responding to people’s dispositions and circumstances, not controlling and remoulding the populace. On this view, then, to be successful, the actions and policies of the state should be wholly responsive to and merge with people’s existing, self-­so dào. Precisely how that dào will proceed is something for the ruler and the community to discover and develop in practice. Zhuangist politics is not liberalism or anarchism but social, collective Daoism.

The State  97 Radical though they may seem, the Zhuangist views we have been examin­ ing can be framed as an extension of a developmental trend in late classical thought concerning the relation between the state and its people. A shared view we have extracted from texts in the Guǎnzı̌, Xúnzı̌, and Annals is that genuine, unforced popular support or identification with the state is crucial to sustaining the unity needed for a political society to thrive. The point is not that political authority is justified by popular support. To the extent that the texts’ descriptions of the origin of the state imply a rough theory about the justification of authority, it appears to be consequentialist: political authority is justified by its effectiveness in achieving social order and economic pros­ perity, and, for Xúnzı̌, in realizing a fully human form of life. The role of popu­lar support seems instead to be that a state can maintain stability and order only by earning the genuine support of its subjects, which requires addressing human moral and political psychology in all its complexity, not merely goading and coercing people with rewards and punishments. Even though the dominant tendency in political thought is authoritarian, the texts suggest that successful rule—­and perhaps, indirectly, legitimacy—­stems from earning the support of the people and responding to their concerns. In the Zhuāngzı̌, this point is extended into the stance that government should con­ form to what comes self-­so to people. Although the state does not formally answer to the people—­through democratic institutions, for example—­its actions are to be guided by them. Government is not of or by the people, but it does exist wholly for the people.

3 Ethics This chapter will compare and contrast rival accounts of proper norms of conduct and of the well-­lived life. In Chapter 1, we explored different views concerning dào—­what it is and what the grounds for it are. In this chapter, we ask, what is the content of dào, according to different texts? What is the right or apt way of life? How should we conduct ourselves? We will begin with two interrelated lines of ethical thought from the Xúnzı̌ and Guǎnzı̌ whose advocates saw them as seamlessly integrated with the mainstream political theories of Chapter 2. Both present the dào as primarily social. Their conceptions of the apt life for the individual derive from an account of the individual’s role in society. We will then look at two contrasting approaches—­the ‘nurturing life’ literature and the views of Sòng Xíng—­ that conceive of the ethical life first from the perspective of the individual. All of these conceptions of dào contrast with the next theory the chapter con­ siders, later Mohist consequentialism, the most systematic ethical theory in late classical texts. Finally, we will consider a series of views from the Zhuāngzı̌, some of which, as we will see, emerge from a critique of the shared premises of Ruist and Mohist ethical thought.

Xúnzı̌: Social Roles, Propriety, and Duty The ethics of the Xúnzı̌ anthology is inseparable from its political theory, as presented in Chapter  2. Political authority and ethical norms jointly stem from a hierarchical, role-­based social dào that the earliest sage-­kings imposed on society to exit the state of nature and attain social order and prosperity. The widespread practice of this dào is constitutive of a flourishing political society. The dào is justified because it brings about social order and facilitates a fully human form of life. Individual well-­being or the good life for the individual is achieved by fulfilling one’s role in this social dào. In this regard, Xúnzian ethics can be characterized as a ‘role ethics’, an ethical outlook on which the concrete norms we are to follow are tied to our social roles.

Late Classical Chinese Thought. Chris Fraser, Oxford University Press. © Chris Fraser 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198851066.003.0004

Ethics  99 For Xúnzı̌, the proper dào is the ‘system of propriety and duty’ instituted by the ‘former kings’—the earliest sages—­and refined by the ‘later kings’—the leaders of the Zhōu dynasty, who developed the specific norms Xúnzı̌ advocates. Following this dào is justified because it constitutes good social order, which is in turn pivotal to providing for people’s material welfare and satisfying their desires in a sustainable way. From what did propriety (lı̌) arise? I say: People by birth have desires. Desiring something without obtaining it, they cannot fail to seek it. Seeking things without measures or bounds, they cannot fail to come into conflict. Conflict leads to disorder and disorder to poverty. The former kings abhorred such disorder, so they instituted ceremonial propriety and duty to allot roles to people, in this way providing for people’s desires and supplying what they sought. They ensured that desires would not outrun goods and goods would not be insufficient for desires. The two sustain each other and develop together. This is how propriety arose.  (Xz 19/1)

Norms of ‘propriety and duty’ place ‘measures and bounds’ on people’s conduct that are indexed to their social roles. These constraints prevent conflict by apportioning shares of society’s resources to all, in line with their role. If everyone conforms to the norms of propriety and duty associated with their place in society, Xúnzı̌ holds, goods will be allocated so as to collectively satisfy people’s desires to a greater degree than otherwise. Collective conformity to the norms yields a sustainable balance between people’s pursuit of goods and the supply. The result is a well-­ordered, harmonious, prosperous society. ‘Propriety’ (lı̌) here refers to patterns of ritualized, ceremonially proper conduct for various social roles in different social situations, ranging from mundane, everyday contexts—­saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, greeting someone with a respectful bow or handshake—­to major events such as weddings, funerals, sacred rites, and state ceremonies. Discussions in the Xúnzı̌ give rela­tive­ly few concrete examples of norms of propriety, mostly concerning details of the conduct of sacrificial rites, weddings, and funerals. Other sources, such as the Analects and the Record of Ritual, help to clarify the extensive scope and elaborate detail of these norms. They cover not only the actions we perform but how we perform them, including our manner of speech, dress, facial expressions, gestures, posture, and gait. Some norms may be expressed as rules, such as ‘if you have a question, raise your hand’. Often, however, they will be more like dance choreography or the tacit, informal

100  Late Classical Chinese Thought norms that govern how persons of different statuses shake hands or how passengers in an elevator adjust where they stand as others enter or exit. ‘Duty’ (yì) refers to the requirements and responsibilities associated with one’s social role—­what is considered appropriate or right for agents occupying various roles in various circumstances. Duty overlaps with propriety insofar as it may also refer to norms of appropriateness or rightness associated with ceremonially proper activity. In classical Chinese thought generally, the word ‘duty’ (yì) also connotes what is right or moral. So propriety and duty overlap with the normative sphere that we would label ‘ethics’ or ‘morality’. But the scope of propriety and duty is broader than what we typically think of as ethics, covering as well such areas as etiquette, decorum, sacred rites, civil ceremonies, diplomatic protocol, and basic civility. As we saw in Chapter 2, the concept of dividing people into ‘parts’, ‘roles’, or ‘ranks’ (fèn) is tightly interwoven with Xúnzı̌’s conception of propriety and duty and their function in constituting social order. The norms of propriety and duty specify a system of parts or roles, like parts or roles in a play, and establish a division of labour in society, enabling us to cooperate and achieve results we could not achieve on our own. They institute a hierarchical social system, with different ranks and roles, ritualized norms of conduct for each rank or role, and duties corresponding to the roles. The sociopolitical ranks and roles include ruler and subject, various grades of government officials, teacher and student, farmer, artisan, and merchant. The familial roles include father and son, husband and wife, and elder and younger brother. The roles are generally hierarchical, one side of each relationship having higher status than the other. (The only relation between equals is ‘friend’; there is no prominent relation analogous to ‘fellow citizen’.) Social status, rewards and punishments, and shares of society’s material resources are all based on this system. The implicit model of organization is a collective endeavour such as the performance of an orchestra, a drama, or a team sport. Good order is achieved when everyone is assigned a part within a coherent, interlocking system of roles, their collective activity being coordinated through role-­based norms under the direction of a leader. Xúnzı̌’s conception of ‘good order’ (zhì) is thus not simply social cooperation and the absence of conflict or disruption. It involves a particular, thick conception of social organization and individuals’ roles and conduct within the organizational structure. As the passage above indicates, Xúnzı̌ holds that, without the guidance of propriety and duty, conflicts arise because people act on their desires to pursue the same goods ‘without measures or bounds’, thus exhausting the supply of goods and sparking disputes. If everyone conforms to propriety and duty,

Ethics  101 on the other hand, order is maintained, because the supply of goods is allocated according to roles and ranks, such that people learn to seek only their allotted portion. Those of high rank eat fine foods, have a large home, and ride in a fancy carriage, for instance. Those of low rank eat coarse foods, have small homes, and walk. A major function of propriety and duty, then, is to train people to control their conduct—­specifically, their ‘seeking’ of goods—­even when their desires cannot be fully satisfied. Regardless of what desires we do or do not have, we can learn to conform to the norms of propriety and duty and thus to live together harmoniously and productively. In this context, Xúnzı̌’s claim that the system of propriety and duty fulfils people’s desires is specifically social and collective. The point is not that following the norms of propriety and duty will satisfy each individual’s desires better than any alternative course of action that person might take. In exceptional cases, virtuous conduct may fail to yield personal security, and vicious, self-­interested conduct may go unpunished by bad outcomes (Xz 4/41). However, the dào lies in what is ‘regular’ or ‘reliable’ (cháng), not in the exceptions. Xúnzı̌’s stance is that, as a general rule, community-­wide adherence to propriety and duty will provide for most people’s desires more consistently and reliably than any alternative dào.

‘Alignment’, ‘Order’, and Perfectionism What explains this purportedly unique effectiveness in providing for people’s desires? As we saw in Chapter 1, Xúnzı̌ holds that the dào he advocates—­and thus the norms of propriety and duty—­is efficacious because it aligns with features of the natural world. The dào of the sages organizes and sustains society successfully because of how it ‘responds’ to the ‘regular’ processes of Heaven or nature: ‘Heaven proceeds in a regular way. . . . Respond to it in an orderly way, and good fortune ensues’ (Xz 17/1). Hence Xúnzı̌ claims that propriety and duty are a cultural construct—­the invention of the sage-­kings—­ while also claiming that the social distinctions they articulate are ‘of the same pattern as Heaven and earth and as lasting as a myriad generations’ (9/67). The hierarchical social structure they incorporate is a ‘sequence of nature’ akin to there being Heaven above and earth below (9/16). The natural world does not come prepackaged into normatively significant roles and relations. But the proper scheme of social roles and relations functions effectively because it ‘aligns into a triad’ with the natural world by engaging with natural phenomena in an especially appropriate way. ‘Heaven has its seasons, earth

102  Late Classical Chinese Thought has its resources, humanity has its good order—­this is what’s called “being able to align” ’ (17/7). For example, nature creates biological differences between the sexes but not gender norms. It creates the biological relation between parent and child but not norms for how we treat family members (5/27). The Xúnzian claim is that the gender norms and the norms governing family relations that the sage-­kings introduced somehow align with these biological distinctions in a uniquely fitting way. ‘Good social order’ is the human dimension in the three-­way relation by which we enjoy the benefits of the natural world—­Heaven and its seasons, earth and its resources. The concept of ‘alignment’ thus highlights the fundamental role of ‘good order’ (zhì) in Xúnzı̌. ‘Good order’ achieved through the dào of propriety and duty is the basis for fulfilling people’s material needs, as it eliminates the social unrest that produces poverty. The system of propriety and duty establishes social roles and relations that facilitate orderly co­oper­ ation and division of labour, enabling people to form communities that combine their strengths to achieve a prosperous, flourishing life. Accordingly, Xúnzı̌ contends that the norms of propriety and duty, along with the associated framework of social roles, are ‘the basis for providing for the world’ (9/18). A central function of propriety is to ‘provide for’ or ‘nurture’ (yǎng) people’s desires or wants (19/2). Xúnzı̌ understands the scope of such desires to include not only basic material needs but people’s broader needs for phys­ ic­al comfort, visual beauty, pleasurable music, tasty food, fragrant scents, personal security, and even emotional fulfilment. These needs can be interpreted as components of a plausible, if perhaps incomplete, conception of well-­being or welfare. In effect, then, the Xúnzian view that propriety and duty ‘provide for’ people’s desires amounts to a claim that the Xúnzian dào is a reliable path to attaining well-­being. This claim might seem to suggest that the Xúnzian dào is a form of welfare consequentialism. Is Xúnzı̌ indicating that the system of propriety and duty is the right dào because it constitutes a code of conduct that, if generally observed, would best promote human welfare? To some extent, Xúnzian ­ethics resembles a version of rule consequentialism on which propriety and duty determine what it is right to do, these norms being justified by their efficacy in ‘providing for’ or ‘nurturing’ people better than alternative guidelines. Attention to the texts’ phrasing suggests that this consequentialist formulation is not the best interpretation of Xúnzı̌’s position, however. Xúnzı̌’s account of the origin or grounds of propriety and duty does not claim that they are justified because of how effectively they fulfil people’s desires or promote well-­being. Rather, key passages state that the ‘former kings’ instituted

Ethics  103 propriety and duty to provide for people’s wants because they abhorred ‘disorder’ (luàn) (9/17, 19/2). The basic value in Xúnzı̌’s framework is thus ‘good order’ (zhì)—the polar opposite of ‘disorder’—which as we have seen in Chapters 1 and 2 refers to a substantively rich, perfectionist conception of the well-­organized, smoothly functioning society. Propriety and duty are justified because of their part in constituting social order. One of the ways they contribute to good order is by providing for people’s desires, supplying the goods they seek and so eliminating grounds for conflict. The Xúnzian conception of social order is thus tightly interwoven with ‘providing for’ people’s needs. Good order can obtain only if people’s needs are met, and accordingly a social framework that ensures basic welfare for all is a requirement for good order. One possible interpretation is that this stance treats material welfare and social order as a pair of equally basic goods. But the crucial passages seem to assign conceptual priority to social order. The most plausible interpretation thus seems to be that ‘order’ is the central value, and material welfare—­or ‘providing’ for people’s desires—­is either a constituent feature, a precondition, or a regular causal consequence of good order. In Chapter  2, I suggested that for Xúnzı̌ political authority is justified because it is a cornerstone in his perfectionist view of human flourishing. Here I suggest that we better understand Xúnzı̌’s ethics if we see it as another facet of the same deontological, perfectionist stance. Xúnzı̌ implicitly holds that social order—­construed according to the substantively rich conception he advocates—­is intrinsically ethically good or admirable. Propriety and duty are justified insofar as they embody and constitute this good, fulfilling a dis­ tinct­ively human form of life that, as we saw in Chapter 1, sets us apart from other creatures. For Xúnzı̌, this conception of social flourishing represents the epitome of the good human life. Indeed, the Xúnzian dào is admirable not simply prudentially and ethically but aesthetically. Training in propriety and duty ‘completes’ or ‘perfects’ us (Xz 1/46), making us ‘beautiful’, ‘pure’, and ‘elegant’. The gentleman—­the embodiment of propriety and duty—­finds a secure home in this refined, elegant way of life (4/40). The social dimension of this perfectionist vision is especially distinctive. For Xúnzı̌, human flourishing is a collective, cultural achievement. It is inherently social, attainable only through the unified efforts of a community, under a hierarchical leadership, whose members are devoted to performing their interdependent roles according to norms of propriety and duty. It is also inherently cultural, in that Xúnzı̌ insists it is neither found in nature nor a product or realization of people’s inherent nature or spontaneous tendencies. These social, cultural dimensions of the Xúnzian dào mean that the good life

104  Late Classical Chinese Thought for the individual can be achieved only through our relation to society, by performing our roles in relation to others according to propriety and duty. Nothing we inherently possess as individuals is sufficient for us to attain individual flourishing. Even if we consider a narrow version of the good life on which we are concerned only with material survival and security, Xúnzı̌ thinks, ‘to provide for life and enjoy security, nothing is greater than propriety and duty’ (16/47). Individuals thus have two sorts of reasons to conform to the Xúnzian dào. One is the prudential reason that, because of the benefits a flourishing society brings, we are likely to be materially better off if we conform (19/9). But more important, through education or experience, we may come to appreciate and endorse the intrinsic goodness of social order and the dào that embodies and secures it (21/32).

Critical Evaluation On an abstract, general level, Xúnzı̌’s ethics is persuasive. Human societies inevitably invent cultural and ethical norms by which to organize and manage their affairs and interactions. Any sustainable norms must provide for ma­ter­ ial needs, solve cooperation and coordination problems, enable a division of labour, and achieve some measure of social unity. Xúnzı̌ plausibly claims that among human dào, none lack normatively significant distinctions, such as the social roles articulated through ceremonial propriety (Xz 5/28). For these distinctions and roles to function, as he also plausibly claims, they must ‘align’ with natural conditions in some general way—­farmers must sow and harvest crops at the right times of year, clothing and shelter must suit the climate, families must care for children, and so on. When we consider Xúnzı̌’s specific normative commitments, however, the arguments he gives for his ethics falter. Of the various human dào, with their norm-­laden distinctions and roles, he asserts, ‘none are greater than’ the norms of propriety established by the sage-­kings, specifically those handed down through the ‘later kings’ of the house of Zhōu (5/30). Xúnzı̌ thus contends that the key to human flourishing is an elaborate, baroque system of ritualized norms of propriety covering not simply respectful or considerate treatment of others but details such as how we stand, walk, speak, dress, and adorn ourselves; how we use dining utensils, enjoy music, define and segregate gender roles, organize hierarchical bureaucratic ranks; and far, far more. The contention that this highly specific cultural dào constitutes a privileged, distinctively effective form of social order and means of providing for people’s

Ethics  105 wants is implausible. Yet Xúnzı̌ just bluntly asserts it, even though he is clearly aware of the existence of other stable, successful cultures. He never attempts to show that the specific norms of propriety and duty he advocates yield a form of social order superior to alternative ethical norms. To anyone not already indoctrinated into his ethical outlook, the claim that good order requires precisely the regimen of propriety and duty that he advocates will seem risible. No argument he offers supports his deep attachment to the Zhōu tradition of propriety and duty, for surely parallel justifications could support any number of alternative systems of social organization. One reason Xúnzı̌’s arguments are weak is that he systematically conflates the general, abstract concepts of propriety and duty with the specific, substantive norms he endorses. His discussions establish at best that communities need some system of propriety and duty to flourish. They do not justify any one such system in particular. Alternatively, we could say that Xúnzı̌ runs together a general concept of social order with his own substantively rich conception of a beautiful, well-­functioning society. A particular society might sustain what its members consider an orderly, flourishing form of community life despite diverging from Xúnzı̌’s specific conception of good order. Ultimately, I suspect, Xúnzı̌’s commitment to his ethical vision is not driven by argument as much as by personal identification with what he perceives to be a beautiful, orderly social and cultural tradition. To him, the Zhōu trad­ ition of propriety and duty constitute the most perfect embodiment of social order—­an order that, through its ‘alignment’ with nature, embeds natural events and human affairs in an authoritative normative structure, infusing individual and community life with a sense of security and meaning. Discussions of ethics in the Xúnzı̌ are intended to win audiences over not by argument but by the attractive qualities of the dào they advocate as an ethical and cultural ideal. Xúnzı̌ expects that, having learned about the dào of propriety and duty, if we are exposed to the right teachers and friends, we too will come to identify with it.

Role Ethics in the Guǎnzı ̌ Xúnzı̌’s ethics emphasizes norms of conduct associated with various social roles. Another version of a ‘role ethics’ is spelled out in ‘Five Aids’, a Guǎnzı̌ text we discussed briefly in Chapter 2, which sketches a fine-­grained substantive ethics as one component of its approach to politics. ‘Five Aids’ contends that effective rule depends on earning the people’s support by benefiting them

106  Late Classical Chinese Thought through education (Gz 26/28; 10.2). In what may originally have been a sep­ ar­ate text, it then gives a comprehensive overview of five areas of political policy and ethical norms the text advises should be promulgated to maintain a flourishing political society. Two of these, the treatments of duty or rightness (yì) and propriety (lı̌), are especially relevant here. The text approaches these from the perspective of public policy, not personal ethics, and so, unlike Xúnzı̌, it does not consider individuals’ reasons for conducting themselves according to ethical norms. The general shape of this approach to ethics resembles Xúnzı̌’s, although the text does not offer an ambitious justification for its ethics, as Xúnzı̌ does. In several respects the discussion goes beyond Xúnzı̌ in detail, thus giving us a closer glimpse at a practical, working conception of ethical life. According to ‘Five Aids’, ‘duty’ (yì), or norms of what is considered right or proper, takes seven forms (Gz 27/7; 10.4). In everyday conduct, it is manifested in four forms: caring for family members with filial devotion, brotherly love, and parental kindness; serving one’s ruler with respect and loyalty; being upright and appropriate in practising ceremonial propriety; and being proper and compliant so as to avoid judicial punishment. It also requires three forms of contribution to social preparedness: practising economy and thrift to prepare against famine; being steadfast and resolute to prepare against disasters; and being harmonious and cooperative to prepare against bandit attacks. If people observe these duties, the text claims, they will be honest, upright, and harmonious, thus enabling the community to maintain security and build military power. The seven cover people’s basic social roles as members of a family, of a political hierarchy, and of a community, including their role in protecting against failed harvests, natural disasters, and armed attackers. (The family roles considered are specifically those of sons, elder and younger brothers, and fathers. The roles of daughters, sisters, and mothers are systematically neglected across most classical Chinese texts.) This list of duties is supplemented by eight ‘threads’ of propriety, which refer to four pairs of hierarchical social statuses, each of which invokes relational norms of conduct—­norms governing how we interact with others to whom we stand in certain paradigmatic relations, such as the father–­son relation. Most of the relations are hierarchical, one side having higher status, one lower. Superiors and subordinates each have their respective duties; those of noble and common status each have their respective allotments; elder and younger have various ranks; and poor and rich have various levels (Gz 27/22; 10.5). If those in each of these eight relational roles conduct themselves appropriately, the ruler will be upright and impartial; ministers will be loyal

Ethics  107 and nonpartisan; fathers will be kind in instructing their children; sons will filially devoted to their parents; elder brothers will be generous in guiding younger siblings; younger brothers will be obedient in respecting elder br­others; husbands will be steadfast and reliable; and wives will be chaste and supportive. More generally, if people understand propriety, they will be respectful and deferential to each other; young and old, noble and lowly will conscientiously perform their social roles, not encroaching on each other’s proper place; and society will be free of trouble and disorder. Conversely, if people fail to observe propriety, ‘superiors and subordinates are disrupted, noble and common fall into contention, old and young turn against each other, and poor and rich exploit each other. [In such circumstances,] for a state to escape disorder is unheard of. Thus the sage-­kings elaborated these eight forms of propriety to guide their people’ (27/25; 10.5). Considered in light of contemporary normative theory, the approach to ethics reflected in these paragraphs has several intriguing characteristics. No attempt is made to systematize all the norms and virtues by reducing them to or deriving them from a single unifying principle or good, nor even a core set of principles or goods. Instead, the text presents a complex, untidy range of interlocking, overlapping virtues and guidelines. Duty (yì) and propriety (lı̌) are not fully distinct, as the sketch of forms of duty implicates propriety, while fulfilling the various norms of propriety would probably cover many of the requirements of duty. Only some of the virtues and norms apply universally, in the sense of being pertinent to each person’s personal conduct or their treatment of all other persons. Among the universally applicable forms of duty are complying with criminal laws and doing one’s part to support community preparedness against various difficulties. But the family and political forms of duty and all eight of the ‘threads’ of propriety are tied to relational social roles organized into hierarchical pairs. They refer not to traits or conduct of individual persons considered in themselves but to attitudes towards and treatment of other persons with whom one shares a certain relationship. For example, filial devotion (xiào) pertains to attitudes and conduct spe­cif­ic­al­ly towards one’s parents. Interactions with others are thus to a large extent guided by role relations, rather than by universal norms of how to treat other persons. A further point is that the treatment of these relational virtues and norms does not specify much in the way of concrete sorts of actions to perform, rules to follow, or goods to promote. Instead, it presents what amounts to a loose conception of respect, concerned devotion, and deference appropriate to the relation in question. This role-­ based considerateness of others is expected to prompt contextually appropriate concrete actions.

108  Late Classical Chinese Thought We can tie these observations together by suggesting that in place of an ethics founded in one or a short list of general principles, basic goods, or personal virtues, the text presents a conception of a harmonious, stable society constituted by persons who interact with each other mainly according to norms associated with various relational roles. The smooth functioning of this system of relations constitutes social flourishing or ‘good order’ (zhì). Breakdowns in these relations lead to ‘disorder’ (luàn). Since it presents no systematic justification or unified account of basic principles or goods, the sketch of ethics in this text might seem a naive summary of prevailing mores. But the text’s categorization of duties and aspects of propriety is hardly naive or simplistic. It appears as part of a meticulous taxonomy of 29 areas of government administration and social interaction. It seems a careful attempt to describe the actual structure of ethics as understood in the social setting in which the text was produced, depicting the norms governing the various roles people play in a framework of social relations that define collective, social flourishing. The moral agent is not approached as a discrete individual who independently guides action by abstract, general norms or principles or by a conception of individual flourishing. Rather, agents are members of an organic whole, who find themselves in various assigned roles and for whom the good life is attained by performing one’s role virtuously, thus contributing to the flourishing of the whole. As in the Xúnzı̌, we can think of this as an ‘orchestra’ or a ‘team sport’ approach to ethics, on which what to do is determined by one’s role or position and the individual good life derives from the flourishing of the community as a whole. What might be the underlying justification or explanation for this approach to ethics? The text claims that failure to observe the threads of propriety leads the various social relations to break down, such that society falls into dis­order. As when interpreting Xúnzian ethics, there may a temptation to construe the text as presenting a form of consequentialism according to which norms of conduct are considered justified because of the contribution they make to collective well-­being, here represented by ‘good order’. Again, however, as with Xúnzı̌, a consequentialist interpretation probably distorts the text’s stance. More likely, the various duties and proprieties are regarded as jointly constituting an orderly, flourishing social life, which is considered intrinsically eth­ ic­ally good. ‘Order’ is not a basic good to be maximized so much as a label for a morally admirable state of affairs in which, among other conditions, the norms of duty and propriety are widely, consistently observed. The resulting stance is better described as a deontological, perfectionist outlook than as a form of consequentialism.

Ethics  109 Still, what explains why just these roles, relations, norms, and virtues form the right framework for social flourishing? Why adopt just this set of relations rather than something else? For instance, why adopt mainly hierarchical relations rather than relations between equals? Why insist on gradations of rank and wealth as a fundamental structural feature of a thriving society, since these might be unfair and exploitative? Perhaps a society structured according to different roles, relations, and norms of interaction could be equally or more successful. If such critical questions were to prompt a dogmatic response from the theorists behind ‘Five Aids’, their position would be easy to dismiss. But if they were to adopt a pragmatic stance and allow piecemeal revisions to the proposed framework of duties and proprieties—­perhaps based on open community discussion—­then their position might well be defensible.

Nurturing Life The views we have looked at so far depict the individual good life as a part of a broader conception of social flourishing and derive guidelines and norms for personal conduct from a framework of social roles and relations. A sharply different view is presented the first several essays in Lǚ’s Annals. Here the flourishing life is grounded in considerations of individual fulfilment and well-­being, which are understood through the individual’s relation to Heaven or Nature (tiān) and psycho-­physiological health. The text’s stance is that practical, social, or political matters are secondary, in that only when the basics of our own life are well nurtured can we succeed in other matters. ‘The work of emperor-­kings is the secondary affair of the sage, not the dào by which one completes oneself or nurtures life’ (Lscq 2.2; 7.5). The point is not that practical affairs such as governing the realm are insignificant: ‘the realm is a weighty thing’. It is that the crux of dào lies in living well, and only the person who adheres to dào, not allowing worldly affairs to disrupt life, is qualified to manage the realm. The stance presented in these essays likely issues from a conception of dào that grounds it in Heaven or Nature, a view we considered in Chapter  1. People are natural creatures. A fundamental aspect of the dào by which to live a flourishing life lies in attaining good fit or equilibrium with natural conditions, in particular with our own nature (xìng)—our spontaneous, inherent dispositions and functioning, specifically as these pertain to health. To live well, we must fulfil our own natural endowment, starting by nurturing our physical health. The first substantive essay in Lǚ’s Annals, ‘Taking Life as

110  Late Classical Chinese Thought Fundamental’, proposes that the role of humanity, as embodied in its leader, the Son of Heaven, is to nurture and complete what Heaven engenders. What originally gives life to things is Heaven; what nurtures and completes them is humanity. He who is able to nurture what Heaven has given life to, without interference, is called the Son of Heaven. The Son of Heaven acts for the purpose of fulfilling Heaven. This is the basis for establishing government officials; officials are established in order to fulfil life.  (Lscq 1.2; 2.1)

The underlying ethical end of the supreme sovereign, or ‘Son of Heaven’, is to nurture the lives that Heaven has produced—­all of them, not only his own—­ and bring them to fulfilment. Indeed, government exists for the purpose of ‘fulfilling’ or ‘completing’ life—­that is, the life of everyone living under it. Presumably, by ‘fulfilling’ or ‘completing’ life, humanity is brought into its proper relation to Heaven, which bestows life on us. The discussion here is directed at the ruler, but as other essays make clear, the imperative to ‘fulfil life’ applies to everyone. Our life is the most valuable thing we have (Lscq 1.3; 3.1). The word interpreted here as ‘life’, shēng, has a wide semantic range, covering life, birth, growth, health, and psycho-­physiological functioning. The most basic step in ‘fulfilling life’ is to maintain robust health, nurturing and preserving our inherent nature (xìng). People’s nature is to live long. Things disrupt it, and so they do not succeed in living long. Things are a means of nurturing our nature; they are not something we use our nature to nurture. . . . Thus in regard to sounds, sights, and flavours, if they are beneficial to our nature, the sage selects them; if they are harmful to our nature, the sage rejects them. This is the dào of fulfilling our nature (quán xìng). (Lscq 1.2; 2.2)

‘In managing the myriad things, the sage aims to fulfil his Heavenly endowment’ (Lscq 1.2; 2.4). When the Heavenly endowment is complete, one’s senses are more acute, one’s spirit is peaceful, and one’s body is agile. Such a person—­whether the sovereign or a commoner—­is ‘complete in Virtue (dé)’. The text specifically warns against ‘troubles of high rank and affluence’, such as lack of physical activity, overindulgence in unhealthy food and wine, and infatuation with women and music, all of which are potentially harmful to ‘life’ or health. Indeed, another essay ties ‘nurturing life’ directly to early

Ethics  111 medical theories, associating it with habits of psycho-­physiological hygiene that prevent disease (3.2; 12.1). To nurture life or health, we must conform to its inherent direction or flow. What interferes with following along with the flow of life is sensual desires or wants. ‘So the sage surely first moderates desires, making them fitting’ (Lscq 1.3; 3.2). He nurtures his nature by moderating the richness of his garden and home, vehicles and dress, diet and drink, and entertainment. A separate essay, ‘Valuing Life’, advocates tempering sensual desires, acting only on those that are beneficial to life (2.2; 7.7). The sense organs are servants of life, not its masters. Indeed, ‘fulfilling life’ just is ‘appropriately’ fulfilling the various desires. What counts as ‘appropriate’ is clarified in the succeeding essay, ‘Characteristic Desires’, which explains that only some desires are ‘inherently characteristic’ (qíng) of a healthy, flourishing life. Heaven gives birth to people and makes them have cravings and desires. Among desires, some are inherent characteristics [of human life]; the inherently characteristic ones are moderate. The sage cultivates moderation so as to control desires, and so he does not go beyond carrying out his inherent characteristics (qíng). . . . If you act from valuing life, you fulfil your inherent characteristics; if you do not act from valuing life, you lose your inherent characteristics. (Lscq 2.3; 8.1)

The text articulates its normative stance through the concept of qíng, ‘inherent’ or ‘actual’ characteristics or features, which are sometimes understood as the active or manifest aspects of our inherent nature, or xìng. An implied premise is that the ‘inherent characteristics’ are part of our basic constitution or makeup, such that to live a healthy, satisfactory life, we must fulfil or preserve these features. To neglect or damage them is to live an unhealthy, unsatisfactory life. The mediocre ruler damages what is inherently characteristic of his life and health, the essay claims. His sensual desires are insatiable, causing his health and strength to break down (Lscq 2.3; 8.2). Those who neglect their nature, instead sacrificing their health in pursuit of ‘things’, will find their ‘every action fails’ (1.2; 2.2). One way to construe these texts is as advocating a form of ethical egoism, a view which holds that the right course is to pursue what promotes our self-­ interest. As we saw, however, those in positions of political power are to nurture not only their own health but everyone’s. So a more justified in­ter­pret­ation is that the texts see the human dào as devoted to fulfilling what Heaven has

112  Late Classical Chinese Thought endowed, and accordingly they advocate valuing and nurturing our health and inherent nature (xìng). In the text, the advice to ‘take life as fundamental’ (Lscq 1.2; 2) and ‘value oneself ’ (1.3; 3) is coupled with a pair of essays urging those holding political power to ‘value impartiality’ (1.4; 4) and ‘eliminate personal bias’ (1.5; 5)—motifs familiar from the discussion of political thought in Chapter  2. Only when the ruler ‘puts impartiality first’ can the world be at peace; it is through impartiality that the ruler is ‘established’, presumably implying that his rule is justified. For ‘the realm is not one person’s realm, it is all the world’s realm’ (1.4; 4.2). One passage hints that the ruler in his Virtue should impartially benefit all, just as ‘heaven impartially covers all; earth impartially bears up all; the sun and moon impartially cast light on all; and the four seasons proceed impartially for all. They proceed with their Virtue, and the myriad things obtain from them what they need to thrive’ (1.5; 5.1). As in ‘Relying on the Prince’ (20.1; 117), an essay discussed in Chapter 2, the ruler is ‘to benefit [the people], not to seek benefit [for himself]’ (1.4; 4.1). These essays specifically address the ruler, not the typical individual. But the juxtaposition of these discussions of impartiality alongside the ‘nurturing life’ texts suggests that the point of ‘nurturing life’ is that we should fulfil or develop what Heaven has created and not simply favour our own interests. In still another essay, even education is considered a matter of ‘attaining our Heavenly nature’ and ‘fulfilling what Heaven has engendered’ (4.3; 18.2).

Fulfilling Our Nature The ‘nurturing life’ or ‘nurturing nature’ stance in the Annals overlaps two other notable doctrinal orientations. One is a set of views the Hàn dynasty compendium Huáinánzı̌ attributes to a figure named Yáng Zhū, about whom little is known. No texts are attributed to Yáng, but Mencius attests that at some point in the late fourth or early third century, Yáng’s teachings, along with those of Mòzı̌, were prominent and influential (Me 3B:9; 3/II.14). Several texts in Zhuāngzı̌ attack ‘Yáng and Mò’, implying that Yáng remained a figurehead for a prominent doctrinal stance throughout the late classical period. According to Huáinánzı̌ (chapter 13), Yáng advocated ‘fulfilling one’s nature and preserving the genuine, while not burdening oneself with things’. As we have just seen, ‘fulfilling nature’ (quán xìng) is expounded in Annals 1.2. The Annals says nothing about ‘preserving the genuine’, but this theme probably coincides at least partly with that of fulfilling one’s inherent character or actual, characteristic features (qíng). The Annals does not mention ‘burdening

Ethics  113 oneself with things’, but it does warn against harming our nature to pursue ‘things’, rather than using them to nurture ourselves. Whether Huáinánzı̌ accurately reports Yáng’s teachings is uncertain, however, as its account diverges from that of earlier sources, mainly Mencius and Zhuāngzı̌. In Mencius, Yáng’s ethical stance is the converse of Mohism. Whereas Mòzı̌ inclusively cares for all, such that he would wear off every hair on his body working for the benefit of the world, Yáng advocates living ‘for oneself ’ (wèi wǒ), such that he would refuse to pluck even a single hair for the benefit of the world (Me 7A:26; 7/I.26). This description frames Yáng’s views as a brand of ethical egoism: we are to act purely for our own benefit. This stance diverges from that reported in Huáinánzı̌ and from the ‘nurturing life’ doctrine of the Annals, neither of which entail that one should act only for oneself. Nor does either text use the phrase ‘for oneself ’. Given the limited evidence available, it is unclear whether the Huáinánzı̌ faithfully reports Yáng’s views and Mencius distorts them for its own purposes, Mencius reports them accurately and the Huáinánzı̌ version recasts them, or both accounts simply employ Yáng as a figurehead for a view they wish to identify, regardless of whether it is actually his. When we consider the second doctrinal orientation that overlaps the ‘nurt­ ur­ing life’ writings in the Annals, the mystery about Yáng’s views deepens. A pair of Zhuāngzı̌ passages attack ‘Yáng and Mò’ from a standpoint that resembles the very views Huáinánzı̌ attributes to Yáng himself. In these texts, Yáng epitomizes a misguided way of life that disrupts our nature rather than fulfilling it. In one passage, Yáng and Mò are attacked for rigid regimentation or standardization that disrupts people’s natural functioning, harming life and causing people lose their inherent nature. Articulating exactly five colours or tones, for example, is said to reduce the acuteness of people’s sight and hearing, presumably because they lose their original ability to appreciate the full, complex range of shades and sounds (Zz 12/98). In another passage, Yáng and Mò are associated with conventional moral norms such as benevolence and duty and ranked among a series of moral and technical exemplars whose teachings and standards (fǎ) disrupt people’s inherent plainness and sim­pli­ city, thus generating contention, obstructing people’s inherent virtue, and dis­ ordering the world (10/26). Neither passage associates Yáng with the views attributed to him in Mencius or Huáinánzı̌, and both adopt a position that agrees at least partly with ‘fulfilling nature and preserving the genuine’. Possibly here ‘Yáng and Mò’ are no longer associated with specific ethical theses at all but are simply figureheads for contrived, laboured teachings that purportedly disturb people’s inherent nature.

114  Late Classical Chinese Thought These Zhuāngzı̌ passages are among several whose themes partly overlap with the Annals’ doctrine of ‘nurturing life’ or ‘nurturing nature’, although the different texts associate these general themes with distinct substantive claims. In the Annals, the import of ‘nurturing life’ seems to be primarily that we should maintain good health above all else, in order to fulfil our natural endowment. Unlike the Annals, the Zhuāngzı̌ texts link the theme of fulfilling or completing life or nature to a regressive view of history, on which the gradual elaboration of knowledge, culture, and moral norms has led humanity away from our inherent nature and original simplicity and virtue. To fulfil our nature, we must set aside prevailing mores, customs, and ethical values. ‘Horses’ Hooves’, the ‘primitivist’ political text discussed in Chapter 2, advocates fulfilling people’s inherent nature by preserving their original, untutored simplicity (Zz 9/11). ‘Webbed Toes’ rails against ‘mutilating life and injuring our nature’, whether by misleading ourselves with ethical teachings such as benevolence and duty or by pursuing goods and wealth. Instead, we should seek ‘self-­fulfilment’ by conforming to ‘the inherent character of nature and fate’ (8/24–32). The story of Gēng Sāng Chǔ assumes we should aim to ‘fulfil our body and life’ (23/11). We are to follow ‘the method of preserving life’, by which to ‘make the body whole and hold fast to health’. This method involves setting aside profit-­seeking, schemes, and worldly affairs and pursuing meditative concentration, by which ‘the body becomes like a withered tree and the mind like dead ashes’ (23/34). A text called ‘Cultivating Nature’ advocates a ‘dào of preserving oneself ’. We are to ‘return to inherent nature’ and ‘straighten out the self ’ through tranquillity. The aim is neither ‘to lose oneself in pursuit of things nor to lose one’s nature in prevailing customs’ but instead find ‘complete joy’ and ‘freedom from anxiety’ in our ‘inherent nature and fate’ (16/15). Despite being embedded in a range of distinct theoretical perspectives, then, the general end of nurturing or preserving one’s intrinsic health or inherent nature seems to have been a widely endorsed ethical ideal. To be sure, there are obvious flaws in this ideal, at least the versions articulated in some of these texts. Its focus is extremely narrow. It might seem one could ‘nurture life’ or ‘fulfil nature’ while treating others quite badly, for ex­ample. A possible response, plausible for at least some of the texts, is that ‘nurt­ur­ing life’ or ‘fulfilling nature’ is not intended to be a comprehensive account of dào but only a cornerstone of it. Moreover, ultimately the aim is to allow everyone to each nurture their life. A further response might be to argue that the moderate, balanced path of conduct that ‘nurtures life’ or ‘fulfils nature’ is inherently harmless to or even mutually nurturing of others. For

Ethics  115 example, practitioners of such a dào might be unlikely to monopolize resources at others’ expense. A more pressing problem for some of the texts is how to justify their particular account of what qualifies as ‘nurturing life’ or ‘inherent nature’. The Annals version of ‘nurturing life’ faces little difficulty, as it focuses specifically on phys­ ic­al health and longevity, which are likely to be widely accepted as features of a flourishing ‘life’ (shēng). But the primitivist writings face the formidable challenge of justifying the claim that our inherent nature (xìng) can be fulfilled only through a plain, simple lifestyle, as the texts contend that many common cultural practices run contrary to our nature. As we will see below, claims about just what counts as our ‘nature’ (xìng) can be deeply controversial.

Sòng Xíng and ‘Characteristic Desires’ One of the Annals essays that concerns ‘nurturing life’ ethics contends that among our various cravings and desires, only some qualify as qíng—­inherent, characteristic features of human life—­and these ‘characteristic’ desires are moderate. A similar view, that the characteristic desires are not merely moderate but ‘few and shallow’ was a trademark thesis of a thinker named Sòng Xíng and his colleague Yı̌n Wén. No text presenting their ideas survives, but fragments of their views are quoted in three texts: ‘All the World’, a retro­spect­ ive, Hàn-­era discussion of earlier thought preserved as the last book of Zhuāngzı̌; one section of the Annals; and the Xúnzı̌, which is concerned to rebut them. The attention that Xúnzı̌ devotes to Sòng Xíng implies that Sòng was a significant voice in late classical ethical discourse. If the Zhuāngzı̌ account is accurate, Sòng and Yı̌n’s ethics involved a conception of the individual good life grounded in adjusting one’s attitudes about needs and values (Zz 33/35ff.). As in the ‘nurturing life’ approach, the ethical life here begins with a focus on individual well-­being, which is then the basis for ethically appropriate interaction with others—­and, for Sòng and Yı̌n, a life of public advocacy. ‘In dealing with things, their starting point was to remove biases.’ They advocated a mental discipline of tolerance, by which one sought to remove prejudices, blindspots, and narrow-­mindedness. Perhaps as a result of this unbiased outlook, they renounced prevailing conceptions of people’s wants and needs while tolerating others’ differing views. The text describes them as ‘not bound by custom, nor adorning themselves with things; not careless towards people, nor defying the crowd’. A remark about Sòng

116  Late Classical Chinese Thought elsewhere in Zhuāngzı̌ describes him as unmoved by praise or blame from ‘all the world’ and ‘settled with respect to what is of crucial versus peripheral importance’ (Zz 1/18). At the same time, however, an anecdote about Yı̌n in the Annals depicts him endorsing the mainstream ethical virtues of filial devotion towards parents, loyalty to one’s sovereign, trustworthiness towards friends, and brotherliness towards the community (Lscq 16.8; 92.3). Presumably, Sòng and Yı̌n’s tolerant attitudes were not a matter of abandoning conventional ethical values but of opening one’s mind to practising them without prejudice. A major tenet of Sòng and Yı̌n’s ethics was to identify the ‘characteristic desires’ (qíng yù), or basic, untutored needs that, by our inherent dispositions, we cannot live without. They claimed that people’s ‘characteristic desires’ were ‘few and shallow’, satisfied simply by a few pints of rice. Hence the gentleman ‘does not put himself in hock for things’, or sell himself out for anything, as nothing he needs is gained by doing so. Nor does he engage in pointless inquiries. ‘If it was of no advantage to the world, setting it aside was better than clarifying it.’ Apparently, Sòng and Yı̌n reasoned that if people could be tolerant and recognize that their actual needs are few and shallow, all the world could find harmony and live together happily. They focused on two problems in particular: fighting between individuals—­in effect, duelling—­ and wars of aggression. Sources such as Lǚ’s Annals suggest that a widely accepted custom at the time was for gentlemen to respond to insults by defending their honour in a fight or duel (Lscq 16.8; 92.3). Sòng and Yı̌n sought to eliminate this motive for violence by teaching that ‘being insulted is not disgraceful’. Honour or disgrace rest in a person’s conduct, not in whether he is prepared to defend his good name with violence. Following in the footsteps of the Mohists, they campaigned against military aggression, promoting a doctrine of ‘prohibiting aggression and putting arms to rest’. Presumably, a ruler who followed their ethical teachings would see no reason to seek to expand his territory through military conquest. Sòng and Yı̌n hoped for ‘peace and security for all so that people could live out their lives’, seeking ‘complete material sufficiency for oneself and others’ (Zz 33/34). They themselves took this set of doctrines as a basis for a life of public advocacy, ‘travelling throughout the world advising those above and teaching those below’ (33/37). Xúnzı̌ treats Sòng’s views as prominent rival doctrines that call for rebuttal. He offers two arguments against Sòng’s claim that ‘understanding that to be insulted is not disgraceful will make people not fight’ (Xz 18/93). First, Xúnzı̌

Ethics  117 claims, insults prompt fights because people dislike them, not because they find them disgraceful. As long as people dislike insults, convincing them that being insulted is not disgraceful will not prevent fighting. Entertainers and jesters insult each other without coming to blows because they do not resent the insults, not because being insulted is not disgraceful. Xúnzı̌ does not consider the likely rejoinder that people dislike being insulted precisely because they find it disgraceful or humiliating. Xúnzı̌ also attacks Sòng’s doctrine for failing to follow the model of the sage-­kings in using the words ‘honour’ and ‘disgrace’ (Xz 18/102). The sage-­ kings, the text claims, distinguished between moral honour and disgrace, which are qualities of one’s conduct, and social honour and disgrace, which are a matter of external, social circumstances. A gentleman can accept social disgrace but never moral disgrace. In his eagerness to dismiss Sòng, Xúnzı̌ overlooks the respects in which his own stance could be construed as complementing Sòng’s. A defender of Sòng could rejoin that Xúnzı̌ in effect agrees that being insulted is not morally disgraceful while contending that only moral disgrace, not social disgrace, should be our concern. Xúnzı̌’s discussion seems more a refinement or development of Sòng’s view than a rebuttal. Xúnzı̌ also attacks Sòng’s claim that the ‘characteristic’ desires are few. His rebuttal seems to turn on an ambiguity in the word ‘qíng’—interpreted above as ‘characteristic’—by which Xúnzı̌ rephrases Sòng’s doctrine in a way that makes it trivially false. The semantics of ‘qíng’ are complex. In some contexts, it refers to the facts, or how things actually are. In others, it is closely related to the concept of ‘nature’ (xìng) and may refer to states or features that are typical or characteristic of something. In such contexts, it may be in­ter­pret­ able as, roughly, ‘characteristic features’ or ‘inherent disposition’. By extension, ‘qíng’ is also sometimes used in a normative sense to distinguish states or features that are ‘characteristic’ or ‘genuine’ in something from those that are not. An Annals passage discussed above used it this sense to distinguish what it considered ‘characteristic’, moderate desires from the rest. As reported in the Zhuāngzı̌, Sòng and Yı̌n’s thesis is that the ‘characteristic (qíng) desires are few and shallow’ (Zz 33/41). Their claim implies a normative distinction between desires or wants that are inherent to a fulfilling human life and those that are not. Xúnzı̌’s rebuttal restates the thesis as the descriptive claim that ‘people’s characteristics’ or ‘people’s dispositions’ are that ‘their desires are few’ (Xz 18/114). The text argues that this descriptive claim is obviously false: people typically want as much sensual fulfilment—­ beautiful sights, mellifluous sounds, delicious flavours, fragrant scents,

118  Late Classical Chinese Thought phys­ic­al ease—­as they can get. But no doubt Sòng and Yı̌n would have agreed that people typically have many sensual desires. Their rhetorical stance hardly makes sense otherwise. Their contention is that the bulk of these desires may not be normatively ‘characteristic’ or ‘genuine’ parts of a fulfilling life. This claim faces serious problems, to be sure, since Sòng and Yı̌n owe us a con­vin­ cing theory by which to justify the status of only a few, shallow desires as ‘characteristic’ of the good life. But the way to rebut it is by giving a substantive argument against their conception of the fulfilling life, not simply by pointing out that people who do not share their ethical views in fact tend to have many desires. For example, Xúnzı̌ could give reasons to hold that the elaborate life of the Ruist gentleman is superior to the life Sòng and Yı̌n propose and then show that the life of the gentleman entails a wide range of deep desires. In a separate passage that does not mention Sòng, Xúnzı̌ provides the resources for a more convincing rebuttal. The argument draws on the Xúnzian theory that it is the heart—­the ruling organ, the organ of thought—­that controls action, not desires. (See Chapter 5 for details.) Xúnzı̌ points out that we often feel desires yet refrain from acting on them; conversely, we often do things without having a desire to. An extreme example is that people desire life and dislike death more than anything, yet they sometimes deliberately sacrifice their lives for a cause they value. How we act depends primarily on what the heart endorses, not what we desire. ‘If what the heart endorses conforms to proper pattern (lı̌), then even if desires are many, how does this interfere with good order? . . . If what the heart endorses strays from proper pattern, then even if desires are few, how does this prevent disorder?’ (Xz 22/60). If Xúnzı̌ is right, then whether we have many desires or few is irrelevant to orderly or disorderly conduct. The decisive factor is whether the heart endorses appropriate values and norms.

Later Mohist Consequentialism Early Mohist consequentialism was the most systematic, well-­developed eth­ ic­al theory in the first half of the classical period. Deeply influential, the Mohist theory seems to have made consequentialism a widely shared stance. The rough idea that what is right is what benefits ‘all the realm’ can be found across a range of texts, including Xúnzı̌, Guǎnzı̌, Lǚ’s Annals, and the Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts. A passage in ‘Ten Canons’, for instance, remarks

Ethics  119 that ‘in undertaking affairs, the sage conforms to nature, complies with the people, is favourable towards the ghosts and spirits, and causes the people to jointly benefit, the masses depending on him; this is what’s called ‘morally right’ (yì, duty)’ (Mwd 142). Throughout the late classical period, different branches of Mohists con­ tinued to advocate and refine Mohist ethics. In early Mohism, what is morally right (yì) is determined by what promotes ‘the benefit of all the realm’. ‘Benefit’ is explained by an account that resembles an objective list theory of social well-­being. To benefit is to increase one or more of three goods: the material wealth, population, and degree of ‘good order’ (zhì) in society. ‘Order’ is a complex good, referring to circumstances in which everyone conforms to unified moral norms; peace, security, and social harmony prevail; people habitually engage in reciprocal assistance and charity; and members of society exemplify relational virtues constitutive of flourishing role-­based social relations. Specifically, the ruler must be generous to his subjects, who in turn must be loyal to their ruler; fathers must be kind to their sons, who in turn must be filially devoted to their father; and elder brothers must be fraternal to their younger brothers, who in turn must be respectful to their elder brothers. The early Mohists justified this ethical theory by appealing to their deity, Heaven, as a standard. Heaven is the wisest and most noble moral agent, they argued, so its intentions are a reliable standard (fǎ) of what is morally right. Heaven acts to promote the benefit of all—­it provides natural resources for all, for example—­so we know its intention is for humanity to promote the benefit of all. In practice, early Mohist ethics was a form of indirect consequentialism. Rather than requiring that individuals each directly pursue the benefit of all, the Mohists expected everyone to follow social practices or pol­ icies that, if generally observed, would tend to promote the benefit of all. Two such policies were their signature doctrines of ‘inclusive care’ for everyone and ‘condemning aggression’ between states. A late, brief Mohist essay called ‘Models and Standards’ rehearses key elem­ ents of the earlier Mohist stance without significant revision. Contending that no task can be completed without clear models and standards—­as artisans use the compass and set square to produce round wheels and square corners—­ the text argues that the only reliable standard for good order is what Heaven desires, since Heaven is impartial, benevolent, and constant (Mz 4/1, 4/9). When we ask what Heaven desires, the text argues, the answer is for people ‘to care about and benefit each other, and not to detest and injure each other’ (4/11).

120  Late Classical Chinese Thought By contrast with ‘Models and Standards’, the later Mohist dialectical texts—­ most likely produced by a different branch of the school—­present a consequentialist ethics with significant differences from earlier Mohism. The ‘Dialectics’ drops the appeal to Heaven to justify Mohist ethics, possibly for reasons stemming from the ‘nurturing life’ discourse treated above, which advocated fulfilling people’s inherent nature (xìng) as an ethical norm. One isolated passage seems to recognize that the appeal to Heaven’s intention as a standard is practically empty, for it could be twisted by a criminal to claim that since Heaven has made his inherent nature criminal, self-­interested conduct is right for him, as it conforms to Heaven’s intent (Mz 44/10). Extrapolating from this point, we can conjecture that, as a critical response to ‘nurturing life’ views, the Mohists may have rejected appeals to our nature as a basis for ethical justification on the grounds that the concept of nature (xìng) is so vague that one could justify almost anything by appeal to it. The passage in question is obscure and textually corrupt, however, so this interpretation is strictly speculative. The dialectical texts also set aside the earlier objective list consequentialism in favour of a theory that identifies benefits and harms by whether they prod­ uce delight or dislike. The texts clarify the indirect character of Mohist consequentialism by explaining that, although we are to have an equal degree of moral care for all (Mz 44/57), we do not have equal obligations towards all. The degree to which we are to seek to promote others’ welfare depends on our relationship to them (44/13). As in early Mohism, ‘benefit’ (lì) is the fundamental standard of what is moral or right (yì), which underlies moral duties and virtues: ‘morality is bene­fit’ (Canons A8, B76). ‘Benevolence’ (rén) is ‘caring about individuals’ (A7). ‘Care’ (ài) is left unexplained, though the texts indicate that the morally good care constitutive of benevolence involves caring about others for their own sake, and not as a means to an end (A7), and that a characteristic feature of care is desiring benefit for a person (Mz 44/3). ‘Delight’ is a criterion of benefit and thus of what is morally right: ‘Benefit is what one is delighted to get’ (A26). ‘Dislike’ is a criterion of harm and thus of what is wrong: ‘Harm is what one dislikes getting’ (A27). This characterization of benefit and harm in terms of psychological attitudes is a remarkable shift from earlier Mohism. The new account could explain the older one, insofar as the Mohists could plausibly hold that wealth, population, and social order are basic goods that delight everyone. But the new account allows that, since what delights people is likely to vary in different circumstances, what it is right to do may change over time. Wealth, population, and social order may not be the only goods to promote.

Ethics  121 The Mohist appeal to delight and dislike is interestingly different from the role of happiness in classical utilitarianism. Utilitarians such as Bentham and Mill held a hedonistic theory of value, on which happiness, construed as pleasure, is the basic good. For the Mohists, delight is not itself a basic good, but a criterion by which to identify goods that constitute benefit. To be sure, the Mohist theory is open to the objection that there may be goods that prod­ uce benefit without delighting us or that produce delight without genuinely benefiting us. But perhaps the Mohists could plausibly reply that all goods produce at least some general attitude of delight, perhaps in the form of pleased approval, and that things that do not genuinely benefit us fail to prod­ uce stable, sustained delight. In determining what conduct or practices are right or wrong, everyone’s benefit—­ and thus everyone’s delight—­ counts equally. As individuals, though, we may not each have a duty to treat everyone equally. In our basic intention, we are to take ‘all the realm’ as our ‘part’ or ‘lot’ (fèn)—our scope of responsibility—­whose benefit we are committed to promoting (Canons A8). But provided we are committed to the benefit of all and capable of acting on our commitment when the chance arises, we need not actually benefit ­everyone. Individuals’ moral worth is determined not by how much they actually benefit the world, which may be beyond their control—­they may die young, for instance (Mz 44/52)—but by their intentions and abilities, which are largely within their control. Unless we hold high political office or are responding to an emergency, most of us will not have the chance to bene­fit the whole world directly and need not try to do so. Instead, according to a doctrine the Mohists called ‘relation ranking’, the extent to which we should seek to benefit others will normally depend on our relationship to them. We are to care equally for all while benefiting some ­people more and others less, in proportion to their relation to us. ‘Benefiting more those whom morality (yì, right) permits benefiting more and less those whom it permits benefiting less is called “relation ranking”. . . . If the kinship is closer, benefit more; if the kinship is more distant, benefit less. No matter how distant the kinship, it still falls within the scope of morality’ (Mz 44/13). Those for whom we are to do more include the sovereign, government officers, elders, and relatives. The justification for ‘relation ranking’ is presumably that, if generally followed, this framework of differential obligations best promotes the benefit of all. The general Mohist stance is that everyone is better off if we all do more on behalf of those more closely related to us while sharing the burden of helping those with no close relations to rely on, such as orphaned children and solitary elderly people. Although we benefit close relations more,

122  Late Classical Chinese Thought everyone, no matter how distantly related, still falls within the scope of our moral responsibility. ‘Relation ranking’ formally articulates the early Mohists’ commitment to the relational virtues associated with the core social roles of ruler, subject, father, son, and brother. It may have been a response to the criticism that impartial care for all undermines special personal relationships. The early Mohists sometimes expressed their doctrine of all-­inclusive moral care in phrasing such as ‘regard others’ families as one regards one’s own’ (Mz 15/12), a formulation open to the objection that, were we really to view everyone else’s family as we do our own, we would fail to treat our father as our father, rather than simply as one male elder among others. On these grounds, Mencius claims that the Mohist position is tantamount to denying one’s father (Me 3B:9). The Mohists themselves never considered this a consequence of their position, however, and indeed filial devotion (xiào) was always among their core values. But ‘relation ranking’ resolves the issue by explicitly clarifying the treatment of special personal relationships in their ethics. The ‘Dialectics’ does not advocate selfless altruism. ‘Caring about [other] people does not exclude oneself; oneself is among those cared about. . . . Caring about oneself according to relation ranking is “caring about people” ’ (Mz 44/17). As long as we conform to the degree of benefit stipulated by ‘relation ranking’, doing more for ourselves and our circle than for outsiders does not count as selfishness, but as conformity with the standard of all-­inclusive care for all. On the other hand, benefiting some people more and others less without conforming to ‘relation ranking’ is acting ‘for oneself ’ (44/20) rather than on behalf of all, as morality requires.

A Tension between Care and Duty? ‘Relation ranking’ highlights a tension implicit in early Mohist ethics. According to ‘relation ranking’, we are to do more to benefit those closest to us. At the same time, however, the Mohists hold that we are to care equally for all of humanity. Our treatment of others is to vary with their relation to us, but our degree of care for them is not. Critics might contend that the Mohists are thus committed to an awkward split between how we treat others and how much we care about their welfare. Perhaps a simpler, more practical approach would be to allow our degree of care for others to vary with the closeness of the relationship, with the proviso that even distant strangers be the object of a basic degree of care. Psychologically, this approach might allow us to fulfil our

Ethics  123 social roles as government officials, community members, parents, children, and so forth more effectively, thus promoting the welfare of all. Indeed, we might wonder whether anyone could really devote more time, attention, and assistance to those closest to us without also caring more about them. In the Mohists’ defence, by ‘care’ they seem to be referring mainly to moral regard or consideration, not affective concern or attachment. Hence they see equal care as compatible with filial devotion and parental kindness, virtues normally associated with special love for one’s parents or children. They see the absence of care as breeding utter disregard for others. If in fact equal care here corresponds to giving everyone equal moral consideration or ac­know­ ledg­ing everyone’s equal moral status, then the Mohists may be on firm ground in advocating equal care for all. On the other hand, if it refers to the amount of concern we feel for others, perhaps the later Mohists ought to modify the doctrine of ‘relation ranking’ to allow different degrees of care on the same consequentialist grounds that justify different degrees of benefit: doing so would better promote the welfare of all. Compared with early Mohist consequentialism and its fixed list of basic goods, the later Mohist account of benefit and harm in terms of delight and dislike potentially paves the way towards a pragmatic, open-­ended account of the good. Conceivably, what actions, norms, and practices count as morally right could change over time in response to changes in what prompts delight or dislike in people. However, although this revised, more pragmatic consequentialism is fascinating, there is no evidence that later Mohists put it into practice or that it influenced other thinkers. No text depicts the Mohists applying it to argue for moral reform, for example. Stories about the Mohists in the Annals do not mention the modified theory, nor do remarks about Mohism in Xúnzı̌ and Hánfēizı̌. Meanwhile, a Hàn dynasty account of Mohism preserved in the final book of Zhuāngzı̌, ‘All the World’, depicts at least some Mohist factions as devoted to extreme self-­sacrifice and altruism.

Rejecting ‘Morality’ to Follow Dào The prevailing view in texts such as Xúnzı̌, ‘Five Aids’, and Mòzı̌ is that dào lies in living according to moral norms and virtues such as ‘benevolence’ (rén) and ‘duty’ or ‘rightness’ (yì). On the theoretical orientation shared by these and other texts, the dào for humanity to follow is largely a moral dào—­a dào articulated through recognizably moral concepts. This orientation is the target of a spirited critique in the loose tradition of criss-­crossing lines of thought

124  Late Classical Chinese Thought known as classical ‘Daoism’. It is the subject of a rich discourse spread across a number of Zhuāngzı̌ passages which contend that approaching dào through conventional moral norms or conceptions of virtue is a profound mistake, as framing dào in terms of such norms or virtues mutilates or obstructs our ability to follow it. In some passages, this critique expresses ideas that overlap with the view, considered above under ‘Nurturing Life’, that dào should foster, not disrupt, people’s inherent nature or dispositions (xìng). The two sets of views complement each other, in that the ‘anti-­morality’ discourse holds that, other things being equal, the dào to follow will cohere with our nature. But not all writings that reject conventional moral norms make a normative appeal to people’s nature, and the ‘anti-­morality’ discourse presents rich reflections on the nature of dào that go beyond simply advocating that we nurture life or fulfil nature. Consider the following exchange: …Yáo told me, ‘You must devote yourself to benevolence and duty while clearly stating what is right and wrong.’ Xǔ Yóu said, ‘Why come to see me? Yáo having already tattooed you with benevolence and duty and cut off your nose with right and wrong, how will you wander the aimless and wild, unbound and uninhibited, turning and shifting path? . . . The blind lack the means to appreciate the attractiveness of eyes and facial expressions, the sightless lack the means to appreciate the look of richly coloured embroidery.’  (Zz 6/83)

Devoting oneself to benevolence and duty and seeking to clearly articulate right from wrong are likened to suffering the ancient Chinese corporal punishments of tattooing the convict’s face and amputating the nose. Commonsense morality is not merely a mistake, the passage implies. It mutilates us, leaving us blind to the features by which to navigate dào. Dào is not a straight, narrow path, something we can commit to in advance and signpost with clear standards of right and wrong. It has no fixed destination or boundaries but is instead constantly turning and shifting. Travelling it is a matter of ‘wandering’ (yóu) along rather than marching forward purposefully. To wander dào adeptly, we rely on capacities like those by which we appreciate beauty—­ a tacit, indeterminate, open-­ ended discernment. Values such as benevolence and duty not only fail to elucidate dào, they obscure it and impair our ability to follow it. Some of the richest expressions of the Daoist critique of conventional morality can be found in a series of fictional dialogues between Confucius

Ethics  125 and Lǎo Dān (also known as ‘Lǎozı̌’), the mythical figure who came to be associated with the Dàodéjīng. In one, hoping to persuade Lǎo Dān to help him deposit the 12 classics in the palace archive, Confucius launches into a long-­winded exposition of their content. Lǎo Dān cuts him off and asks to hear just the gist of it. Confucius said, ‘The gist lies in benevolence and duty.’ Lǎo Dān said, ‘May I ask, benevolence and duty, are these people’s nature?’ Confucius said, ‘They are. If the gentleman is not benevolent, he is not complete; if not dutiful, he does not live. Benevolence and duty are indeed people’s nature. What else could it be?’ Lǎo Dān said, ‘May I ask, what do you call benevolence and duty?’ Confucius said, ‘The heart within being kindly sympathetic while impartially practising inclusive care—­these are the characteristic features of benevolence and righteousness.’ Lǎo Dān said, ‘Eh, careful with that last remark. All-­inclusive care—­isn’t that impractical? And pursuing it impartially is just itself a personal bias. If you wish to keep all the world from losing what nurtures them, well, Heaven and Earth are inherently constant, the sun and moon inherently shine, the stars and planets inherently align, the birds and beasts inherently flock together, and the trees inherently grow upright. Just proceed by applying your Virtue (dé), move by following dào, and you’ve got it! Why all this hustle and bustle to promote benevolence and righteousness, as though beating a drum in search of a lost child? Eh, you are disrupting people’s nature.’  (Zz 13/47)

Lǎo Dān presents three criticisms of benevolence and duty and proposes a constructive alternative. First, the ideals of benevolence and duty are vague, impractical, and perhaps conceptually incoherent. Caring all-­ inclusively about everyone, as the Mohists propose, is an obscure, unworkable ideal. (What does it mean to ‘care’ about people we never interact with and know nothing about? Why ‘care’ for everyone instead of simply getting along with them harmoniously?) Insofar as a commitment to impartiality—­the political value emphasized in Chapter 2—issues from one’s personal judgement, it too is ‘partial’ or ‘biased’. Second, pursuing benevolence and duty is wasteful and ineffective—­it results in misdirected effort and needless commotion, as if we were to anxiously run about banging a drum to attract a lost child who is only playing quietly in a corner of the garden. Third, through this misdirected

126  Late Classical Chinese Thought effort, devotion to benevolence and duty disrupts people’s inherent nature—­ their inherent dispositions and patterns of activity—­and so actually obstructs them from living well. Lǎo Dān observes that the natural world spontaneously manifests inherent patterns or courses: the days, months, and seasons follow constant cycles; the stars form constellations and track regular paths across the sky; animals flock together as typical for each species; trees grow towards the light. If we wish to preserve what ‘nurtures’ us, he implies, such naturally occurring patterns present an appropriate dào for us as well, one requiring no superfluous ‘hustle and bustle’. By our inherent nature or dispositions, we are able to act on patterns appropriate for us. Instead of fixating on benevolence and duty as guidelines, we need only apply our inherent Virtue to find apt dào to follow that are latent in any situation. This pair of passages illustrates several interrelated themes that appear repeatedly in the ‘anti-­morality’ discourse. One is that, as the remarks about mutilating punishments or disrupting people’s nature imply, reliance on benevolence and duty is a sign of personal and social pathology. A concern with benevolence and duty signals alienation from dào and disruption or crippling of our inherent Virtue or nature—­our inherent powers of agency and the dispositions or capacities associated with healthy functioning. Moral values such as benevolence and duty arise only when people have failed to apply their Virtue to follow dào and thus interact with each other adeptly. They are not an adept or fitting dào but crutches or aids introduced when it is lost. Taking them as dào amounts to handicapping ourselves, as if we were to require that people with healthy legs walk with a cane. A related theme is that benevolence and duty interfere with our nature, or inherent dispositions towards flourishing or healthy functioning, including the innate faculties or Virtues by which we might originally find guidance in and respond to our circumstances. These references to people’s nature need not imply the implausible stance—­perhaps adopted in ‘primitivist’ texts such as ‘Horses’ Hooves’—that our inborn nature inherently programmes us with a specific dào, which benevolence and duty disrupt. They could instead refer to naturally occurring dispositions and capacities by which certain patterns of action come to us easily and obviously, without intensive study or effort, such patterns being characteristic of good health and the flourishing use of our capacities. By analogy, we might say it is people’s nature to walk upright or to speak a language. The allegation then is that benevolence and duty interfere

Ethics  127 with the spontaneous, healthy functioning of our capacities and in particular with applying them to find and follow the most fitting course of action. A third, complementary theme is that the guidance available from more basic sources renders benevolence and duty redundant, such that attention to them is a matter of misplaced, wasted effort. Simply by applying our nature and Virtue to respond to openings for action presented by concrete contexts, we can find dào that offer a harmonious, efficacious way forward which either converges with or supersedes the ends of benevolence and duty. Suppose, for the sake of discussion, that naturally occurring patterns can indeed guide action and that we possess an inherent Virtue by which to navigate an adroit path through them. Why then have benevolence and duty become the prevailing conception of appropriate conduct? As Lǎo Dān explains in another dialogue with Confucius, benevolence and duty were never intended to be absolute or universal norms but only temporary expedients. They were merely ‘grass huts’ in which one camps for a night, ‘a makeshift way’ or ‘a temporary lodging’ from which to go on ‘wandering in the meandering emptiness’, aiming at no particular destination (Zz 14/50). Taking benevolence and duty as fixed norms is a misguided extrapolation of guidance originally offered for particular circumstances that no longer obtain. The more fitting approach is to ‘connect with dào, unite with virtue, and set aside benevolence and duty’ (13/64). The aim is to find what fits the situation, in response to the needs of those involved, without relying on predetermined standards. These critical claims about conventional moral norms stem from a dis­tinct­ ive understanding of action and dào. Zhuangist thinkers tend to conceptualize action through the model of skills. Normatively commendable action is an adroit response to particular concrete circumstances akin to the competent performance of a skill, such as riding a bicycle along a path with the occasional bump or pothole. On a skill model of action, it may seem obvious that competent conduct rests primarily on a tacit awareness of and responsiveness to one’s situation, as the performance of skills does. This conception of action dovetails with the Zhuangist view that dào is continually shifting and transforming, following no predetermined boundaries. Dào simply is not the sort of thing that can be articulated through fixed norms or values such as ben­ evo­lence and duty. If the texts in this discourse dispense with moral norms, do they retain any grounds from which to justify rejecting certain actions or practices in favour of others? Zhuāngzı̌ writings frequently express disapproval of inept persons

128  Late Classical Chinese Thought or problematic, unsuitable actions or practices. Their vision of dào is as­sured­ly not ‘anything goes’. Instead of applying moral terms, however, they might criticize a person for being ‘confused’ or ‘blind’ or a course of action for being clumsy, unsuitable, or dangerous. Rather than conforming to moral standards, they urge greater responsiveness to our circumstances, including others’ needs and preferences, and increased awareness of novel, adaptive courses of action. But just what norms, values, or guidance do these texts propose as a replacement for morality? If benevolence and duty are not the dào, what is? If, as some Zhuāngzı̌ passages imply, we take skilled performances as models of appropriate conduct, a problem immediately arises. Skills come with built-­in ends that determine what counts as apt performance. The cyclist’s skill is measured by whether she successfully avoids the bumps and potholes, makes it down the path, and arrives home. Dào in general has no such ends. So we cannot draw a simple analogy between dào and skill. The ‘anti-­morality’ discourse is surely aware of this point, however, as it is directly implied by the claim that dào is a ‘turning and shifting path’. It is precisely because dào has no fixed or predetermined aim or direction that benevolence and duty are not reliable guides to it. So how do we find dào and evaluate our own and others’ performance of it? As discussed in Chapter 1, a ‘Zhuangist’ approach seems to be by provisionally starting from values and norms we find ourselves with—­skills we are already performing—­and going on from there, ready to modify how we apply these values, find tradeoffs between them, or revise or replace them in light of problems or changes in the circumstances we encounter. The next section explores one way of developing these ideas.

Wandering in Dào and Virtue If we reject the idea that dào has a fixed end or direction and that conceptions of benevolence, duty, or ceremonial propriety are reliable guides to dào, what conception remains of the flourishing life or of ethical interaction with ­others? One possibility is that dào becomes, as Xǔ Yóu says above, an ‘aimless and wild, unbound and uninhibited, turning and shifting path’. Travelling such a path is not a matter of marching steadily along in a fixed direction but of, in a metaphor introduced in the title of the first book of Zhuāngzı̌, ‘wandering about freely’, meandering here and there with no set destination. We seek to ‘mount the norms of Heaven and earth, ride the fluctuations of the six

Ethics  129 vapours, and so wander in the limitless’, ‘depending’ or ‘relying’ on nothing in particular (Zz 1/21). Since anything we depend on could change at any time, we flow along with the changes and patterns we find in the world, ‘wandering’ without fixed ends, limits, or boundaries, and so following no definite standards or norms. The ideal is ‘to let the mind wander freely by riding along with things and to nurture what is within us by entrusting ourselves to the inevitable’ (4/52). Much of what we encounter is ‘inevitable’—unchangeable or beyond our control—­and so we ‘entrust’ ourselves to it, seeking to adapt to and find peace with whatever constraints we encounter. The aim is to attain the psychological agility to continue ‘wandering’ along various dào while ‘nurturing’ our inward health and capacity for further wandering. In Chapter 1, we remarked on the role of contextual discretion in a Daoist pragmatic conception of dào. Here we encounter an approach on which dào might be almost wholly contextual and provisional, requiring not only discretion in pursuing our contingent ends but continual adjustment to those ends as we navigate through shifting circumstances. We can think of this approach as an ethics of dào and Virtue, in that its core motif is that we should directly apply our inherent Virtue to follow dào as we find it in our circumstances, without insisting on following guidelines such as benevolence, duty, or propriety. Virtue (dé) refers to the powers or capacities by which we live and act; here it can be thought of as our capacity for calmly, competently finding and following courses of action. Instead of concepts of right and wrong or moral virtues and vices, this Zhuangist ethical outlook focuses on apt or fitting paths of conduct and the capacity for agency by which we follow such paths. Ethical evaluation concerns whether the path we pursue ‘flows’ or ‘connects through’, ‘fits’, and yields ‘harmony’ and whether our performance displays the flexibility, resilience, and creative responsiveness needed to find and follow such a path. Conduct and character are assessed by how responsive we are to particular situations, how proficient we are at proceeding along a sustainable course of activity, and how resilient and adaptable we are in dealing with change, challenges, and misfortune. To perform dào well is to find our way through a field of ‘patterns’ (lı̌) freely and smoothly, with harmony and ease, while avoiding hindrance or obstruction. The good life lies in manifesting Virtue in such performances and thereby ‘wandering’ through our circumstances. As remarked in the last section, one way of understanding this ethical vision is that it proposes to extend to life as a whole the sort of open, ready responsiveness familiar from the performance of skills. We looked at one illustration of this skill motif in Chapter  1, in the story of Páo Dīng the

130  Late Classical Chinese Thought master­ful butcher, whose employer exclaims that, from Dīng’s explanation of his skill, we can learn how to ‘nurture life’ (Zz 3/12). (We can now also see how this comment adds a new dimension to the ‘nurturing life’ discourse considered earlier in this chapter.) Another illustration is a story from ‘Wandering About Freely’ that contrasts adept living with clumsiness while extending the metaphor of dào as carefree wandering. In the story, Zhuāngzı̌’s friend Huìzı̌ was given the seeds of a large bottle gourd, which grew to prod­ uce gigantic, five-­bushel fruit. Gourds were conventionally used as either containers or ladles. Huìzı̌ tried using the giant gourds as containers, but when he filled them with water, they collapsed, unable to hold up their own weight. So he tried cutting them open to make ladles, but they proved too large to dip into anything. Frustrated, he declared the gourds useless and smashed them (1/36). Zhuāngzı̌ berates Huìzı̌ for being ‘clumsy’ or ‘stupid’ at using big things. Instead of worrying that the gourds were useless as containers or ladles, why didn’t he think of making them into floats he could use to go drifting about—­ that is, wandering about—­on rivers and lakes? Nothing is useful or useless in itself; usefulness is always relative to some norm or end. Huìzı̌ locked himself into trying to use the gourds according to fixed ends—­or a rigid, predetermined dào—­inapplicable to rare, gigantic fruit. His narrow-­minded competence in conventional uses of regular-­sized gourds rendered him clumsy in finding creative uses for unusually large gourds. His mind is tangled with brambles, remarks Zhuāngzı̌—obstructed, closed off to novelty, and thus inept at adapting creatively to his circumstances.

Interaction with Others Can these ideas be applied to guide interaction with others? Clearly, other people and our relations with them are among the ‘patterns’ (lı̌) we encounter, aspects of our circumstances that are, in Páo Dīng’s words, ‘inherently so’. How should we respond to them in order to jointly find a dào to follow together? One approach the Zhuāngzı̌ presents is called ‘walking two ways’, or interacting with others by simultaneously proceeding along two paths at once, both our dào and theirs. This approach is illustrated by a brief anecdote about a monkey keeper who announces that his charges will each get three nuts in the morning and four in the evening. The monkeys are unhappy about this distribution. Apparently, they prefer a bigger breakfast. Perhaps they believe

Ethics  131 this way they actually get more nuts; perhaps they think a lighter evening meal is more healthy. To insist on three in the morning would be to foolishly insist that there is only one way to divide seven nuts and thus to proceed along only one side’s dào, not both. Faced with the monkeys’ objection, then, the wise keeper sees that from his stance how the nuts are divided is not crucial. The key point is to distribute seven per day. So he compromises by switching the plan to four in the morning and three in the evening, pleasing the monkeys. He thereby ‘walks two ways’: from his side, he fulfils his aim of giving seven per day; from the monkeys’ side, he meets the request for four in the morning. The two sides can reach a compromise even if they disagree about whether a bigger breakfast is indeed preferable, because what is important for the monkey keeper (seven per day) is compatible with what the monkeys ask (four in the morning). The keeper adjusts his dào so that it converges enough with the monkeys’ to allow for harmonious interaction. The two sides may not reach a consensus about which dào is ‘right’ or ‘better’; from his perspective, the keeper may disagree that four in the morning is preferable. But he can accept four in the morning if the total is seven per day. The crux is that the Zhuāngist sage is not fixated on one way or another of dividing things up and so can adjust how he interacts with others to reduce conflict. To the sage, natural conditions always present a plurality of potentially feasible paths without fixing any unique dào as privileged. So the sage is free to ‘walk two ways’ at once—­to find ways to elide guiding distinctions so as to accommodate both sides in any interaction. The text explains the keeper’s response as an example of ‘according with’ or ‘responding to’ (yīn) the concrete situation, using technical terminology adapted from terms introduced by the early Mohists. Following the Mohists, in classical Chinese thought values and norms were typically conceptualized as patterns of drawing action-­guiding distinctions between what is ‘this/right’ (shì) or ‘not/wrong’ (fēi). We accept, approve, or do what is ‘this/right’, while rejecting, disapproving, or avoiding what is ‘not/wrong’. A particular substantive dào—­the Mohist dào or Ruist dào, for instance—­entails certain ways of distinguishing ‘this’ from ‘not’. The Zhuāngzı̌ discussion proposes that we set aside the attitude that anything can definitively or authoritatively be ‘deemed this/right’ and instead proceed by distinctions that are contextually, ‘responsively this/right’ (Zz 2/36). What is ‘responsively this/right’ is determined pragmatically. The text suggests that we seek to adjust our course to find what seems ‘useful’, ‘successful’, and ‘free flowing’ or ‘unobstructed’ (tōng) in

132  Late Classical Chinese Thought particular situations. In interacting with others, the sagely person ‘responsively’ adjusts ‘this’/‘not’ distinctions to seek ‘harmony’ or ‘coordination’ (hé) (2/39). ‘Harmony’ need not entail agreement. The two sides may not wholly agree on dào, ends, or values. Rather, the criterion seems to be reciprocal practical accommodation. The two sides find some way of dealing with each other peacefully or cooperatively that coheres with enough of their own values and ends that both can continue along their dào, albeit perhaps having modified or adjusted it in response to each other. For this passage, adept performance of dào lies in finding such a harmonious response to others without knowing in advance exactly how we do so (2/37). A complementary theme is that ‘what’s appropriate is determined by what fits’, as illustrated in the story of a rare seabird that appeared in the inland state of Lǔ (Zz 18/33–39). Taking the bird to be an auspicious visitor, the Lord of Lǔ instructed that it be treated according to the protocol for honoured guests and feted at a ceremonial banquet with an orchestra and dancing. Sadly, the bird soon died, because birds do not thrive when fed a human diet and subjected to noisy entertainment. The Lord’s misguided attempt to ­honour the bird was self-­defeating, as he foolishly tried to ‘nurture a bird with what nurtures oneself ’. Instead, we should ‘nurture birds with what nurtures birds’, such as by feeding them birdfood and setting them free to fly about and roost in a marsh. Our treatment of others must fit their needs; we cannot simply assume that what suits us will suit them. The story explains that ‘names stop at the facts; the appropriate is determined by what fits. This is called attaining the patterns and preserving welfare.’ The failure to accommodate the bird properly is a special case of the more general advice that to conform to the patterns of things and preserve well-­being, we must recognize that different agents may have diverse abilities and require varied treatment. The facts of the concrete situation take priority over received norms of conduct associated with explicit ‘names’, or general labels or titles. (For more on the relation between ‘names’ and norms of conduct, see Chapter 6.) We should seek a path that fits the context, adapting our actions to the facts (such as that our ­honoured guest is a bird, not a human), rather than blindly following received norms (such as the protocol for honouring important human guests). The crux is not that we should do what suits others—­going out of our way to feed birds the right food, for instance—­but that in pursuing any course of action, we seek to ‘fulfil the patterns’, responding to the facts by tailoring our actions to the context. These ideas from the Zhuāngzı̌ are intriguing but raise many questions. Are there really no reliable general principles by which to guide our interactions

Ethics  133 with others? In practice, what determines whether some course of action really is ‘fitting’ or ‘nurtures’ those involved? How exactly are we to balance both sides’ values? The monkey story provides only a very simple example. Can we expect ‘walking two ways’ to remain feasible in more complex situ­ ations? What if one side considers the other’s way so utterly wrong that no compromise could render it acceptable? What if what seems a workable compromise to us in fact badly infringes on others’ way of life? I suspect a Zhuangist thinker might respond by suggesting that in practice, even when we suppose we are guiding and justifying our actions by appeal to general, universal norms or reasons, in fact we are simply doing what we take to yield the best ‘fit’ in the particular circumstances. General principles or norms may indeed provide rough, preliminary guidance, but they are neither decisive nor final. In practice, we rely on skill in finding ‘good fit’, rather than directly following general, fixed rules or guidelines. Nor can there be any general account of how best to find what fits or a path by which to ‘walk two ways’. In practice, all we can do in particular situations is to seek compromises that cohere in some respect with our dào and that of others with whom we interact, while standing ready to modify our dào if needed. To ride roughshod over others’ interests is to ‘clumsily’ neglect features of the context likely to generate problems down the line. If no shared, overlapping path seems open, ‘harmony’ may translate into discontinuing our interaction with the other side. Since circumstances often admit of multiple interpretations and dào often provides a plurality of openings through which to proceed, any path we follow is contingent and provisional, and we can never be certain of having found the ‘best’ fit. We can only keep refining and correcting our path.

4 Ethical Cultivation Previous chapters have been concerned with the question of what dào is and what its content is. This chapter looks at late classical views on moral psych­ ology, specifically the issue of ethical cultivation or development—­how we bring ourselves and others to follow dào. Most schools of thought agree that dào refers to something we practise or to our practice itself. Accordingly, it is something we can perform well or badly, and we can undertake to improve our performance. The good life is in effect the life of developing and exercis­ ing competence in dào. As we might expect, then, many texts discuss how to orient or cultivate ourselves so as to more competently follow dào. Views on dào cultivation tend to divide along several lines. First, there is a division between political and personal approaches. Some discussions treat ethical development primarily as a political project directed at a mass audi­ ence, not as a personal, individual concern. On this approach, dào is regarded as comprising norms and practices learned through social activity. Ethical cultivation is a matter of internalizing these norms and practices through social, collective education, habituation, and reinforcement. This chapter will examine at passages from Lǚ’s Annals, the Guǎnzı̌, and the Xúnzı̌ that approach ethical development as a political activity. We will consider too Daoist primitivism, for which coming to follow dào is also a social, political process, albeit a negative, deconstructive process of ‘uncultivation’ rather than an active, constructive process of cultivation. The primitivists hold that by our nature, we have an inherent propensity to follow dào. Facilitating the practice of dào is mainly a matter of eliminating obstacles—­most of them social and political—­that prevent people from following their inherent propensities. After considering the social dimension of ethical development, we will look at competing views of individual, personal cultivation, many of which were probably targeted at an elite rather than mass audience. Among such views, one topic of debate was how to handle disruptive desires, which might lead one astray from dào. Some sections of Lǚ’s Annals argue that desires can be moderated by identifying and fulfilling the ‘characteristic’ or inherent desires. Other texts, notably Xúnzı̌, hold that desires in themselves are not an obstacle to ethical progress, since what determines conduct is the heart and Late Classical Chinese Thought. Chris Fraser, Oxford University Press. © Chris Fraser 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198851066.003.0005

Ethical Cultivation  135 its evaluative attitudes, not desires. Another topic of heated dispute was the relation between ethical development and our inherent nature (xìng). For some texts, such as the Annals and Mencius, ethical cultivation is a matter of fulfilling our nature. Others, namely primitivist writings, contend that con­ ventional moral education damages our nature and for this reason should be abjured. Xúnzı̌ famously rejects both these positions, contending that people’s nature is bad and that ethical cultivation is a process of applying the heart to reform ourselves through education and habituation. A sharply contrasting line of thought prominent in Zhuāngzı̌ writings is that the key to following dào lies in psycho-­physiological ‘stillness’ and ‘emp­ tiness’. For Xúnzı̌, ethical cultivation is a matter of ‘endeavour’, through which we habituate ourselves into a certain moral culture. For the ‘stillness dis­ course’, by contrast, it is a matter of emptying ourselves of personal mo­tiv­ ation and cultural influences such that we merge wholly with Heaven or Nature, which then directs our activity. A deep problem with the stillness view is that it threatens, incoherently, to remove human agency from the pic­ ture altogether. It presents an ideal in which we in effect undertake no activity at all, living ‘as if drifting’. Other Zhuāngzı̌ writings avoid this problem, in­corp­or­at­ing the motif of empty, open responsiveness into a conception of engaged agency involving habituation, self-­directed projects, and sensitivity to one’s context. The last section of the chapter explores several versions of this conception of ethically admirable agency.

Ethical Cultivation as a Social Project As we saw in Chapter  2, a range of early Chinese political views agree that moral education is both a means and an end of government. Accordingly, on these views, ethical cultivation is a social, political project. Political society collectively organizes and carries out activities aimed at developing all mem­ bers’ ability to follow dào reliably. The state undertakes moral education, promulgating ethical norms and reinforcing their practice through training and habituation. A passage in Lǚ’s Annals underscores how the sovereign’s policies inevitably affect the direction of ethical cultivation in the community. The sovereign must employ rewards and punishments with care, as they can be used to guide a community to identify with virtue or with vice. The handles of reward and punishment are how the sovereign makes things happen. If what he applies them to is morally right, then the dào of loyalty

136  Late Classical Chinese Thought and care flourishes. As it continues to flourish and develop over time, the people settle into it as their inherent nature. This is called ‘education attain­ ing completion’. Once education is completed, even rich rewards or severe threats cannot stop people from practising [what they have learned]. . . . The same holds when rewards and punishments are used improperly. If the dào of corruption, crime, and greed prevails for long without ceasing, people identify with it as their inherent nature . . . and even rich rewards or severe threats cannot stop them.  (Lscq 14.4; 72.1)

According to this essay, community mores can reshape people’s inherent nature, or xìng, such that even rewards and punishments cannot change their ways. The effects of social factors on ethical development are thus crucial. A social environment that aligns with the moral dào will facilitate identification with and fulfilment of moral teachings, while a corrupt environment may make moral development difficult or impossible. In Xúnzı̌’s ethics and politics, moral education is a fundamental activity of government. A core function of the political system is to promulgate and enforce ethical norms, which improve the moral quality of the population while cultivating their identity as members of a society organized around a shared dào. One dimension of this Xúnzian ideal is that the ruler aims to earn people’s sincere loyalty through his own virtuous conduct towards them. Another is that society as a whole functions as what amounts to a permanent, compulsory moral boot camp, in which the state guides ethical cultivation through instruction, role modelling, recognition and rewards for merit, and punishments for noncompliance. Lead people by amplifying the sound of Virtue, guide them by clarifying propriety and duties, care for them with utmost loyalty and trustworthi­ ness, assign them places by promoting the worthy and employing the capable, and display their ranks with titles, uniforms, commendations, and rewards.  (Xz 15/95)

The system is analogous to a regimented organization, such as the military, in which people are promoted on the basis of perceived merit and their status is displayed through ranks, uniforms, and insignia. The aim is to produce ­people who ‘transform themselves to be good, cultivate them­ selves, correct their conduct, train in propriety and duty, and respect dào and Virtue’ (Xz 15/99).

Ethical Cultivation  137 [The disorderly] are transformed and become obedient; the violent and dar­ ing are transformed and become considerate; the biased and selfish are transformed and become impartial; the temperamental and contentious are transformed and become harmonious. This is called the great trans­form­ ation and ultimate unity.  (Xz 15/103)

The unity in dào is both political and social: people obediently follow the rul­ er’s commands, policies, and laws, which are supposedly grounded in the moral dào, while sharing a commitment to a unified system of values. Reinforcement comes from both political authority and peer relations. Ideally, since society shares a unified dào, those the state rewards or punishes are also praised or blamed by the community. If there are those who depart from custom or do not obey their superiors, then the common people will all detest and hate them. . . . Only then do pun­ ishments arise. . . . If there are those who can transform themselves to be good, . . . the common people will all esteem and respect them and feel close to them and praise them. Only then, from such conduct, do rewards arise. (Xz 15/97)

Moral cultivation is thus both a political and a social process, in which the state exerts authority to guide and enforce conformity to dào while members of the community supplement and reinforce the state’s guidance. The Guǎnzı̌ ‘Prince and Rulers (I)’ essay shares Xúnzı̌’s emphasis on mor­ ally transforming the people. The ruler himself serves as the ‘basis’ for attain­ ing correct Virtue throughout political society, while state officials function as his eyes and ears. By establishing himself as a paragon of virtue, the ruler guides the people’s moral transformation, leading them to conform to norms of Virtue while controlling the officials effectively. ‘The key to governing offi­ cials and transforming the people lies above, and so the prince does not seek it in the people’ (Gz 79/25; 30.7). A prince who follows the dào establishes officials above ‘to shepherd his people’ so ‘the masses dare not stray from the track’. ‘The court has fixed measures and a scale of decorum to respect the ruler’s position.’ ‘The prince is established as an embodiment of stand­ ards. . . . Officials carry out duties as ordered, while the common people obey their sovereign such that [dào and standards] become their custom, eventu­ ally becoming [their] constant [way of conduct]. Those who violate these cus­ toms or depart from the teachings are reviled by all’ (80/4; 30.9).

138  Late Classical Chinese Thought In Chapters 2 and 3, we discussed the extensive programme of moral edu­ cation advocated in the Guǎnzı̌ ‘Five Aids’ essay. The ruler is to win the ­people’s hearts through benevolent policies that improve their material condi­ tions. Having done so, he can expect them to follow his leadership (Gz 27/13; 10.3). Once he has established these preconditions for their obedience, he is to guide people to follow the norms of duty and propriety and fulfil the rela­ tional virtues. Under his leadership, they collectively develop virtues such as filial and fraternal devotion, respect, loyalty, honesty, kindness, tolerance, and obedience. The aim is to jointly realize a thriving, stable political society and a social, collective form of flourishing in which all members of society treat each other as appropriate to their relational social roles in particular contexts. Besides the guidance provided by the ruler through the state, ethical instruc­ tion and reinforcement are provided through the family, as fathers and elder brothers are expected to offer instruction to sons and younger brothers (26/26; 10.5). The framework of relational social roles also reinforces the norms. The text ties its conception of duty to social harmony (26/19; 10.4) and its conception of propriety to respectful, deferential performance of one’s social role. A consequence is that ‘infringing’ or ‘encroaching’ on others’ roles or status will incite ‘disorder’ or ‘trouble’ in the community, presumably pres­ suring violators to correct their conduct (26/29; 10.5). These social, collective approaches might raise doubts as to whether they could genuinely be effective in guiding people towards a fully developed moral character. Influential theories of moral worth in the Western tradition, especially Kant’s, hold that to be morally worthy, actions must be determined by the autonomous exercise of the individual’s capacity for rational judgment. Mature moral development lies in a reliable disposition to correctly decide for oneself on the right course of action for the right reasons. Against the back­ ground of such views, the social, collective approach to moral development presented here might seem to treat people as less than fully competent or mature moral persons. Social cultivation might seem merely a matter of train­ ing people to follow orders or to do as society tells them, rather than to act as autonomous moral agents. I suggest that such worries are misplaced, however, for three reasons. One is that in all cultures, including the eighteenth-­century Judeo-­Christian cul­ ture that influenced Kant, authority and social reinforcement play a vital role in individuals’ moral development. The Chinese approach described here may appear more authoritarian or intrusive than a post-­ Enlightenment Western approach, but this is largely because it subsumes under the functions of the state educational functions we associate with schools and religious

Ethical Cultivation  139 organizations. Social practices analogous to those described in ‘Five Aids’, for example, have probably been common in Western societies but have been regarded as the bailiwick of churches and schools, rather than government administration. A second reason is that the descriptions in these Chinese texts address a different topic than, for instance, a Kantian account of morally worthy action. They are treating the social process of education and training, not the psychology and conduct of the morally competent individual. (For a detailed discussion of individual psychology, see the section on Xúnzı̌ below.) Third, and perhaps most important, late classical Chinese thought presents a conception of moral agency rather different from those familiar to us from modern Western thought. Instead of seeing agency as centred on the process of deliberating about and reaching decisions, classical Chinese discourse tends to approach it as a capacity for more or less excellent or successful per­ formance. Moral development will thus typically involve the sort of repeated, practical, supervised training familiar from the process of acquiring a skill. Once agents have completed the needed training, however, their per­form­ ances are wholly their own, guided by their personal expertise.

Primitivist ‘Uncultivation’ It may seem odd to include primitivist thought in a section on social dimen­ sions of moral cultivation, but primitivism is an inherently social doctrine, since it claims that in the absence of forced, artificial cultural standards, ­people have a propensity to settle peacefully together in small, stable agricul­ tural communities. What sets primitivism apart from the other views in this section is that it advocates not cultivation but ‘uncultivation’, either setting aside or actively expunging the influence of socially inculcated moral teach­ ings so that people can return to an original state of ‘primal simplicity’. Primitivist ethics and moral psychology are the polar antithesis of Xúnzı̌’s, so it is instructive to contrast the two. Xúnzı̌ holds that dào is an artificial, cultural construct that people can come to practise reliably only through effort and training. The primitivists hold that artificially imposed cultural norms are precisely what prevent us from following dào. Dào and its associ­ ated Virtue are not ends to be achieved through cultivation; they are original features of human life to be recovered by relinquishing artifice. The primitivist essay ‘Horses’ Hooves’ claims that people possess a ‘con­ stant’ inherent nature (xìng), by which they share ‘the same Virtue’. This shared Virtue leads them to live together as one, without factions, naturally

140  Late Classical Chinese Thought and without constraints, pursuing a settled life of ploughing and weaving. Moral cultivation is redundant or counterproductive, since if they are not interfered with, people follow dào spontaneously from their nature. In ‘the age of ultimate Virtue’, people ‘live alongside the birds and animals as kin to the myriad things’ (Zz 9/7). They are united in lacking knowing or desire, ‘not departing from their Virtue’, living in a state of ‘primal simplicity’, which ful­ fils their nature. Moral norms such as benevolence and duty only ‘destroy’ our inherent proclivity for dào and Virtue. ‘Unless dào and Virtue are abandoned, why pursue benevolence and duty? Unless people’s inherent nature and feel­ ings are left behind, why apply ceremonial propriety and music?’ ‘Horses’ Hooves’ does not propose a specific program of ‘uncultivation’ except to urge that we refrain from promulgating norms such as benevolence, duty, propriety, and music. ‘Webbed Toes’, another primitivist essay, implies that the apt path is to settle into what is ‘constant’ for us—­what reliably comes of itself, without our applying standards or guides and without knowing just how we do what we do. Bending and bowing in ceremonial propriety and music, straining and struggling with benevolence and duty to comfort the world’s hearts—­this is to lose the constant. There is what is constant in the world: the constant is to be bent without applying the curve, straight without applying the line, round without applying the compass, square without applying the set square, joined without applying glue or lacquer, bound without applying rope. So all the world are induced into life without knowing how they live, and all obtain what they have without knowing how they obtained it.  (Zz 8/14)

By contrast with these two texts, a third primitivist essay, ‘Breaking into Trunks’, seems to advocate taking aggressive, even violent action to undo the damage caused by artificial standards of conduct. Instead of simply setting aside artificial standards, we are to actively ‘demolish’ and ‘destroy’ them and restrain those who exemplify or promulgate them. Demolish the world’s sagely standards, and finally we can discuss things with the people. . . . Destroy the curve and line and discard the compass and set square. Shackle the fingers of the master artisan, and finally throughout the world people will really possess their skills. . . . Cut off the conduct of the moral paragons Zēng and Shı̌, clamp the mouths of the moral teachers Yáng Zhū and Mòzı̌, discard benevolence and duty, and finally the Virtue of all the world will join in profound unity.  (Zz 10/24)

Ethical Cultivation  141 This radical stance seems inconsistent with other primitivist views, in that taking aggressive action to ‘destroy’ disruptive cultural influences is hardly itself a posture that is ‘simple’, ‘constant’, or issues spontaneously from our inherent nature or Virtue. As we will see, Xúnzı̌ capitalizes on this conceptual tension, contending that for humanity there is simply no such thing as action that is not in some sense ‘artificial’ or goes beyond mere nature.

Lǚ’s Annals: Desire, Patterns, and Education A prominent view in Lǚ’s Annals is that the core of the ethical life is to fulfil one’s own health and nature (xìng) and then, at least for the ruler, to seek to fulfil others’. A first step in ethical cultivation is thus to nurture one’s own health by adjusting one’s living habits. According to the Annals, health requires that we conform to natural patterns of growth. A major obstacle to doing so is excessive pursuit of sensory desires. ‘All development of life is a matter of flowing along [with the direction of growth]. What prevents life from flowing is desires. So the sage must first moderate desires’ (Lscq 1.3; 3.2). To ‘moderate’ desires here is literally to make them ‘fitting’ or ‘suitable’, the idea being that we act to satisfy the ‘suitable’ desires and ignore any ‘unsuita­ ble’ urges. What fulfils such ‘suitable’ desires, according to the text, is mod­er­ ation in dwelling, diet, clothing, transportation, and entertainment. Moderate fulfilment of sensory desires is how we ‘nurture the inherent nature’. According to the text, the features of our inherent nature determine that such moderation is appropriate. Chapter 3 discussed how, according to another Annals essay, certain of our desires or wants are ‘characteristic’ (qíng), or inherent, and it is our nature for the characteristic desires to be moderate (Lscq 2.3; 8.1). By fulfilling these characteristic, moderate desires, we can achieve a sufficient degree of satisfac­ tion and so habituate ourselves to resist acting on excessive desires. Instead of binging on ice cream, for example, we might discover that eating a banana causes the urge for ice cream to vanish. Accordingly, we might develop the healthy habit of eating a piece of fruit any time the desire to binge on sweets arises. Hunger is an inherent or ‘characteristic’ desire, but it can be fulfilled in moderation, by eating fruit instead of binging on sweets. The crux of putting this approach into practice, then, will be to understand which are the charac­ teristic, moderate desires and to ensure we fulfil them appropriately. For the Annals this issue can be resolved by investigating what is beneficial to health. Anything that has an inherent nature (xìng), as our physical form does, admits

142  Late Classical Chinese Thought of facts about what nurtures that nature (5.3; 23.3). To nurture our nature, we examine what ‘suits’ it and adjust our conduct accordingly. For example, the Annals contends that extremes of any kind, such as extremes of temperature, activity, and diet, do not suit us. We can learn to obtain what suits us by mas­ tering the relevant ‘patterns’ of things. Crucially, according to one passage, sensory desires for pleasant sounds, sights, scents, and flavours can be ful­ filled only if the heart takes pleasure in them, and the heart will take pleasure in them only if first attains ‘harmony and balance’ by attaining what in turn suits it (5.4; 24.1). The heart too has what suits it. The characteristic facts about people are that they desire longevity and dislike a short life, desire security and dislike danger, desire honour and dislike disgrace, and desire leisure and dislike labour. If these four desires are obtained and four dislikes are eliminated, the heart attains what is suitable for it. Obtaining these four desires lies in competently dealing with the patterns. Handle yourself by dealing with the patterns competently and you will fulfil life.  (Lscq 5.4; 24.2)

There are patterns (lı̌) in the world, then, tied to health and well-­being, that provide guidelines by which to attain what suits us. By responding to the pat­ terns effectively, we can fulfil basic needs for longevity, security, honour, and leisure. This fulfilment in turn yields the harmonious, balanced state of the heart needed to enjoy, in moderation, the objects of sensory desires. How do we identify and follow these patterns? How do we learn to fulfil our desires in moderation, thus mitigating further desires for excessive indul­ gence? For at least the ‘core’ sections of the Annals—­the first 12—the answer seems to be through education, with the assistance of teachers. ‘When rulers or parents fail to obtain what they desire, when sons and subjects fail to obtain what they want, this arises from not knowing proper pattern and duty, and not knowing pattern and duty arises from failure to learn’ (Lscq 4.2; 17.1). Diligent learning, talent, and a capable teacher are the keys to becoming a sage. Consistent with the ethical views covered in Chapter 2, the Annals ties the process of education and cultivation to fulfilling our natural endowment or inherent nature. ‘Learning is never a matter of adding something on but of realizing our Heaven-­endowed nature. To be capable of fulfilling what Heaven has produced without losing it, this is called being good at learning’ (4.3; 18.2). Intriguingly, one essay in the Annals combines the preceding ideas about moderating desires with primitivist ideals. It urges those in power to ‘find what suits their ears and eyes; moderate cravings and desires; let go of

Ethical Cultivation  143 intelligence and scheming; eliminate cleverness and guile; and let their thoughts wander in the unbounded, devoting the heart to the self-­so path’ (Lscq 3.4; 14.2). By doing so, we eliminate anything that might interfere with our Heaven-­given endowment, allowing us to ‘know vitality and so know the spirit’ and thus ‘attain the one’. ‘Knowing the one’ allows us to ‘return to pri­ mal simplicity, the cravings and desires easily satisfied and one’s nurture mod­ erate and simple’. By identifying with ‘the one’—presumably the cosmic dào—­that produces the myriad things, our Virtuous conduct becomes ‘bril­ liant and fine’, and we respond aptly to changing events, ‘conforming to pat­ tern’ without confusion while maintaining robust health (3.4; 14.2). In this essay, then, the theme of fulfilling one’s Heavenly endowment draws together elements such as good health, moderation in desires, primal simplicity, iden­ tification with dào, and unobstructed Virtue, which enables our conduct to adapt smoothly and competently to the patterns of changing situations.

Xúnzı ̌: Virtue through ‘Transformation’ Like Lǚ’s Annals, Xúnzı̌ also addresses the issue of moral development from the perspective of the individual agent, presumably a member of the literate elite. Xúnzı̌’s approach overlaps that of the Annals in emphasizing the im­port­ ance of moderating our responses to desires arising from our inherent nature. The two also agree that such self-­control is achieved through the influence of education and teachers. For Xúnzı̌, however, the challenge of ethical cultiva­ tion is considerably more difficult than it is for the Annals. In the Annals, desires tend to lead us to bad, unhealthy habits that interfere with following dào. Satisfying moderate desires resolves the problem, because doing so fulfils our nature, enabling us to resist the urge to pursue excessive, unhealthy desires. Ethical cultivation is thus a process of educating and habituating our­ selves to respond to patterns in a way that fulfils our nature. Cultivation is not especially difficult, since it aims at learning to live in a way that best serves our inherent, pre-­existing dispositions. Ethical development is more challenging for Xúnzı̌ because of the radical discontinuity he posits between our inherent nature and the cultural dào by which we achieve social order and a fully human way of life (see Chapters 1 and 3). Dào and the ethical life are not the fulfilment of any inherent tenden­ cies we already possess. Rather, our inherent nature is part of the natural world onto which we impose dào to bring about a constructed cultural order. To be sure, Xúnzı̌ contends that dào brings order, prosperity, and security

144  Late Classical Chinese Thought because of how it engages with natural conditions. But nothing we possess by nature primes us to follow dào. Ethical cultivation is a matter not of fulfilling or developing our nature but of ‘transforming’ ourselves to act on ethical norms rather than the crude urges that issue from our nature. Because our nature in no way aligns with dào, we are unlikely to follow it without social intervention from parents, teachers, friends, and political leaders. This dis­ continuity from nature partly explains why Xúnzı̌ attributes special authority to the sage-­kings’ dào. They developed a uniquely effective way of reforming ourselves, he thinks, which is not latent in nature and could not easily be dis­ covered by others. To better understand Xúnzı̌’s moral psychology, it is worth situating his stance with respect to the Annals, the primitivists, and the Mencius, particu­ larly their views concerning people’s nature.

The Debate over People’s Nature The sections of Lǚ’s Annals discussed above hold that by studying ethical norms, learning to conform to the proper patterns, and thus moderating the pursuit of our desires, we can fulfil our inherent nature, or xìng. As we saw in Chapters 1 and 3, the relation between dào and people’s nature was a prom­in­ ent topic of discussion during the third century bc. For texts that contend the two are closely intertwined, dào is continuous with nature, as manifested through people’s untutored dispositions. The Annals thus holds that a central ethical end is to ‘fulfil our nature’, or live up to our nature-­endowed capacities and potential. A concrete illustration of how to pursue this end is to adjust our living habits, including consumption of food, alcohol, and entertainment, so as to maintain good health. The primitivists and the ‘anti-­morality’ writings in Zhuāngzı̌ contend that imposing moral education on people disrupts their nature. The primitivists held that, if undisturbed, people’s nature has inherent tendencies that guide them towards a simple, agrarian community life. The ‘anti-­morality’ passages contend that the effective way to follow dào is simply to apply our inherent ‘Virtue’ (dé), which gives us an innate capacity to pursue orderly patterns of social conduct. (See the passage in Chapter 3 quoted from Zhuāngzı̌ 13/47.) A shared assumption is that activity which issues from our nature comes directly or spontaneously, without special endeavour. The primitivists, for instance, seem to think that people will tend to conform to dào without learning or guidance, provided political authorities refrain from interfering with them.

Ethical Cultivation  145 Xúnzı̌ rejects any view that contends moral development lies in conform­ ing to or fulfilling our nature. His point is not to deny that people have a capacity for recognizing and developing moral virtues. It is that the tenden­ cies of our nature are so unruly that the idea of moral virtue issuing or devel­ oping from natural factors must be mistaken. People’s nature is part of the disorganized natural world on which the dào of the sage-­kings must be imposed to bring about good order. Intervention is needed to prevent the inclinations of our nature from prompting disruptive conduct. Now it is people’s nature that by birth they have a fondness for benefit in them. They follow this, and so conflict arises and deference is lost. By birth they have hatred in them. They follow this, and so aggressive harm arises and faithfulness is lost. By birth they have desires of the ears and eyes and a fondness for sounds and beauty in them. They follow this, and so debauch­ ery arises and propriety and duty, refinement and proper form, are lost. So if we conform to people’s nature and follow their characteristic feelings, we inevitably produce conflict and join in violating social roles and disordering proper pattern, ending up in violence. So we must have the transforming effect of teachers and standards and the dào of propriety and duty, and only then will we produce deference, join in refinement and proper form, and end up in good order.  (Xz 23/1)

To say that people’s nature is good or that it naturally aligns with dào is to say that no reshaping or redirecting is needed for people to become virtuous. A strong version of this thesis, as presented in one Mencius passage, is that if not interfered with, people will spontaneously tend to be good, ‘as water tends to flow downwards’ (Me 6A:2; 6/I.2). Xúnzı̌ regards this view as obviously mis­ taken. Ethical norms such as propriety and duty exist precisely because ­people do not spontaneously tend to be good but instead need to be ‘straightened out’. The sage-­kings . . . established propriety and duty and regulated standards and measures to correct people’s feelings and nature by straightening them out and to guide people’s feelings and nature by taming them, so that people all began to emerge into good order and conform to dào. Now people who are transformed by teachers and standards, accumulate refinement and learning, and follow the dào of propriety and duty are gentlemen. Those who indulge their nature and feelings, settle in decadence, and violate pro­ priety and duty are petty people.  (Xz 23/7)

146  Late Classical Chinese Thought People are analogous to bent wood that must be steamed and pressed to become straight. If the wood’s nature were to be straight, it would be straight in itself, without intervention. Since we cannot become good without inter­ vention, our inherent nature is ‘bad’ or ‘ugly’, not good. (Scholars have some­ times interpreted Xúnzı̌ as claiming that people’s nature is ‘evil’, but the connotation of his word è is closer to ‘awful’ than to ‘evil’.) Straight wood does not rely on the press to be straight; its nature is straight. Bent wood must rely on the press, steaming, and straightening to be straight, because its nature is not straight. Now people’s nature is bad, so they must rely on the good order of the sage-­kings and the transforming effects of pro­ priety and duty and only then can they begin to emerge into good order and conform to goodness.  (Xz 23/48)

The analogy of straightening wood helpfully reflects the difference between Xúnzı̌ and rival views such as those of the primitivists and Mencius. For thinkers who see dào as fulfilling or complementing nature, the continuity between nature and dào means that no major reshaping is needed for us to become virtuous. Indeed, the primitivist text ‘Horses’ Hooves’ contends that Xúnzian-­style reform is downright harmful. Horses’ hooves can tread on frost and snow, their coats can protect against wind and cold; they chomp grass and drink water; lifting their feet, they jump about—­this is the genuine nature of horses. . . . Then along comes the master horseman, who says ‘I’m good at putting horses in order.’ He burns them, shaves them, ties them, and brands them; restrains them with bridles and harnesses and confines them in stables and stalls, until two or three out of ten horses are dead. . . . The carpenter says, ‘I’m good at putting wood in order. My rounded edges match the curve; my straight edges correspond to the line.’ . . . How could the nature of wood be to match the compass or set square, curve or line?  (Zz 9/1)

As the treatment of nature in ‘Horses’ Hooves’ and the Annals reflects, nature (xìng) was conceptually associated with healthy, normal functioning. Xúnzı̌ too acknowledges a link between nature and health, remarking that ‘nature being injured is called illness’ (Xz 22/6). Given this conceptual connection, the primitivist stance that conventional moral norms disrupt people’s nature suggests that moral education might in some sense damage our health and so be detrimental to human flourishing. Indeed, ‘Webbed Toes’ echoes Xúnzı̌’s

Ethical Cultivation  147 point that straight wood is by its nature straight, while drawing the opposite conclusion: applying artificial means to reshape things only injures them. ‘To depend on the curve and line, compass and set square to be straight is to pare away a thing’s nature. To depend on rope and knots, glue and lacquer to be strong is to violate its Virtue’ (Zz 8/13). The worry that moral cultivation might actually be harmful is amplified by some of the rhetoric in the Xúnzı̌, which contends that moral virtues run con­ trary to our nature (xìng). Now it is people’s nature to desire to be full when hungry, to be warm when cold, and to rest when weary. These are people’s characteristic feelings and nature. Now when people, seeing an elder, dare not eat first, there is some­ one they defer to. When weary, if they dare not seek rest, there is someone whose place they take. Sons deferring to their father, younger brothers deferring to older brothers; sons working for their father, younger brothers working for their older brothers—­both of these two sorts of conduct go against nature and are contrary to characteristic feelings. Yet they are the dào of filial sons and the refined patterns of propriety and duty. So, if we follow characteristic feelings and nature, we will not be deferent; if we are deferent, we act contrary to characteristic feelings and nature.  (Xz 23/18)

The problem is that, to an audience familiar with views such as those of the Annals, the claim that morality requires acting contrary to our nature might seem to imply that it involves acting in a way that injures our health. All sides to the debate will find this implication unwelcome. Either this view of moral cultivation must be rejected, or moral virtues themselves must be rejected. As we will see, it appears that Xúnzı̌ moved away from this view towards a con­ siderably more plausible stance. Such claims about acting against nature or straightening bent wood may have formed part of the background to a doctrine that Xúnzı̌ famously attacks, the Mencian contention that people’s nature is good. The Mencius is concerned to argue, against both the primitivists and certain passages in Xúnzı̌, that moral virtues such as benevolence and duty align with and per­ haps are even latent in people’s nature. Thus they are relatively easy for us to practise and form part of a conception of human flourishing grounded in nat­ ural or Heaven-­given capacities. If this argument can be sustained, it rebuts the primitivist contention that benevolence and duty disrupt people’s nature. To avoid charges of anachronism, let me comment briefly on the relative chronology of the Mencian, Xúnzian, and primitivist texts and the ideas they

148  Late Classical Chinese Thought express. It is difficult to say to what extent, if any, the obvious conceptual rela­ tions between these three sets of views reflect historical interaction between the circles of teachers and followers who produced the respective texts. Conventional scholarship ties the Mencius to the lifetime of the historical Mèng Kē and so places it in the late fourth century bc, while assigning both the primitivist writings and Xúnzı̌ to the third century bc. This dating makes it unlikely that the primitivist challenge to prevailing conceptions of morality prompted development of the Mencian doctrines. However, given the accre­ tional nature of pre-­Hàn ‘masters’ texts and the uncertainty surrounding their composition and dating, it is possible that the relevant sections of the Mencius—­mainly book 6A—­could have been written later than traditionally thought—­well after Mèng’s death—­and might reflect interaction with primi­ tivist and Xúnzian views. The Mencius may even obliquely refer to the primi­ tivists, as it mentions people who ‘treat benevolence and duty as a disaster’ (Me 6A:1; 6/I.1). Xúnzı̌ clearly regards Mencian doctrines as ‘live’ competitors that demand rebuttal, and he attributes to Mencius at least one claim not found in the Mencius text (at least as transmitted after the Hàn dynasty), rais­ ing the possibility that Mencius’s followers continued to refine their doctrines in his day. Meanwhile, as we will see, the Mencius rebuts a claim that resem­ bles one of Xúnzı̌’s. Given the conceptual relations between the arguments in the texts and the possibility of actual interaction between the circles of ­scholars who produced and curated them, I suggest that for expository pur­ poses it is worth treating them as different sides in an ongoing debate. In this spirit, it is intriguing that, like the primitivists, the Mencius too rejects a Xúnzian-­style wood-­working analogy for ethical cultivation because it seems to imply that developing moral virtues harms our nature. Gàozı̌ said, ‘Inherent nature is like the willow; duty is like cups and bowls. Making people’s nature into benevolence and duty is like making the willow into cups and bowls.’ Mèngzı̌ said, ‘Can you make cups and bowls by following the nature of the willow? Or must you harm the willow to make cups and bowls? If you must harm the willow to make cups and bowls, then must you also harm people to make benevolence and duty? Surely your statement is what leads the ­people of the world to treat benevolence and duty as a disaster.’ (Me 6A:1; 6/I.1)

Gàozı̌ suggests that people’s nature is like a raw material that can be made into cultural artefacts, cups and bowls. Modifying the analogy, Mencius asks

Ethical Cultivation  149 whether it is the nature of the tree—­the source of the material—­to be made into artefacts. If not, it seems that producing the artefacts injures the tree. If people’s nature must be thoroughly reworked to develop moral virtues, perhaps the virtues are actually harmful. The Mencian response is to reject the wood-­working analogy and insist that moral virtues are continuous with our nature, requiring no fundamental restructuring. One Mencius passage presents the strong, probably unsustain­ able claim that unless something interferes with their natural tendencies, all people tend to be good, just as all water flows downwards (Me 6A:2; 6/I.2). Other passages present a weaker, more plausible view. People all have spon­ tan­eous capacities that align with the virtues, as when we feel alarm at the sight of a child about to have an accident (2A:2; 2/I.2). Thus the virtues ‘are not drilled into us from outside; we inherently possess them’, or at least the resources needed to realize them (6A:6; 6/I.6). To be sure, other parts of us, such as the sense organs, can be ‘obscured’ or ‘blinkered’ by things, such that we are pulled one way or another, presumably in pursuit of sensual satisfac­ tion. But through its capacity for thought—­specifically, for directing the attention—­the heart can override the other organs. To manifest the virtues, then, we need only apply the heart to ‘attend’ to and act on the relevant spon­ tan­eous responses that we already have. Doing so nurtures or fulfils the ‘greater’ part of us—­the heart—­which is bestowed by Heaven (6A:15; 6/I.15). This nurturing process may require education and training to master the appropriate norms to follow. Our inherent inclinations do not provide innate knowledge of moral norms. But the education process is consistent with nurt­ ur­ing our nature, not a matter of reworking it. Realizing moral virtues is thus crucial to human flourishing in the way that nurturing our health is, only of even greater importance. Conversely, failure to develop and exercise the vir­ tues amounts to ‘losing’ the more noble capacities of one’s heart and, by exten­ sion, neglecting one’s well-­being (6A:8; 6/I.8, 6A:10; 6/I.10). Xúnzı̌ appears to respond to this line of argument by considering the claim, which he attributes to Mencius, that although people’s nature is good, ‘it’s just that they all are apt to lose their nature’ and so fail to become virtuous (Xz 23/14). In rebuttal, he insists that in the course of growth and life, people inevitably move beyond, and so ‘lose’, the simple, original endowment with which they begin. To claim that nature is good is to contend that moral virtue is part of our original, unmodified endowment, just as vision and hearing are part of the original, unmodified capacities of the eyes and ears. If the Mencian view contends that people must take action or pursue education to become good, it cannot justifiably claim our nature is good.

150  Late Classical Chinese Thought Now it is people’s nature that in living they separate from their original sim­ plicity and endowment, such that they inevitably lose these. . . . What’s referred to as nature being good is to consider them beautiful without sep­ar­at­ing from their original simplicity and to consider them beneficial without separating from their original endowment. This is to suppose that the relation of the endowed simplicity to beauty and of the heart’s intentions to good is just like the capacity for vision not being separate from the eyes or for hearing not being separate from the ears.  (Xz 23/15)

In this passage Xúnzı̌ moves towards a novel, more plausible stance on the place of nature in moral development. All of our actions, the passage con­ tends, involve departing from our original, simple nature. So morally virtuous conduct does not run contrary to nature after all, because nature in itself does not fix our course of action, whether virtuous or not. This stance is further articulated in Xúnzı̌’s response to another thesis he attributes to Mencius, one not found in the Mencius text. The thesis is that the nature of people who pursue learning is good. This claim raises an interesting potential objection to Xúnzı̌’s view: couldn’t moral development change ­people’s nature so that the nature of those who study becomes good? It also opens room for a Mencian to allow that the nature of people who fail to apply their heart properly might indeed be defective, while contending that the nature of those who do apply the heart to fulfil their capacities is good. To rebut this claim, Xúnzı̌ introduces a distinction between inherent nature and ‘endeavour’ or ‘undertaking’ (wèi). ‘Nature’ (xìng) refers strictly to spon­ tan­eous functioning, such as the eye’s capacity for vision and the ear’s for hearing. Any activity that requires learning or work goes beyond nature and counts as ‘endeavour’. All nature is formed by Heaven; it cannot be learned or worked at. Propriety and duty are what the sages produced. They are what people are capable of through learning and achieve through work. That in people which cannot be learned or worked at is called ‘inherent nature’. That in people which they can be capable of through learning and achieve through work is called ‘endeavour’. This is the difference between nature and endeavour. Now ­people’s nature is that the eyes can see and the ears can hear. The capacity for vision is not separate from the eyes; that for hearing is not separate from the ears. That the eyes’ vision and ears’ hearing cannot be learned is obvious. (Xz 23/11)

Ethical Cultivation  151 Nearly all action—­whether virtuous or vicious—­requires ‘work’ and so counts as ‘endeavour’. Since ‘nature’ refers only to spontaneous functioning, such as eyesight or hearing, it does not directly determine how we act. Moral devel­ opment is thus not a matter of restraining or fighting against actions prompted by our nature but of learning to direct our endeavours properly. This response allows Xúnzı̌ to avoid the fatal objection that his position entails that moral development opposes nature and thus harms people’s health.

Nature, Desire, and the Heart Xúnzı̌ holds that people’s nature is bad insofar as it generates brute desires that, if followed, lead to bad conduct. How, then, do we bring ourselves to conform to propriety and duty? His answer is that action is a matter of ‘endeavour’, not nature, and ‘endeavour’ is directed by the heart or mind (xīn), the governing organ within the person. Although Xúnzı̌ disagrees with Mencius about the continuity between moral virtues and people’s nature, then, they agree that the heart controls action and that moral development starts from how we apply the heart. Xúnzı̌ gives a detailed analysis of the dif­ ferent components of our moral psychology: That by which life (shēng) is thus and so is called ‘nature’ (xìng). What is produced by the harmonizing of nature, by the vitality joining in sensing and response, being so of itself, without work—­this is called ‘nature’. The liking or disliking, joy or anger, sorrow or happiness of the nature—­these are called the ‘characteristic feelings’. The feelings being thus and so, the heart making choices because of them is called ‘consideration’. The heart consider­ ing and the ability moving because of it is called ‘endeavour’. What is achieved only after consideration is applied to it and ability is exercised on it is called ‘endeavour’.  (Xz 22/2)

People’s ‘nature’ refers to the innate functioning associated with shēng—­birth, life, or growth—­along with anything such functioning produces that comes ‘so of itself, without work’. Examples of such functioning include vision and hearing, which may cause likes or dislikes to arise ‘so of themselves, without work’ in response to pleasant or unpleasant sights and sounds. Any action involving choices prompted by such motivating ‘feelings’, along with anything achieved through such action, is ‘endeavour’, which is controlled by the heart and goes beyond mere nature.

152  Late Classical Chinese Thought People’s nature is formed by Heaven. Feelings are the material expression of nature. Desires are responses of the feelings. To seek what we desire and deem attainable, this is something that’s unavoidable for the feelings. Approving this and guiding it is where understanding must come into play. So, even if one is a mere doorman, desires cannot be eliminated, as they are part of our nature. Even if one is the supreme ruler, desires cannot be completely fulfilled. Although desires cannot be completely fulfilled, it is pos­sible to approach complete fulfilment. Although desires cannot be eliminated, seeking can be moderated.  (Xz 22/63)

On the Xúnzian picture, then, our inherent nature refers to natural tendencies, their functioning, and what they produce automatically, ‘without work’. One way that nature is manifested is in the ‘characteristic feelings’ (qíng), attitudes such as liking or disliking and emotions such as joy or sorrow. These feelings in turn spontaneously trigger desires, and if we deem something we desire attain­ able, the feelings inevitably prompt us to ‘seek’ it. These relations are all part of our nature and cannot be directly controlled or eliminated. However, we seek the objects of desire only if we deem them ‘attainable’, and whether we evaluate them as ‘attainable’ is determined by the ‘understanding’ and thus the heart. Ultimately, then, action is directed by the heart’s choices or ‘consideration’, not by desire or feeling. Since action follows from the heart’s ‘considering’ and accordingly triggering movement, all action is ‘endeavour’. The pivotal mo­tiv­ at­ing attitude is thus not feeling or desire but the ‘approval’ of the heart. Desires do not depend on [their objects] being attainable, but seeking [the objects] follows what we approve. Desires not depending on [their objects] being attainable is something we get from nature; seeking following what we approve is something we get from the heart.  (Xz 22/57)

Desires arise naturally and uncontrollably, whether or not their objects are attainable or appropriate for us to pursue. Whether we seek to fulfil our desires, on the other hand, is under the control of the heart. Indeed, the heart can prompt action regardless of whether we desire its ends. So if desire exceeds [what the heart approves] but action does not reach as far [as the desire], this is the heart stopping it. . . . If desire does not reach [what the heart approves] but action goes beyond it, this is the heart com­ pelling it. . . . So order and disorder lie in what the heart approves and not in what the feelings desire.  (Xz 22/60)

Ethical Cultivation  153 The desires that arise from our nature are in effect among the natural condi­ tions that dào organizes and regulates. To develop moral virtue and bring about good order, then, we need to educate the heart to follow the norms of dào in what it ‘approves’, and we need to train the person to perform dào properly. The key is to ‘approve of dào and follow it’, as dào is ‘the correct scale’ by which to choose what to select or reject (Xz 22/69, 22/74).

Moral Cultivation in Xúnzı ̌ For Xúnzı̌, then, moral cultivation is possible because all action is ‘endeavour’, directed by what the heart ‘approves’. The difference between an uncouth ‘petty person’ and the cultivated gentleman comes down to the dào they follow and thus what they ‘approve’. In capacities and nature, knowledge and ability, the gentleman and the petty person are one. Preferring honour and detesting disgrace, preferring benefit and detesting harm, these are respects in which the gentleman and the petty person are the same. As to the dào by which they seek them, on the other hand, it is different.  (Xz 4/32)

Consistent with the claim that our nature is bad, Xúnzı̌ holds that all of us start off as ‘petty people’. ‘People from birth are petty people. Without teachers and standards, they see only benefit, that’s all’ (Xz 4/49). They are ‘fond of benefit and desire gain’, and ‘their hearts are simply their mouth and belly’ (23/29, 4/52). Judging only by their mouth and belly, ‘how will they know propriety and duty? How will they know deference?’ (4/51). What, then, sets the morally virtuous person apart? The sage-­kings were not born sage-­kings: ‘The sages Yáo and Yǔ were not equipped with their sagely character by birth. It arose from changing how they originally were and was achieved through training’ (4/48). A person ‘can become a sage king like Yáo and Yǔ or a crim­ inal like Jié or Zhí, an artisan or a craftsman, a farmer or a merchant—­it all lies in what is accumulated through habituation and custom’ (4/45). Given that habituation can lead to virtue or vice, people should choose the morally virtuous life, because by joining with others as a community devoted to dào, we all live a life in which we enjoy more security, honour, delight, and ease than we would otherwise. Those who encounter the moral life—­the dào of the sage-­kings, the system of propriety and duty—­will find it is simply a superior way of living with others and furthering each other’s welfare. People

154  Late Classical Chinese Thought will find they prefer the life of dào just as those who have always been satisfied with coarse food find they prefer fine meats and grains at first taste (Xz 4/55). Why, then, do many people not follow the dào? Xúnzı̌’s answer is that they are ‘vulgar’ or ‘uncouth’. The vulgar state of people is ‘the universal trouble afflict­ ing the world, the greatest danger and harm to humanity’ (4/57). The trouble is only compounded if people live in a disorderly age and absorb disorderly customs (4/50). For nearly everyone except the original sage-­kings—­the cultural heroes who invented the norms of propriety and duty—­the pivotal factor in over­ coming ‘vulgarity’ is social and political influences. As we saw earlier in this chapter, fundamentally, Xúnzı̌ takes ethical development to be a collective, social process. Hence, for the morally uncouth, ‘if a gentleman-­prince does not gain power to supervise them, there is no way to open them up’ (Xz 4/50). This is why the morally virtuous ‘are keen on informing and showing others’. Through their assistance, ‘the blocked are suddenly cleared, the vulgar are suddenly edified, the foolish suddenly understand’ (4/57). The role of teachers and standards is crucial. The cultivation process is a matter of ‘accumulating’ or ‘building up’ learning and practice in following the standards of propriety and duty under the guidance of expert teachers. After extensive ‘accumulation’, the person ‘transforms’ into a gentleman who follows the dào as a matter of habit. Without teachers and standards people value nature; with teachers and standards, they value ‘accumulation’. . . . Habituation is how to transform from nature; concentration is how to ‘accumulate’. Habits change the inten­ tions; settling in them over time changes one’s character.  (Xz 8/110)

Character is transformed through ‘accumulating’ or ‘building up’ training in the norms of propriety and duty, along with a classical syllabus of poetry, music, and history (Xz 8/114, 1/28). The gentleman’s life is marked by com­ prehensive dedication to learning and practice alongside similarly devoted companions under the instruction of a teacher (1/34, 2/37). Learning ‘stops only with death’ and ‘can never be abandoned even for an instant’, since ‘to undertake it is to be human, to abandon it is to be an animal’ (1/27). The aim is to habituate oneself to the norms of propriety and duty, repeatedly drilling in them until one follows them automatically in ‘all employment of the blood and breath, intention, and thought’, ‘diet, clothing, dwelling, and activity’, and ‘countenance, bearing, movements, and stride’ (2/7). Eventually, what the gentleman ‘accumulates’ through learning ‘becomes stable in his heart, is

Ethical Cultivation  155 distributed throughout his limbs, and is manifested in his movements’ (1/30). He develops a wholehearted fondness for the dào of propriety and duty (9/64). Propriety even provides orderly, elegant forms by which to express emotions such as love, respect, joy, or sorrow through one’s countenance, voice, diet, dress, and dwelling place (19/69). To fully refine or ‘beautify’ himself, the gentle­man seeks to become ‘pure’ and ‘complete’ in embodying propriety and duty, such that he sees, hears, speaks, and thinks only what conforms to them, his commitment to the dào being resolute and unshakeable (1/46). Moral development is thus a largely communal process of ‘transforming’ the person from a vulgar lout who simply approves and acts on the urges of his nature into a cultured gentleman. The gentleman’s inherent nature remains no different from the vulgar person’s (Xz 23/54). He may still feel natureinduced urges for sensory satisfaction, but from habit he either ignores them or pursues fulfilment in an appropriately refined manner. Through accumu­ lated habituation in the refined patterns of propriety and duty, under the guidance of teachers and in the company of friends, he transforms from a coarse creature of nature into a cultured gentleman who is ‘settled’ in ‘refine­ ment’, much as a person is ‘settled’ or ‘at ease’ in their native land (4/40). At the highest levels of moral development, virtuous agents respond to situations automatically, as an expert does when performing a challenging skill. They ‘practise the standards of the hundred kings as easily as distinguishing white from black, respond to changing situations as easily as counting from one to two, and are as at home carrying out key details of propriety as they are mov­ ing their limbs’ (8/59). The crux of moral virtue thus does not lie not in how the virtuous agent reasons their way through moral choices, since the advanced practitioner typically just ‘sees’ what to do, without engaging in explicit, reflective reasoning. Rather, ethical virtue is primarily a matter of embodied character, a skill-­like expertise in conducting oneself according to the dào, developed through practice and habituation.

The Dào of Stillness A prominent strand of thought in the Zhuāngzı̌ and closely related texts takes almost precisely the opposite tack from Xúnzı̌ while nevertheless distinguish­ ing itself from primitivism. Xúnzı̌ holds that all human action is ‘endeavour’, not ‘nature’. Nature in itself, whether Heaven or people’s nature, provides no dào for us to follow. Dào is wholly a human, artificial construct, and nothing natural or inherent in us guides us towards it. Accordingly, moral ­development

156  Late Classical Chinese Thought lies in education and habituation—­what Xúnzı̌ calls a process of ‘­accumulation’. The primitivists reject this conception of dào and of moral development. In their view, our ‘constant nature’ endows us with a ‘primal simplicity’ ­sufficient to direct us towards dào. Culture, learning, and artificial habituation only obstruct us from following dào and may even damage our inherent nature. What I will call the ‘dào of stillness’ or the ‘stillness discourse’ takes a differ­ ent approach. The texts that make up this discourse generally do not appeal to people’s inherent nature, nor to a hypothetical state of primitive simplicity. Instead, they appeal to Heaven or Nature as a source of action guidance. Tapping into this guidance requires a process of cultivation, as the primitivist approach does not. However, whereas cultivation for Xúnzı̌ is a process of active ‘accumulation’, for the stillness discourse it is a negative, apophatic pro­ cess of emptying oneself of all motivation or proclivities to action so that Heaven and the context it presents can prompt and guide our responses. Xúnzı̌ champions a deliberately artificial, culturally refined human dào. Primitivists advocate a simple yet wholly human dào, grounded in our inher­ ent nature (xìng). ‘Stillness’ (jìng) practitioners seek to purge the human elem­ ent entirely, such that we merge with Heaven itself. The sage’s life is Heaven proceeding; his death is part of the transformation of things. . . . He responds only when prompted, moves only when pushed, arises only when he has no choice. He eliminates knowing and purpose, instead following the patterns of Heaven.  (Zz 15/10)

The sage can follow the patterns of Heaven because he has emptied himself of any factors that might cause him to move on his own or to resist when pushed. He attains a balanced, tranquil state of unmoved equanimity that mirrors that of the natural world itself. Tranquil and limpid, quiet and calm, empty and non-­acting—­these are the level balance of Heaven and Earth and the stuff of dào and Virtue. So it’s said: the sage rests in them and so is balanced and at ease. Balanced and at ease, he is tranquil and limpid. Since he is tranquil and limpid, worries and troubles cannot penetrate and deviant vapours cannot attack. So his Virtue is whole and his spirit intact.  (Zz 15/8)

The sage empties himself of thought, purpose, and motivation, while prevent­ ing disruptive states from disturbing his equilibrium. Hence ‘in emptiness and tranquillity, he merges with the Virtue of Heaven’ (Zz 15/13). He attains

Ethical Cultivation  157 stillness not because he takes stillness to be a basic value but because ‘none of the myriad things is enough to disturb his heart’ (13/2). As in the ‘nurturing life’ discourse of Lǚ’s Annals and other texts, the still­ ness discourse turns partly on a conception of health. Unlike the ‘nurturing life’ discourse, however, the conception of health in play focuses not on the physical body, the heart (xīn), life (shēng), or inherent nature (xìng), but on ‘spirit’ (shén). ‘Spirit’ was widely regarded as the source of life and agency within the person, a dynamic core of concentrated, vital vapour (jīng qì). Compared with the heart, spirit provides a deeper, often unconscious, poten­ tially more responsive and adroit source of action. Stillness is said to foster the health of the spirit: ‘pure and unmixed; still and consistent without fluctu­ ating; limpid and non-­acting; moving by proceeding along with Heaven—­this is the dào of nurturing the spirit’ (Zz 15/17). The value and function of stillness are frequently articulated through imagery involving water or water vapour. This imagery is unsurprising, since vital vapour (qì) is understood by analogy to water vapour, and its more con­ centrated form, ‘vitality’ or ‘vital fluid’ (jīng) is analogous to water. The prop­ erties of still water thus illustrate the importance of psychological stillness. ‘The nature of water is that if nothing is mixed in, it is clear; if nothing moves it, it is level; if blocked so it does not flow, again it cannot be clear—­this is a symbol of the Virtue of Heaven’ (15/16). Stillness is valued not in itself but because it facilitates effective action, by allowing the sage to respond to the situation like a mirror, accurately and immediately, without obstacles or dis­ tortion. A passage from the Zhuāngzı̌ essay ‘The Dào of Heaven’ explains: If water is still, it clearly reflects one’s whiskers and eyebrows, and it is so perfectly level that the greatest artisans take their standard from it. The still­ ness of water being this clear, how much clearer is [the stillness of] the vital spirit! The stillness of the sage’s heart! [It is] the mirror of heaven and earth, the looking glass of the myriad things. Empty and still, tranquil and limpid, calm and non-­acting—[it is] the level balance of Heaven and Earth and the utmost in dào and Virtue. So emperors, kings, and sages rest in it. Resting, they are empty; empty, they are filled; what fills them is well sorted. Empty, they are still; in stillness, they are moved; moving, they succeed. In stillness, they take no action; because of their non-­action, those responsible for affairs fulfil their duties.  (Zz 13/3)

As this passage makes clear, a key audience for the dào of stillness was the ruler, who is urged to become empty (xū) and still, to cease active, potentially

158  Late Classical Chinese Thought biased interference with government administration, and allow the adminis­ trative system to work, reacting only when pushed by circumstances. Any action he takes is like a clear mirror, an accurate, unbiased response prompted by the situation itself, rather than by his personal values or opinions. The ruler practises ‘non-­action’ (wú wéi), here referring to a hands-­off, non-­ intrusive approach to administration, in which subordinates carry out their duties without micromanagement from superiors, while the superior responds only as needed, without taking the initiative or overstepping his supervisory role. When practised by the sovereign, ‘empty stillness, tranquil limpidity, quiet calmness, and non-­action’ are ‘the Virtue of emperors, kings, and the Son of Heaven’. The dào of stillness is a path for all, however, includ­ ing ministers and officials, country gentry who ‘retire and wander in leisure’, and activists who ‘come forward to bring comfort to the age’ (Zz 13/8). Stillness, emptiness, and contextual responsiveness are ‘the Virtue of Heaven and earth’, through which one can achieve harmony with both nature and the human world. ‘Understanding the Virtue of Heaven and earth . . . is being in harmony with Heaven; it is how one evens out the realm and attains harmony with people’ (13/11). How exactly does the adept attain ‘empty stillness’? Roughly, the route seems to be through various forms of apophatic meditation, leading to psy­ chological stillness and concentration of one’s vital vapour. The texts provide few details regarding specific cultivation techniques, one reason perhaps being that any focus on explicit, concrete methods would be coun­ter­pro­duct­ ive to the apophatic goal. In a well-­known Zhuāngzı̌ passage—­albeit one not directly connected to the ‘stillness’ discourse—­Confucius’s favourite student, Yán Huí, describes himself as ‘improving’ by ‘forgetting’ various elements of his moral education. First he ‘forgets’ the values of benevolence and duty, then the concrete practices of ceremonial propriety and music, until eventually he just ‘sits and forgets’. ‘I let my limbs and torso fall away and let go of hearing and vision. Leaving my body behind and eliminating knowing, I merge with the great connecting flow’ (Zz 6/89). Another prominent third-­century bc contribution to ‘stillness’ discourse is the Guǎnzı̌ essay ‘Arts of the Heart (I)’. Here the approach to stillness is to empty or clear out desires and anything ‘unclean’ in the chest, allowing ‘spirit’ to fill us. ‘Dào is not far off but is difficult to reach; it dwells alongside people but is difficult to attain. Empty oneself of desires, and spirit will enter its abode [the torso]; sweep out anything unclean, and spirit remains in its place’ (Gz 95/29; 36.1). One step towards emptiness is to cease pursuit of know­ ledge: ‘The upright person does not seek knowledge and so can attain

Ethical Cultivation  159 emptiness’ (95/31; 36.1). Another step is to set aside likes and dislikes. Only because we prefer benefit, the text contends, can we suffer harm. So the prince is not pressed by likes nor driven by dislikes. Tranquil, in non-­ action, he eliminates knowing and purpose. His responses follow no preset approach; his movements are not something he chooses. Error lies in acting on one’s own views; fault lies in changing things. Thus when the prince who has dào is at rest, it’s as if he is insentient; when he responds to things, it’s as if he is their mate. This is the dào of stillness and responsiveness. (Gz 96/12; 36.3)

In advocating that we clear out the heart or chest, ‘Arts of the Heart (I)’ is continuing a line of thought prominent in the earlier Guǎnzı̌ essay ‘Inner Cultivation’, which calls for eliminating ‘worries and pleasure, delight and anger, desire and profit-­seeking’ in order to still the heart, organize the vital vapour, and allow the flow of dào to settle in the person (Gz 115/22; 49.1). ‘Inner Cultivation’ similarly emphasizes the importance of stillness, not allow­ ing things to disrupt the senses or the senses to disrupt the heart, while giving considerably more detail about how the heart’s stillness is supposed to allow the vital vapour and vital fluid to build up within (116/3; 49.3). Even in this text, however, there is little detail concerning specific techniques. The overall theme seems to be that if ‘the heart can maintain stillness, dào will settle of itself ’ (117/29; 49.10). Like such motifs as ‘impartiality’ (gōng) and ‘non-­action’ (wú wéi, non-­ interference), the theme of emptiness and stillness as a key to unbiased, adept responsiveness was applied in different ways by different texts. Legalist ­thinkers noticed that once a Legalist framework of standards, along with associated rewards and punishments, has been instituted, the ruler can best govern by emulating the Daoist conception of unbiased stillness, allowing the officials and institutions below him to function on their own. This point also emerges in the passage from the Zhuāngzı̌ essay ‘The Dào of Heaven’ quoted above: the sovereign practises non-­action (wú wéi), allowing subordinates charged with tasks to fulfil their responsibilities without interference, while he also quietly and clear-­sightedly monitors their performance. A Hánfēizı̌ essay entitled ‘The Dào of the Sovereign’ develops this theme, explaining that the enlightened prince ‘awaits in emptiness and stillness, allowing the names of things to name themselves and allowing affairs to settle themselves. Empty, he knows the facts about matters; through stillness, he knows his actions are correct’ (HFz 6/21; 5.1). Officials who make ‘statements’ (reports or

160  Late Classical Chinese Thought pro­posals) to him themselves determine the ‘names’ they use (and thus the commitments they make), and those who undertake affairs themselves deter­ mine the ‘form’ of the results they promise to deliver. The prince simply checks whether ‘form and name align’; aside from this, he ‘has nothing to do’. ‘If results match the work and the work matches the proposal, he rewards them; if results do not match the work or work does not match the proposal, he punishes them’ (7/14; 5.3). Beyond this, he remains still and practises ‘non-­ action’, lest subordinates learn his preferences and seek to curry favour or take advantage of them. Hence as far as those below him can see, the prince ‘elim­ in­ates likes and dislikes, biases and knowing’ and is ‘empty, still, and without work’ (6/24–7/1; 5.1-­2). Although the Legalist use of stillness themes may seem a perversion of the original idea of ‘merging’ with the dào of Heaven, ironically it helps to reveal the strengths and weaknesses of this line of thought. We need not agree with Xúnzı̌ that people’s inherent nature is bad or contains nothing that aligns spontaneously with dào. But surely Xúnzı̌ is on the right track in arguing that nature, whether in the form of Heaven or of people’s nature, does not fix a dào for us. Dào is not given or bestowed on us by the world; as Xúnzı̌ says, it is something we must endorse and undertake for ourselves. It is hard to see how one might defend the idea of following dào purely by merging with Heaven, attaining an empty stillness such that ‘one’s life is as if drifting’, ‘doing no thinking or considering, no planning in advance’, but simply being pushed along by the processes of Heaven (Zz 15/12). Even if we seek to live ‘as if drift­ ing’, minimally we need at least to throw ourselves into the water, which as Xúnzı̌ insists involves endeavour. A dào that advocates no more than empty stillness is probably indefensible. As the Legalist twist on the stillness motif illustrates, however, given a standing framework of action-­guiding norms or patterns, emptiness, stillness, and non-­action might be helpful bywords for cultivating a psycho-­physiological state of ready, alert responsiveness from which one can adeptly accord with the norms. ‘Quiet and calm, empty and non-­acting’ is an apt description of a tennis player awaiting the opponent’s serve, a magistrate hearing a case, or a soloist preparing for the conductor’s cue. The stillness discourse may not provide a defensible account of the nor­ mative ends of dào—­the ‘what’ that we are to pursue. But as an approach to the concrete practice of dào—­the ‘how’ of carrying out dào—­it might offer helpful insights. As we will see, other Zhuāngzı̌ discussions apply closely related ideas about the practice of dào without advocating a wholesale merger with Heaven and without implying that stillness itself wholly constitutes dào.

Ethical Cultivation  161

Psychology and Dào in the Zhuāngzı ̌ The process of habituation and training that Xúnzı̌ describes in some respects resembles that of mastering a skill. Xúnzı̌ himself speaks of the higher levels of moral cultivation in skill-­like terms: the sage ‘responds to changing situ­ ations as easily as counting from one to two’, for instance (Xz 8/59). Psycho-­ physiological states depicted in the stillness discourse correspond at least partly to those of an adept performing a skill. The extensive exploration of skill in Zhuāngzı̌—and above all the claim in the story of Páo Dīng, discussed in Chapter 1, that the butcher’s approach to skill illustrates how to ‘nurture life’—suggests that skills were regarded as concrete illustrations of how to fol­ low dào. This section explores how a skill-­inspired model of dào-following might develop the motif of empty, unbiased responsiveness from the stillness discourse while acknowledging the cogent Xúnzian point that all human action is endeavour, driven by our choices and ‘accumulated’ dispositions and capacities. Chapters 1 and 3 discussed how some Zhuāngzı̌ writings treat dào as hav­ ing no fixed direction or boundaries. In the butcher story, for example, fol­ lowing dào is a process of detecting and responding to shifting, fluctuating ‘patterns’, navigating one’s way through ‘gaps’, and working through difficul­ ties. This process regularly requires us to find our way forward through un­famil­iar situations without knowing in advance exactly how we will pro­ ceed. These descriptions apply to many skills or arts that involve responding to changing circumstances. Butchering oxen is one. Skills as different as surf­ ing, improvisational music, or university lecturing are others. Consider some general features of such skills or arts. They are grounded in background training that shapes how we perceive and respond to the situ­ ation. They are world-­guided, in that a performance succeeds only if it engages effectively with factual ‘patterns’. They require clear perception, with­ out bias or blind spots, and fine tuning to fit the specifics of individual cases. Differences between particular contexts may entail that there is no single, fixed way to proceed. Often the skill will elude formulation in explicit rules, as successful performance may hinge on adaptive abilities that go beyond any fixed method. The skilled agent may draw on a feel for the context and on immediate, reflexive responses rather than the reflectively self-­ conscious monitoring and decision-­making early Chinese texts associate with the work­ ings of the heart. As the butcher story illustrates, these responses may extend the agent’s abilities beyond what she has mastered so far.

162  Late Classical Chinese Thought In the Zhuāngzı̌, we find a discourse framed around the implicit premise that roughly these features characterize the ability to follow dào well. This dis­ course is exemplified by the butcher story, but related themes are explored in many other passages as well. Ethical cultivation concerns how to attain the adept, responsive, and adaptive engagement with one’s situation associated with pragmatic pluralism about dào (see Chapter 1) and the conception of the good life as ‘wandering’ through a field of dào (see Chapter  3). Adept dàofollowing results from self-­directed activity, typically involving acquired abil­ ities, and is not simply a matter of following our original, inborn nature or of letting Heaven push us along. At the same time, it is guided by natural condi­ tions more directly than Xúnzı̌ acknowledges, and it is highly contextual, such that different agents in different circumstances may justifiably find themselves following quite different dào.

Dào, Skill, and Context To get started examining this discourse, let us first consider a pair of stories that offer contrasting views of dào and cultivation. In the first, while travelling through a forest, Confucius and his students encounter a hunchback who plucks cicadas off tall trees with a sticky pole as deftly as if picking them up with his fingers (Zz 19/18). (The cicadas are to be roasted and eaten.) Impressed with the man’s skill, Confucius asks whether he has a dào he fol­ lows. The hunchback affirms that he does. First he pursues a training regimen to develop his technique. ‘I practise balancing two balls without dropping them, and then I lose very few cicadas. Next I balance three balls without dropping them, and I lose only one in ten. Then I balance five balls without dropping them, and catching them is like grabbing them with my fingers.’ While catching the bugs, he stills his movements and focuses his attention. ‘I settle my body like a tree stump and hold my arms like branches of a withered tree. Despite the vastness of the world and the multitude of the myriad things, I’m aware only of cicada wings.’ Confucius remarks that by ‘applying his intent without distraction’ the hunchback is able to ‘concentrate his spirit’. ‘Intent’ (zhì) typically refers to the direction or focus of the heart (xīn), the organ generally thought to direct action through reflectively self-­conscious de­lib­er­ ation and choice. ‘Spirit’ (shén) probably refers—­as it does in the Páo Dīng story—­to a more immediate, deeper locus of agency, which can act without reflective self-­awareness. In this story, then, the dào of adept performance lies

Ethical Cultivation  163 mainly in technique training and psycho-­physiological concentration, involv­ ing not only the heart but the spirit. A plausible implication of Confucius’s remark is that the man’s undistracted attention during repeated practice causes the skill itself to ‘gel’ or ‘congeal’ into his spirit. The second story concerns a whitewater swimmer whom Confucius and his disciples see gliding through a stretch of rough water that even fish and turtles cannot survive, almost as if he were a phantom with supernatural ­powers. Confucius asks whether the swimmer has a dào he follows, but unlike the cicada catcher, he denies having any dào (Zz 19/49). Instead, he ‘follows the dào of the water while imposing no personal bias (sī) on it’, ‘entering where it’s calm and emerging where it’s rough’. The swimmer explains that he started from what was native for him, being born on and at home on dry land. Since he grew up by the water, he eventually became equally at home in the water, such that swimming became part of his nature (xìng). Unlike Xúnzı̌, the swimmer apparently holds that our nature can change with habituation. His swimming ability then comes to completion through his actual life cir­ cumstances (mìng). His nature interacts with the flow of the river, such that he swims along ‘without my knowing how it is so’. The story thus illustrates conditions under which our environment can provide a dào that guides us along. Given how the swimmer’s years of habituation have shaped his nature, he encounters the water as presenting a dào that induces his movements with­ out his reflectively knowing exactly how. Once he dives into the river, phe­ nom­eno­logic­al­ly he seems to move spontaneously, as if the world itself were guiding him. Dào becomes wholly a matter of adapting to and being drawn along by the context. The stories thus present two contrasting conceptions of dào and how we follow it. For the cicada catcher, dào refers to a skill or an approach that he has previously mastered and applies to the particular context through intense concentration. The swimmer denies that he has a dào in this sense. He claims to have no specific, previously mastered technique that he applies to navigate the rapids. He is exaggerating, of course. Surely he has a repertoire of tech­ niques, acquired through long habituation. His point is that dào is not some­ thing he possesses in advance and brings to the situation but a path he finds in it. In contrast with the cicada catcher, his view is that previously acquired technique is not dào but only part of what enables us to follow dào. Once the relevant competence or responsive dispositions have been integrated into our nature through habituation, we acquire a capacity to flow along with dào we find in particular contexts.

164  Late Classical Chinese Thought

Skill, ‘Forgetting’, and Contextual Dào A story about a skilled ferry pilot again raises the issue of finding dào in one’s context while also addressing a crucial obstacle to doing so: anxiety. Yán Yuān recalls to Confucius, his teacher, that when he crossed the treacherous waters at Goblet Deeps, the ferryman handled the boat ‘like a spirit’ (Zz 19/22). (As in the swimmer story, preternaturally adroit skill is associated with the action of spirits or phantoms, who unlike humans always perfectly follow a fitting dào.) He asked the ferryman if boathandling could be learned but found the answer cryptic. The ferryman said, ‘Yes. Good swimmers can learn quickly, and divers can handle a boat even if they’ve never seen one before.’ Confucius explains that good swimmers can learn quickly because they ‘forget the water’, while divers can learn without ever seeing a boat because to them the depths are the same as dry land and a capsize is no worse than a cart getting stuck in a rut. The gist is that unlike a non-­swimmer such as Yán, who is terrified of the deeps, swimmers and especially divers have no fear of the water and so ‘forget about it’, paying no attention to it as a source of anxiety. ‘Forgetting’ is a prominent theme in Zhuangist ethical cultivation, albeit developed somewhat differently in different passages. Here it refers to the absence of anxious attention or worry. Expert swimmers obviously do not forget the water in the sense of being oblivious to it. To swim well, they must be acutely aware of the water. But they pay no attention to it as a source of disruptive anxiety. They ‘forget about’ the water in being wholly relaxed and at home in it. This ease with the water helps explain the ferryman’s curious exaggeration about divers handling a boat without even seeing one. Surely no one could instantly pilot a boat the first time they saw one. But someone fully habituated to the water could perhaps easily learn for themselves how to han­ dle a boat, by finding a dào in the context presented by the boat and the water. Clearly, the divers do not have a previously acquired method of boat handling that they bring to the situation, since by hypothesis they have never seen a boat. Like the swimmer story, then, this passage implies that adept agents find dào in their context. The ferry pilot suggests that someone fully at home in and responsive to an environment, as a diver is in water, can discover dào in it even without prior training. A major factor that prevents our feeling at home in a situation is anxiety. The ferryman passage concludes with the following explanation: Shooting for tiles, you’re skilled. Shooting for silver buckles, you’re uneasy. Shooting for gold, you’re flustered. Your skill’s the same, but there’s

Ethical Cultivation  165 something you’re worried about—­this is putting weight on the external. Anyone who puts weight on the external gets clumsy with the internal. (Zz 19/25)

The ‘internal’ refers to whatever is core, primary, or vital, the ‘external’ to what is peripheral, secondary, or relatively insignificant. In this context, the ‘inter­ nal’ is most likely one’s performance at archery or boathandling, along with the associated psychological composure, while the ‘external’ refers to anxiety-­ inducing factors such as valuable prizes or the threat of drowning. Another theme of the ferryman story, then, is that adept performance rests on ‘unweighting’ the external and focusing wholly on the internal. This unweight­ ing is achieved through ‘forgetting’ the external—­that is, we devote no undue attention to anything irrelevant to performance. Aside from ‘forgetting’ grounded in our being at home in a situation, as swimmers and divers are at home in the water, we can also ‘forget’ in the sense of paying no heed to some­ thing, as an archery competitor can learn to concentrate without worrying about the prizes. The story of Qìng the woodcarver illustrates an approach both to ‘forget­ ting’ and to developing responsiveness to contextual dào. Qìng sculpts bell stands that amaze viewers with their uncanny beauty, an achievement the text compares to the work of spirits or ghosts, like the performance of the ferry­ man and the whitewater swimmer. As the swimmer did, Qìng denies having any special ‘art’ or ‘technique’ (shù) by which he produces his work. He does, however, have an approach by which he prepares for a project. Before starting a new piece, he fasts for seven days to ‘still’ (jìng) his heart by emptying it of distractions. Step by step, all thoughts of praise or reward, rank or salary, ­honour or condemnation, and skill or clumsiness slip away. Ultimately, he claims, he ‘forgets’ even his limbs and body. ‘My skill concentrated and exter­ nal distractions dissolved, only then do I enter the forest and observe the Heavenly nature of the trees.’ He sets to work only if he finds a tree with the right form, in which he can envision the finished bell stand. The reason his carvings resemble the work of spirits, he suggests, is that through this approach he ‘matches Heaven with Heaven’—that is, he aligns his own nature-­ endowed capacities with the natural grain of the timber. Clearly, Qìng has extensive prior training in woodcarving techniques, but he dismisses this as peripheral to his work. The crucial point is how he aligns his capacities with relevant features of the situation, thus finding a dào in the shape of the wood. He attributes his success to stillness attained through meditation, which empties him of all ‘external’ factors that might distract

166  Late Classical Chinese Thought from ‘matching’ his actions with the wood. Qìng thus invokes the concept of stillness while resolving the major problem we identified in the stillness dis­ course, the implausible claim that psycho-­physiological stillness somehow eliminates the element of human agency, such that we ‘move only when pushed’. On Qìng’s view, stillness and emptiness help us better align our ends and capacities with patterns we find in our context. Action issues not from the context itself but from the relation between the agent and the context. When this relation ‘matches’ in an especially apt way, preternaturally success­ ful action results.

Contextual Dào beyond Skill In each of the examples from Zhuāngzı̌ discussions we have considered so far, the protagonists find dào in concrete contexts by applying and extending skills in which they have prior training. The skills are directed at predefined, clearly specified ends, such as catching cicadas or carving a bell stand. In much of our activity, however, our ends may be more loosely defined, and no particular skill may apply. Other notable discussions address such circum­ stances, in which the protagonists must find their way almost wholly con­text­ ual­ly, perhaps developing or revising their ends as they proceed. Obviously, they bring various skills and capacities to the situation. But nothing they have learned in the past fully prepares them to identify and undertake the dào they need to follow. In one conversation, Yán Huí asks Confucius for permission to travel to the troubled state of Wèi to try to reform its tyrannical, reckless young prince, who abuses his power at great cost to human life (Zz 4/1). Concerned that Yán will only get himself killed, Confucius asks his plans. Yán describes two general strategies, one more aggressive, one more passive. Confucius dis­ misses both as ineffective, remarking that Yán is ‘still taking the heart as mas­ ter’, or acting on the biased, predetermined guidance of his own heart, following a fixed dào or formula he is bringing to the situation. Given the complexity of the task, such a predecided dào will be ineffective and perhaps dangerous. Confucius urges Yán to instead ‘fast the heart’, emptying it of any fixed, predetermined plans or methods. He is to ‘focus his intent’ and seek to ‘listen to things with the vital vapour’, rather than the ears or heart, because the vital vapour—­qì, the stuff of the spirit—­is empty (xū) and so wholly responsive to things. As this passage makes clear, ‘emptiness’ is construed not as nothingness but as being like vapour: insubstantial, flowing, without fixed

Ethical Cultivation  167 form, open to change, sensitive to pressure. ‘The only dào to take is to build up emptiness’, says Confucius. ‘Emptiness is the fasting of the heart.’ Working from a state of emptiness, Confucius explains, Yán must fit his actions to the context. Only if he can get close to the tyrant without arousing suspicion should he speak up. He is to dwell in ‘the inevitable’, protecting himself while adapting to what he cannot control. To succeed, he will need to learn to deal with the tyrant by an approach he does not yet know. As Confucius explains, ‘you’ve heard of knowing by means of knowing something, but not of knowing by means of not knowing something’. The actual dào he will follow is one he has not yet acquired and does not yet know. He must find it as he goes, maintaining an ‘empty’ state and feeling his way along. A discussion between Confucius and Zı̌gāo, Duke of Shè, presents an espe­ cially rich treatment of the psychology of finding dào in a stressful, real-­life scenario (Zz 4/34). Zı̌gāo is a nobleman dispatched as an envoy on a weighty, difficult diplomatic assignment that could endanger his life. Having received his orders in the morning, he finds himself physically debilitated from anxiety by evening. Confucius reminds him that we all face inescapable ‘decrees’ aris­ ing from ‘fate’ (our life circumstances) and ‘duty’ (our social and political obligations). Our life circumstances are such that we are each born into a cer­ tain family; duty is such that wherever we go, we find ourselves living under some political authority. Besides our ineluctable ties to kin and state, there is also self-­cultivation—­how we attend to the well-­being of our own heart, in effect our mental health or psycho-­physiological hygiene. In attending to your own heart, the utmost in Virtue is, without sorrow or joy alternating before you, to recognize what you can’t control and be at ease with it as with fate. As political subjects or as children, some things are sim­ ply inevitable. Act on the facts of the matter while forgetting about yourself, and what leisure will you have for delighting in life or hating death? (Zz 4/41)

Confucius supplements these points with detailed advice about managing diplomatic communication and rivalry. Zı̌gāo should proceed with caution, neither compromising the assignment nor rushing to complete it, making continuous, fine adjustments to his speech and actions as appropriate to deal with his audience’s potentially unpredictable reactions. In circumstances of such complexity, the height of Virtue is to ‘let your heart wander freely (yóu) by riding along with things and to nurture what is within you by entrusting yourself to the inevitable’.

168  Late Classical Chinese Thought As in Yán Huí’s project to reform the prince of Wèi, then, Zı̌gāo must ‘ride along with’ a dào that he finds in the context as he proceeds. To do so, he will need to maintain and apply Virtue, the capacity for adaptive agency, by free­ ing his heart from attachments, accepting what he cannot control, and ‘nurt­ ur­ing’ inward equanimity. From the coaching Confucius offers him, we can identify four general points that contribute to these ends. One is cognitive reframing. Confucius guides Zı̌gāo to see his situation as a normal, expected part of his social role, since familial and political relationships present all of us with ‘inevitable’ tasks. By accepting this point we can ‘make peace’ with such burdens, as we do with unchangeable features of our life circumstances, such as our age or birthplace. A second element is to reorient our values. If we regard ‘riding along with’ uncontrollable circumstances as ‘the height of Virtue’, a fundamental value, our emotional responses to events will shift, as equanimity and adaptation become more important to us than other goods. A further element seems to be preparation and confidence-­ building, as Confucius offers practical advice on human relations and talks Zı̌gāo through various scenarios he might encounter—­albeit without implying that he should adopt any predetermined plans or tactics. This element could include training in the sorts of basic techniques that the swimmer, the ferry pilot, and the woodcarver all employ but consider secondary to their task. The fourth and perhaps most crucial element is attention training. Zı̌gāo is to ‘forget’ the dangers he faces by focusing attention wholly on his diplomatic work. Other passages illustrate a further, more radical step one might take in the cognitive and evaluative reframing illustrated by the Zı̌gāo story—­a step lead­ ing to a notable, distinct position that goes considerably beyond the doctrinal commitments of the skill stories or the dialogues about Yán Huí’s or Zı̌gāo’s challenges. This step aims to restructure our self-­understanding so as to fore­ ground our place in the totality of natural dào, including human dào. On this view, Virtue lies in ongoing, adept adaptation to dào, which becomes the main basis for evaluations of self-­ worth. This self-­ understanding yields psycho-­physiological ‘constancy’, because the project of flowing along with dào remains the same across changes in our concrete circumstances. A vivid depiction of such constancy appears in a dialogue in which Lǎo Dān describes for Confucius the free wandering of the ‘utmost person’, someone fully adept in dào. Like grazing animals or water-­born creatures, the adept attains ‘overall constancy’ and equanimity by engaging in a stream of activity that continues unbroken despite ‘minor changes’:

Ethical Cultivation  169 Grass-­eating animals do not fret over a change of pasture; water-­born crea­ tures do not fret over a change of waters. They proceed through minor changes without losing their overall constancy, and joy, anger, grief, and happiness do not enter their chests.  (Zz 21/31)

We can come to live this way, the dialogue implies, by identifying with the world as a totality that unites the myriad things into a single, unending pro­ cess of change. Now as to the world, it is that wherein the myriad things are one. If you attain that wherein they are one and assimilate to it, your four limbs and hundred parts will be as dust and dirt, and death and life, ending and begin­ ning will be as day and night, nothing being able to disturb you. . . . Value lies in oneself and is not lost in change. The myriad changes proceed without ever coming to an end—­what in any of this is enough to trouble the heart? (Zz 21/32)

If we see ourselves as participants in a unified whole undergoing endless flux, changes that may seem momentous to us as individuals—­our own death, for example—­might come to seem merely an insignificant rearrangement of parts within the whole, like brushing dirt off our clothes, or a routine process, like day following night. What is of value to us is our continuing activity of adaptive ‘wandering’ as members of this whole, which remains constant throughout changes in our particular circumstances. By reframing how we understand our lives and what we value, we can eliminate fear and anxiety and focus whole-­heartedly on the project of finding and pursuing dào. In effect, we take the focused, calm, responsive flow of activity familiar from the adept performance of skills as a model for our approach to life as a whole, making adaptation to the ongoing process the central focus of our self-­worth. On the basis of this and related passages, a Zhuangist thinker could acknowledge, with Xúnzı̌, that the natural world does not bestow a particular dào upon us and that how we follow dào is indeed a matter of human endeav­ our, rather than simply following our inherent nature or drifting along with Heaven. Nevertheless, the Zhuangist might contend, situating ourselves as participants in the overall dào of nature may help us maintain psychological attitudes, states, and dispositions that facilitate adroit performance of dào that we find in our context. Of course, Xúnzı̌ too places human life in the context of nature and advocates a dào that attains ‘alignment’ with the natural world.

170  Late Classical Chinese Thought Xúnzı̌ would probably contend that, in passages such as this one, Zhuangist thought goes too far in identifying with nature and neglecting the distinctive character of human life. For Xúnzı̌, human feelings can be managed only through cultural mediation, not by subsuming our dào into natural processes, as this passage suggests. Hence Xúnzı̌ criticizes Zhuāngzı̌ for being ‘blinkered by Heaven and failing to understand the human’ (Xz 21/22). The writer of this Zhuāngzı̌ dialogue might rejoin that we can better fulfil human dào and more fully manifest human Virtue (dé) by seeing them as thoroughly embedded in the overall flow of nature, since ultimately our lives are indeed part of that flow. It seems unlikely that either of these contrasting outlooks could prevail over the other on purely argumentative grounds. They reflect fundamentally different baseline orientations concerning how to understand the relation between nature and human life. Each has its strengths, and both may be instructive. Whether we find one or the other more appealing probably says as much about us as it does about them.

5 Epistemology Late classical texts understand knowing in practical terms, as a ‘taxonomical’ competence in distinguishing, sorting, and assessing things on the basis of their features and as an action-­guiding grasp of causal patterns over time. The general concept of knowledge employed in the texts often does not distinguish clearly between perceptual knowledge, discursive knowledge, know-­ how, understanding, and wisdom, among other dimensions of cognitive competence. In most cases, however, to know is to be able to produce a certain form of competent, world-­guided performance. Hence knowing itself can be regarded as a dào. At the same time, the performance of any dào will require and manifest knowledge, as understood by the norms of that dào. Consistent with this practical focus, much epistemological discussion is concerned less with the analysis or explanation of knowledge than with how to interact with the world competently—­in particular, with understanding and avoiding practical pitfalls in epistemic performance. Major epis­temo­logic­al discussions in Xúnzı̌, Lǚ’s Annals, and even Zhuāngzı̌ focus on explaining and developing forms of epistemic conscientiousness, or virtue, by which to improve epistemic performance. One aspect of such epistemic conscientiousness, as we will see, is a concern with identifying appropriate criteria of judgement and action—­in effect, identifying dào. The later Mohist Dialectics provides the most analytical treatment of epis­temo­logic­al concepts in the early literature. These texts explicate a basic conceptual framework that is largely shared throughout late classical discourse. The framework highlights the role of standards (fǎ) in determining correctness of judgement and thus raises the question of what those standards should be. The Mohists themselves do not directly address this question. But Xúnzı̌ treats it as fundamental to his account of epistemic excellence. Xúnzı̌’s epistemology—­what he calls ‘arts of the heart’—is chiefly concerned with understanding and pursuing reliably competent epistemic performance, an  endeavour he sees as grounded in identifying, endorsing, and sharing ­appropriate epistemic criteria. Lǚ’s Annals extends Xúnzı̌’s concern with epistemic conscientiousness, particularly emphasizing a problem Xúnzı̌ raises, the importance of avoiding bias. This topic underscores the problem of Late Classical Chinese Thought. Chris Fraser, Oxford University Press. © Chris Fraser 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198851066.003.0006

172  Late Classical Chinese Thought identifying epistemic criteria, as any account of bias must posit standards by which to determine what counts as biased. Against this background, passages in Zhuāngzı̌ appear to contend, in response to Xúnzı̌ and the Annals, that there can be no genuinely neutral or ultimately correct standards, nor, contra Xúnzı̌, a fully open-­minded and neutral epistemic stance. Instead, we can aim only for a careful, critical understanding of how the norms we adopt in particular contexts, for particular purposes, may facilitate performance in some respects while simultaneously biasing us in others. Still, the Zhuāngzı̌ presents a distinctive kind of epi­stem­ic virtue—­a form of practical wisdom—­grounded in awareness of different norms of judgement, their relation to the world and to each other, how they may be useful in particular circumstances to resolve concrete problems, and how we may shift between them. As we will see, this virtue can be con­text­ual­ ized as extending features of Xúnzı̌’s conception of epistemic excellence while jettisoning the idea that there can be any single, authoritative ‘scale’ of judgement. It also complements the distinctive form of scepticism found in some Zhuāngzı̌ passages.

Knowledge and Doubt in the Later Mohist Dialectics The later Mohist dialectical writings follow earlier Mohist epistemology in focusing not on the justification or truth of beliefs, or propositional attitudes, but on knowing how to distinguish what things are ‘this’ (shì) or ‘not’ (fēi) with respect to various ‘names’ (míng). Like early Mohist writings, the Dialectics treats knowledge largely as a skill or competence. In both, the main expression of knowledge is the practical ability to apply names to things correctly. However, the Dialectics moves beyond earlier Mohist thought in identifying new aspects of knowledge to explain cases such as when someone is able to make a correct assertion about something but not to identify it perceptually or when someone can recognize a thing under one name but not another. It also explores causes of error.

Awareness, Knowledge, and Understanding People who are awake have a ‘capacity’ called ‘the knowing’ or ‘the understanding’ (A3, A22), roughly the capacity for conscious awareness and cognitive functions. This capacity is the part of us that has desires and dislikes

Epistemology  173 (A25), and it is inactive in dreamless sleep (A23). Provided we are awake, ‘the knowing’ cannot fail to be aware of something, just as people with normal eyesight who open their eyes always see something, even if what they see is merely darkness. One function of ‘the knowing’ is to know or recognize things, which is explained as ‘connecting’ with them, probably through perception, as when our eyesight veridically sees something (A5). (The same graph, zhī, is used to write both the noun ‘the knowing’ and verb ‘to know’.) The text explains knowing in this sense as ‘to know is, by means of the knowing, passing something and being able to describe its features’. To know is thus to have the ability to describe something encountered, probably by applying one or more terms to it. The Mohists do not explain it as a mental state that represents the world accurately. Functionally, demonstrating the ability to correctly apply a term to something—­such as by pointing at a dog and declaring ‘Dog!’—can be interpreted as an expression of propositional knowledge. But the text explains such knowledge as an ability to distinguish and name things correctly, rather than as a mental attitude or state that stands in a certain relation to the world. Knowing is characterized narrowly here, as the ability to recognize something one has encountered. Elsewhere the dialectical texts use the word ‘know’ (zhī) with a broader scope, such that it includes cases other than perceptual knowledge, or at least other than knowledge of things the knower has personally experienced. One passage explains that though the senses are the source of perceptual knowledge, once we know something, we need not rely on the senses in order to continue to know it (B46). Our knowledge of something—­that is, our ability to describe it—­can remain even after we no longer perceive it. We can also come to know something by having it reported or explained to us without having perceived it ourselves (A80, B9). A further function of ‘the knowing’ is discursive knowledge, here equated with ‘understanding’ (A6). This form of knowledge is explained as ‘by means of “the knowing”, discoursing on things such that one’s knowing them is obvious’. ‘Discoursing’ (lùn) is a technical term that connotes ‘assessing’ or ‘sorting’ things, specifically by distinguishing them as belonging to various ‘kinds’. Whereas knowing in the sense of canon A5—perceptual knowledge or recognition—­ is analogous to seeing something, the text indicates, discursive knowledge or understanding in the sense of canon A6 is analogous to being clear-­sighted. The two types of knowing are closely intertwined. On the one hand, knowing in the sense of A5 can be seen as an application of knowledge in the sense of A6. Knowledge as explained in A6 is a systematic competence in recognizing and classifying things that underlies the ability to recognize

174  Late Classical Chinese Thought particular things in particular contexts, which is knowing as depicted in A5. At the same time, knowing in the sense of A5 is a component of knowledge in the sense of A6, since the text says that the latter lies in being able to discourse on things—­or, more concretely, to ‘sort them out’—in a way that shows one knows them, presumably in the sense of A5. Another passage tells us that knowing—­again, presumably in the sense of A5—is the means by which one discourses on things (B34), which is the sign of knowledge in the sense of A6. Knowledge or understanding (A6) is the Mohist version of what we might call discursive knowledge, systematic knowledge of various things and relations between them. But there are interesting differences between the Mohist conception of such knowledge and conceptions prevalent in the Western trad­ition. The Mohists regard the structure of such knowledge as a taxo­nom­ ic­al system based on distinguishing similarities and differences between various ‘kinds’—and not, for example, as a deductive system, in which a limited set of general principles are deductively applied to explain and predict a wide range of things or events. They do not see knowledge as having a sentential or propositional structure, nor do they regard knowing as a matter of the knowing subject’s standing in a certain relation to a true sentence or proposition. Rather, knowledge or understanding is explained as a kind of know-­how, the ability to use ‘the knowing’ to ‘discourse’ on things, specifically by applying appropriate ‘names’ to distinguish them into kinds. This know-­how cor­res­ ponds functionally to propositional knowledge, in that it will typically be expressed in utterances of the form ‘A is B’, such as ‘oxen are animals’. In their theoretical framework, however, the Mohists do not explain such an utterance as expressing a true proposition. They explain it as manifesting the ability to distinguish oxen correctly as belonging to the kind animal. An interesting consequence of the Mohists’ account of knowledge as ability or competence is that they do not treat justification as a component that must be added to a state corresponding to belief in order to yield knowledge. The proposal that knowledge can be analysed as justified, true belief—­or justified, true belief that meets some further condition—­has been deeply influential in Western epistemology. The Mohists recognize a contrast between knowing and ‘taking to be so’ (A24, B10), an attitude corresponding to belief, but this attitude is not treated as a constituent of knowledge, to which something must be added to fulfil the conditions for knowledge. Instead, perceptual know­ ledge and discursive knowledge seem to lie primarily in the ability to recognize and correctly predicate names of things. Probably no role is assigned to justification because for the Mohists knowledge simply is a reliable ability. The role of justification in accounts of knowledge as justified true belief is

Epistemology  175 mainly to exclude accidentally true beliefs, such as lucky guesses, from counting as knowledge. The Mohists handle this issue by taking only naming and sorting that issues from a reliable ability to be knowledge. A reliability component is obvious in the case of the discursive knowledge characterized in A6, which is a comprehensive, systematic ability to sort things into what does or does not take various names. But reliability is probably also part of the conception of perceptual knowledge in A5, insofar as one must possess the re­li­able ability to recognize and name things in order to qualify as knowing. The Mohists’ account of knowledge converges in places with themes in con­tem­por­ary virtue epistemology, in particular with positions falling under the general heading of virtue reliabilism.

Sources and Objects of Knowledge Another passage in the Dialectics identifies three sources and four objects of knowledge (A80). The sources are hearsay, or testimony; ‘explanation’, or inference; and ‘personal’, or observation. Hearsay is explained as ‘receiving it when passed on’. ‘Passing on’ is glossed as ‘someone informs one’ (A81), and ‘informing’ or ‘reporting’ is explained as ‘making someone know’ (B9). ‘Explanation’ is ‘that by which one understands’ (A72), typically a process of citing reasons or causes (45/2). ‘Personal’ is explained as ‘observing it oneself ’. ‘Personal knowledge’ is thus knowledge by observation (B70). Intriguingly, in discussing ‘personal knowledge’ the Mohists do not posit any sort of epi­stem­ic or mental intermediary or representation between objects and the knowing agent, such as the ideas or impressions of Enlightenment conceptualism or the ‘sense data’ of early twentieth-­century empiricism. Nor do they consider what is known to be mere appearance or phenomena, which might stop short of the actual things encountered. Rather, perceived objects ‘enter’ directly into ‘the knowing’ by means of the ‘five routes’, or the sense organs (A98, B46). Both the Mohists and Xúnzı̌ (discussed below) can be considered ‘direct realists’ about perception, insofar as both see epistemic agents as directly in touch perceptually with the actual objects (shí) that make up the world. ‘Knowledge by explanation’ is in effect knowledge obtained by inference or reasoning (B70). The Mohists probably understand ‘explanation’ or ‘persuasion’ as a process of giving reasons to support or explain some assertion (Mz 45/2, B66). ‘Explanation’ enables us to obtain knowledge that goes beyond personal observation, such as by drawing inferences from information provided by others. Having been told that an object hidden in a room is the same colour as

176  Late Classical Chinese Thought a white object before us, we know ‘by explanation’, without observation, that the hidden object is white (B70). In a debate, having an explanation allows us to assert more than merely that something does or does not match an agreed-­ upon model. We can assert, for instance, that a circle is nowhere straight (A98). However, knowledge by explanation probably does not reflect a conception of reason in itself as a distinct source of knowledge, an idea familiar from Western rationalism. For the clearest example the Mohists give of it is not knowledge of an a priori proposition, but knowledge obtained by analogical inference from information provided by an informant (B70). So ‘knowledge by explanation’ seems a catch-­all term for knowledge obtained by inference, whether deductive, inductive, abductive, or analogical. In comparison with the Western tradition, it is notable that the Mohists privilege neither observation nor explanation—­and by extension, neither experience nor reason—­as a more fundamental source of knowledge. Both are given equal weight. Nor do they emphasize a distinction between the type or quality of knowledge derived from the two sources, such as that one is more certain than the other. Moreover, they take observation and explanation to be on a par with the third source of knowledge, ‘hearsay’, or the reports of other people. They thus explicitly recognize social sources of knowledge. The four objects of knowledge (A80) are names, objects (including events and situations), ‘matching’, and acting. The first two are explained by their role in speech. Names are ‘that by which we assert’. (In early Chinese philosophy of language, all words are considered ‘names’. See Chapter  6.) Objects are ‘what we assert about’. The next two concern the correctness of assertion and action. ‘Matching’ is when names and objects fit together properly. ‘Acting’ is intentional conduct. How to conduct oneself according to ethical and other norms is thus considered among the objects of knowledge. The first two kinds of knowledge concern familiarity, or what we might call ‘knowing-­of ’, although they too are probably manifested as abilities. Knowledge of names likely refers to knowing how to use words, without ne­ces­sar­ily knowing how to correctly distinguish what objects they refer to. An example given elsewhere in Mòzı̌ is a blind person who can use the words ‘black’ and ‘white’ in statements such as ‘Bright things are white and dark things are black’ but cannot identify black or white objects. Presumably the criterion for knowing a name is the ability to use it correctly in at least some contexts. Knowing objects probably refers to recognizing objects, events, or situations under some name—­at the very least, under the ‘all-­reaching’ name ‘thing’, which applies to everything—­without necessarily knowing the correct name for them. For example, sometimes the same kind of object may have two

Epistemology  177 names, such as ‘dog’ and ‘hound’ (B39). Someone might know of this kind of object and know to call it ‘dog’, without also knowing to call it ‘hound’. Then the person would know the object referred to by ‘hound’ but not the name ‘hound’. Knowledge of ‘matching’ lies in the ability to correctly distinguish, or identify, the kind of thing to which a name refers. This is the sort of practical know-­how that the blind man lacks. Early Mohist epistemology seems to have focused on this form of knowledge to the exclusion of the preceding two. The later Mohists also seem to have taken ‘matching’ as their primary focus, since as we saw above they explain both perceptual recognition and discursive understanding by appeal to the ability to match names with things. The fourth type of knowledge, knowledge of acting, is the ability to act correctly. That this is included in a categorization of the objects of knowledge underscores the theoretical unity of knowledge and action for the Mohists. Cognition and practical wisdom, or knowing what to do and when to do it, are both con­ sidered aspects or forms of knowledge. The Mohist account of four objects or dimensions of knowledge gives them the conceptual resources to formulate a conception of full epistemic competence with respect to some object and its associated ‘name’. Full knowledge would lie in possessing all four of the relevant abilities: the ability to use a name, distinguish the associated object, match the two correctly, and act in an appropriate way with respect to that name and object. However, although it is tempting to credit the Mohists with this conception of epistemic competence, the text does not explicitly indicate that the four aspects of knowing are tied together this way. What determines whether a name and an object ‘match’? In the paradigmatic case of general terms for kinds of things, such as oxen and horses, the Mohists held that a thing is ‘so’ with respect to a name—­that is, the name and the object ‘match’—when its features are ‘similar’ to those of a standard or model (fǎ) of the kind of thing in question (A70–71). (The concept of a standard used here is the same as that discussed in previous chapters in the context of standards of conduct and standards for following dào. Here standards are criteria to guide the use of names and thus also to evaluate assertions. See Chapter 6 for more discussion.) Standards may include the thought of a thing; measuring tools or devices for identifying it; and concrete exemplars. For example, standards for use of the name ‘round’ might include the thought of a round object, a wheelwright’s compass, and an example of a circular object (A70). In some cases, a thing must ‘match’ a model ‘exactly’, as when an object’s shape must conform completely to the arc of the compass to count as

178  Late Classical Chinese Thought a circle. In others, only ‘appropriate’ features must match (A83), as when we deem someone ‘swarthy’ on the basis of skin colour, not hair or eye colour (A96). In some cases, discriminating different kinds can be difficult, because even if we have an exemplar of the kind to employ as a standard or model, it may be hard to specify just what features are ‘appropriate’ or distinctive of that kind (B2). For example, the features of having four legs and a tail do not distinguish deer from horses or any number of other animals. To match names and objects properly, then, an agent must be able to identify a suitable standard, pick out the ‘appropriate’ features of objects by which to evaluate their similarity to the standard, and judge whether those features indeed sufficiently resemble the standard.

Doubt and Error The Dialectics identifies four sources of doubt or confusion and thus potential causes of erroneous judgement in matching names and objects. These are accidental circumstances, inconclusive evidence, causal overdetermination, and transience (B10). The first of the four seems to refer to error due to atyp­ical or unpredictable circumstances, which the Mohists see as the cause of ­perceptual illusion, among other errors. In a dense fog, for example, someone might mistake a person for an ox. Unseasonable weather might cause a person who has moved to a summer hut, expecting a heat wave, to instead feel cold. The possibility of error in such difficult or unexpected circumstances can provide a reason to doubt a judgement. The second source of doubt is insufficient evidence. We have reason to doubt that someone who lifts a load of feathers is strong, for example, since feathers are too light for lifting them to be sufficient evidence of strength. The third source is causal over­de­ter­min­ ation. A fighter’s collapse might be because he drank alcohol before the match or because he was overcome by the noonday heat. Since we may be unable to determine which factor was decisive, we have grounds to doubt any claim that one or the other was. The fourth source is transience, when the object of knowledge is something that may change, such that what we know ceases to be the case. An example (the text does not give one) might be knowing the weather. When we fled indoors, we knew it was raining heavily, but the rain may have since stopped. Interestingly, particularly in comparison with the Western tradition, the Mohists do not regard the fallibility of sense perception as grounds for doubt. Illusion or faulty perception is not even considered an independent category

Epistemology  179 of error, but only one type of confusion due to unusual circumstances, the first of the four sources. The sources of confusion and potential error that concern the Mohists lie not in the nature of perception, nor the agent’s relation to the world, but in contingent, well-­ understood features of particular circumstances—­that things are difficult to discern, atypical, causally overdetermined, transient, or provide inadequate evidence. With the possible exception of causal overdetermination, in most cases confusion or doubt can be resolved by further investigation. Nor is reality considered inherently unknowable, because of incessant phenomenal change, for example, or because appearances mislead us as to how things actually are. The Dialectics does not discuss the details of how agents might err in ‘matching’ names and objects, as when they claim knowledge of something they have observed (as in A5) but then fail to describe its features correctly. Given our sketch of how names and objects ‘match’, however, we can offer an informed conjecture as to how the Mohists might explain such errors, at least in the case of general names whose use is guided by reference to standards or models (fǎ). Agents may fail to ‘match’ names and objects correctly if they are not fully competent in applying a relevant standard, in attending to appropriate features of the object, or in judging whether the features are sufficiently similar to the standard. They may also fail if they inadvertently neglect relevant features, attend to irrelevant ones, or misjudge the degree of similarity to the standard. Suppose an agent has learned to identify objects of some kind and usually does so reliably, yet makes a mistake in a particular case. A likely cause is that the object she perceives is indeed similar to a relevant standard, but only partly. This partial similarity may lie in inappropriate or incomplete features of the object. Perhaps the person confuses an ox for a horse, noting certain factual but only very rough similarities in size and body shape while overlooking the dissimilarity in hooves and tail, which are also crucial features. Or the partial similarity could lie in an appropriate feature, but be insufficient to qualify the object as relevantly similar to the standard. Perhaps the person confuses an oval for a circle, noticing that the shape of the oval aligns partly with that of a circle, albeit only for a limited portion of its length. Typically, then, an agent who errs will get ‘part’ of the scene right but overlook some important aspect of the ‘whole’. If this conjecture about genuine but partial similarity is correct, then we can understand why for the later Mohists erroneous claims to perceptual knowledge do not cast suspicion on the reliability of the senses or prompt the worry that appearances may fail to reflect reality. Errors occur not when things have somehow been misrepresented to the agent but when the agent

180  Late Classical Chinese Thought evaluates similarities incompetently. In such cases, the agent may well have correctly noticed some similarity between the object and a relevant standard. The problem is that she has overlooked other pertinent features that are significantly dissimilar. In doing so, she has failed in the performance of an ability at which she is normally competent. Thus understood, perceptual error results from faulty performance of a skill. It is comparable to a native speaker of a language absent-­mindedly saying something grammatically incorrect. The locus of error is not the nature of perception or thought, but the agent’s inept performance. If we exercise our abilities properly, error can be avoided.

Xúnzı̌ on Epistemic Expertise Xúnzı̌ regards epistemic activity as a field of practical skill, which he calls ‘heart techniques’ or ‘arts of the heart’ (xīn shù, also interpretable as ‘arts of the mind’). He encourages competence and even excellence in the ‘arts of the heart’, as manifested in the performance of the gentleman or the sage, an agent who approaches epistemic endeavours with a commitment to excellence analogous to that of an expert athlete or performing artist. The result is a distinctive view of conscientious, competent epistemic agency and how it relates to dào.

Knowledge Xúnzı̌’s orientation as an epistemologist is reflected in how little attention he devotes to the analysis and explanation of knowledge. He takes it as obvious that knowledge is a competence in discriminating and naming things, spe­cif­ ic­al­ly for the purpose of guiding action so that we carry out the dào. Like the Mohists, he refers to the capacity or faculty of knowledge as ‘the knowing’ or ‘the understanding’ (zhī) (Xz 22/5). Knowledge is demonstrated by distinguishing correctly, with respect to some ‘name’, or term, what is ‘this’ (shì) from what is ‘not’ (fēi) (2/12), such that the attitudes of ‘the knowing’ ‘match’ the distinctions between things (22/5). The functional counterpart to belief is the attitude of deeming something the kind of thing designated by some name. The counterpart to judging is distinguishing or discriminating something as taking some name. As in later Mohist thought, the use of names rests on norms for drawing distinctions between things that are the same or not. Members of the same speech community can converge on such norms

Epistemology  181 because, since we are creatures of the same kind, with the same sort of constitution, our sense organs detect things similarly, enabling us to establish conventions for the use of names to discriminate different kinds of things (22/16). Similarities and differences between features of things are ‘­differentiated’ by means of the sense organs—­the eyes, ears, mouth, nose, and body (the sense of touch or feel). The heart (xīn) differentiates cognitive, affective, and conative features. Intriguingly, for Xúnzı̌ cognition is partly distributed between the heart and the other organs, as the sense organs themselves ‘­differentiate’ their objects. Besides differentiating psychological states such as reasons, emotions, desires, and aversions, the heart has a special function befitting its status as the ‘natural ruler’ of the other organs (Xz 17/12). This is ‘the verifying knowing’ (22/19), a capacity to confirm the characteristics of things and thus recognize what they are. The sense organs ‘register’ the features of things, and the heart ‘verifies’, or recognizes, them—­sounds by means of the ears, shapes by means of the eyes, and so forth. To qualify as having perceptual knowledge of something, an agent’s sense organs must ‘register’ it and the heart must ‘verify’ it, such that the agent is able to ‘explain’ what it is (22/20). This latter requirement seems similar to the later Mohist view that to have perceptual know­ ledge of something, we must be able to characterize its features. Probably the requirement is that the agent be able to correctly apply a name to the thing, and perhaps also to explain the features by which to discriminate the thing as belonging to the kind denoted by that name. Either way, to count as knowing a thing, an agent must demonstrate competence by applying names to it appropriately. Arguably, an implication of both the Mohist and Xúnzian views is that knowledge is regarded as inherently linguistic or conceptual. A further similarity to the later Mohists is that Xúnzı̌’s theory depicts the sense organs as directly differentiating their objects, rather than generating mental representations of them that the heart then distinguishes. Unlike familiar Hellenistic and early modern theories of perception in the West, Xunzi’s account ascribes no role to mental contents such as sense data, mental images, ideas, or impressions. The text’s theoretical framework comprises only features of things—­such as shape, sound, sweetness, odour, or heat—­the sense organs, which differentiate these features, and the heart, which employs the sense organs to ‘verify’ or recognize them. The absence of such conceptual or epistemic intermediaries is one likely reason that the distinctions between appearance and reality and between phenomena and noumena play no role in classical Chinese thought. It also helps to explain why classical Chinese ­thinkers were not troubled by sense scepticism (see the discussion of error below).

182  Late Classical Chinese Thought Xúnzı̌ converges with the Mohists again in specifying no justification requirement for knowing. Knowledge is simply success in distinguishing and naming objects. Accidentally correct performances do not count as know­ledge because knowledge is implicitly associated with systematic competence across a variety of interrelated and contrasting cases. The knowing of a highly competent agent is said to connect together a unified system of kind distinctions (Xz 8/122) or enable discourse on a myriad cases while demonstrating ­mastery of a system of kinds (23/78). Arguably, Xúnzı̌ ’s conception of know­ledge here coincides with what we might think of as understanding or ­wisdom. It involves competence not merely in recognizing things but in grasping the ‘patterns’ (lı̌) by which they are organized (21/9), including how they ­normally function and how they relate to each other. As we will see, Xúnzı̌ ’s concept of ‘patterns’ is pivotal to his conception of epistemic excellence.

Cognitive Error Xúnzı̌’s major interest is not the theoretical project of explaining knowledge but the practical project of improving our epistemic competence by learning to avoid error. Avoiding error is the central topic of the major epistemological discussion in the Xúnzı̌, ‘Resolving Obscuration’. Its chief concern is how to  use our cognitive and reflective capacities to avoid ‘obscuration’ or ­‘blin­ker­ing’ (bì), a catch-­ all term for conditions that obstruct correct distinction-­drawing. ‘Resolving Obscuration’ explicitly presents the ‘part-­ whole’ explanation of error that I suggested above implicitly fits the later Mohist theoretical picture. Errors in attaining and applying knowledge arise from fixating on and thus being ‘blinkered’ by only part of the relevant factors or circumstances, such that we are unclear about the overall pattern of things. All troubles that people have are due to their being blinkered by one corner, putting them in the dark as to the larger patterns (lı̌). (Xz 21/1)

Errors arise not from misrepresentation of the world, nor a gap between appearance and reality, but from epistemic incompetence—­specifically, from fixing our attention in the wrong direction, such that we consider only some factors rather than all those relevant to discrimination. Erroneous judgements are thus generally not wholly mistaken. The problem is that they are biased or one-­sided and so only partly correct.

Epistemology  183 According to Xúnzı̌, such bias occurs because the heart is disturbed, ­mis­dir­ect­ed, or hampered by internal conditions, such as emotions or fixations, or external conditions, such as darkness, interference with the sense organs, or alcohol. These conditions impede the agent in responding to relevant aspects of the ‘larger patterns’ in some situation. Conscientious, competent agents can avoid error because they employ the heart so as to prevent such conditions from interfering with correct discrimination. Perceptual error thus is not ascribed to flaws in the functioning of the sense organs. Nor is it con­sidered evidence that perception is inherently deceptive or unreliable. It occurs not because perception or the senses are untrustworthy, but because agents have failed to employ their capacities properly. Xúnzı̌ applies this theory to explain error on two levels, the general level of recognizing the overall dào one should live by and the concrete level of conducting oneself according to a particular dào. As examples of error on the general level, he criticizes other philosophers who emphasize some values while, in his view, being blinkered to others. The problem with rival thinkers such as Mòzı̌ or Zhuāngzı̌, Xúnzı̌ thinks, is not that their teachings are wholly wrong, but that they are partial, one-­sided, or incomplete. Each possesses only ‘one corner of the dào’ and is blind to the rest (Xz 21/24). Such blin­ker­ ing typically occurs when people are partial to what they have already learned and prefer not to hear of its flaws or the advantages of other approaches (21/3). It thus prevents them from seeking what is right. Almost anything can cause one-­sidedness or blinkering, Xúnzı̌ holds. His fundamental explanation of the cause of blinkering is that the various differences between things tend to obscure each other, disrupting our ability to ‘sort’ or ‘grade’ things properly (Xz 21/7, 21/29). (As we saw, the ability to sort things correctly is also a crucial part of the Mohist conception of discursive knowledge or understanding.) Xúnzı̌’s idea is probably that one-­sidedly or injudiciously attending to any one distinction or value makes us prone to overlook others that may also be pertinent. Hence he attacks rival thinkers for emphasizing one value or basing their dào on one notion at the expense of other equally important ones. Mòzı̌, for instance, was ‘blinkered by utility and did not know cultural form’ (21/21): he focused so one-­sidedly on material utility that he neglected the importance of cultural or aesthetic form and its role in underwriting utility. (For example, Xúnzı̌ might suggest the Mohist utilitarian ideal of benefiting all cannot be adequately fulfilled without aesthetic, cultural practices such as ceremonial propriety.) In such cases, says Xúnzı̌, our focus on one side of a distinction interferes with our understanding of what falls on the other side (21/38). A further dimension of the

184  Late Classical Chinese Thought problem is that any distinguishing feature we attend to in discriminating things biases us towards understanding them specifically by reference to that feature, when other patterns of similarity and difference are always present as well. A trivial example is that in attending to what is desirable about something, we may overlook what is detestable about it, or in attending to what is beneficial about it, we may overlook what is harmful (3/45–49). On a deeper level, any values or norms we live by will tend to blinker us towards alternative values and ways of life. The second level of error Xúnzı̌ considers is performance error in following a particular dào—­including the dào that guides perception, judgement, and the use of names. Even if we are committed to following the right dào, we may still commit errors in concrete situations. In such cases, obscuration or blin­ ker­ing may arise not only from psychological factors that bias our attention but from external circumstances that interfere with normal perception, as when darkness hampers vision or distance obscures the size of things. Xúnzı̌ contends that only a fool injudiciously discriminates how things stand in potentially confusing circumstances. When there are grounds for doubt or one’s heart is unsettled, the competent epistemic agent recognizes the difficulty and withholds judgement. Whenever in observing things there is doubt or one’s heart within is not settled, then external things are unclear. Our thinking being unclear, we can’t yet fix ‘so’ or ‘not-­so’.  (Xz 21/67)

Xúnzı̌’s examples of unclear circumstances include perceptual illusion, intoxication, unreliable means, and incompetent testimony (Xz 21/68). Someone walking in the dark might mistake a horizontal boulder for a crouching tiger or a small tree for a person, for example, because ‘the darkness obscures their vision’. A drunk will stoop while exiting the city gate, taking it to be a low doorway, because ‘the alcohol disrupts his spirit’. We do not judge how at­tract­ive we look by our reflection in moving water, because ‘the water’s position is disturbed’. Nor do we determine whether there are stars in the sky by asking the blind, because their ‘functional proficiency is confused’. Xúnzı̌’s key claim about these examples is that competent agents are not misled in such dubious circumstances, because they attend to the ‘larger patterns’—the broader context—­and so are not blinkered by the strictly partial resemblance between the objects they are observing and the reference objects to which they are misleadingly similar.

Epistemology  185 So from a mountaintop looking down at oxen, they are similar to sheep, but someone seeking sheep does not go down to lead them away; the distance obscures their size. From the foot of a mountain looking up at trees, ten-­meter trees are similar to chopsticks, but someone seeking chopsticks does not go up to break them off; the height obscures their length.  (Xz 21/71)

A competent agent discounts or compensates for the effects of unfavourable observational conditions, such as darkness, distance, or intoxication, and so avoids error. Ultimately error is due not to the conditions that temporarily obscure observation, but to how competently we employ the heart in response to them. Fundamentally, the source of error lies in the agent’s poor judgement. Even when perceptual error does occur, the agent typically dis­crim­in­ates on the basis of some genuine similarity between the circumstances and standards of the kind in question. In some respects, for example, the outline of a horizontal stone may indeed resemble that of a tiger, or the shape of distant oxen in the valley below may indeed resemble that of nearby sheep. The problem is that these limited similarities are an insufficient basis for dis­crim­in­at­ing the stone as a tiger or the oxen as sheep. For the similarity is only partial, and there are other, dissimilar features to which a competent agent should also attend, even if ‘confusing’ or ‘obscuring’ circumstances make doing so difficult. Still, agents who commit errors in such circumstances will usually discover and correct them quickly enough. Someone who hikes down to herd the distant ‘sheep’ will soon learn how to judge animals’ size from a distance. This discussion of error has two major implications. One is that for Xúnzı̌ error does not entail that perception is unreliable, appearances are deceptive, the nature of reality is misleading, or we could be systematically out of touch with the world. For this reason, to Xúnzı̌, sense scepticism simply is not a worry. Epistemic errors are due to a failure of competence, analogous to failing to perform a skill properly. They are analogous to stumbling over a bump in the sidewalk or coming to an abrupt stop when we absent-­mindedly push on a door marked ‘pull’. We are firmly engaged with the world, and when we err, typically we are still correct about some part of our circumstances—­just not about the ‘larger patterns’. Second, epistemic competence is not simply a matter of distinguishing things correctly in simple cases—­just as competence in any field is not demonstrated by handling only trivial cases—­because an agent who can manage only simple cases might easily become confused in more complex conditions. To demonstrate genuine competence, we must be able to avoid ‘blinkering’ or ‘obscuration’ even in challenging circumstances. The performance of a highly competent epistemic agent will thus involve a

186  Late Classical Chinese Thought higher-­order competence in identifying such circumstances, assessing how they may present difficulties for one’s performance, and compensating accordingly, as we do when observing things in the dark or from a distance.

Dào and Epistemic Expertise Xúnzı̌ regards the use of the heart to discriminate things and guide action as a field of skill or technique, which he calls ‘arts of the heart’ (Xz 21/28). As with any art or skill, performance can be improved through training and conscientious practice. As we have seen, the heart is responsible for discriminating things on the basis of differences between them detected via the sense organs. Through its discriminating function, the heart handles cognition, judgement, and reasoning. But Xúnzı̌ sees these as subsidiary operations; the heart’s chief function is to guide action. In one place, Xúnzı̌ describes the heart as the ‘labour supervisor’ (22/40) of the dào, responsible for managing the other organs and the person as a whole so that the work of following the dào is performed properly. For the agent to discriminate and act according to the dào, the heart must be employed effectively. A key to proper performance is to prevent the heart from losing balance, leading to bias, blinkering, and one-­ sided, faulty performance. Thus a person’s heart can be compared to a pan of water. Place it upright and do not move it, and the sediment settles to the bottom and the clear water rises to the top. Then it is sufficient to see your beard and eyebrows and discern the fine patterns on your face. A breeze passing over it, the sediment moves below and the clear water is disturbed on top, and you cannot get even the general outline right. The heart too is like this. So guide it with pattern, cultivate it with clarity, and let nothing bias it. Then it will be sufficient to fix right and wrong and settle doubts. If minor things pull it about, then externally one’s uprightness will be altered and internally the heart will be biased, and it will be insufficient to decide even gross patterns.  (Xz 21/54)

Through appropriate ‘guiding’ and ‘cultivating’ in the ‘arts of the heart’, we can develop the epistemic expertise to avoid error. To discriminate ‘this/right’ (shì) from ‘not/wrong’ (fēi) and resolve confusing circumstances, we can learn to maintain an impartial, upright stance and an undisturbed, unbiased heart. To undertake this training, however, we need a set of neutral, reliable norms that specify the relevant distinctions and guide us in acting on them, correcting our errors, and improving our epistemic competence. For Xúnzı̌,

Epistemology  187 the most fundamental aspect of epistemic agency is our capacity to approve, commit to, and practise such a system of norms—­which is precisely what dào is. The dào—­specifically, the system of kind distinctions, names, social roles, norms of propriety, and associated duties passed down through the Zhōu dynasty cultural and political tradition—­provides an impartial ‘scale’ to guide discrimination and action (Xz 21/29). Dào enables us to avoid the biases produced by attending to only one side of a distinction or one part of a scene by approaching things comprehensively, in terms of their relation to everything else, and thus grasping the ‘larger patterns’ (21/51). A gentleman with ex­pert­ise in dào is focused fully on dào, rather than on particular, partial interests or features, and so acts correctly. He takes dào as a basis for examining things and hence is discerning in how he discriminates them into kinds. Since he uses correct intentions to undertake discerning sorting of kinds, the myriad things all find their proper place (21/52). Before we can apply the dào in this way, however, our heart must ‘approve’ it, and before we can ‘approve’ it, we must recognize it (Xz 21/32). We recognize dào by being ‘open-­minded’ or ‘empty’, ‘focused’ or ‘unified’, and ‘calm’ or  ‘still’ (21/34). (Xúnzı̌ here borrows the terminology of Daoist self-­ cultivation—‘empty’, ‘still’—while giving the terms a different interpretation.) ‘Open-­mindedness’ refers to the heart remaining open to new information despite all we have already learned. ‘Focused’ refers to seeking to understand each thing on its own, without interference from the manner in which we distinguish it from other things. ‘Calm’ refers to avoiding distraction by the imagination or irrelevant thoughts. By being open, says Xúnzı̌, one who seeks the dào may enter it; by being focused, one who undertakes to follow it may master it; by being calm, one who contemplates the dào can become discerning; and in this way one can ultimately come to embody dào (21/39). Through conscientiously seeking to be open-­minded, focusing carefully on discrete things, and avoiding distraction, we can identify and approve the appropriate norms to guide the ‘arts of the heart’. We can then apply these norms to develop epistemic expertise, most likely with the companionship and guidance of other followers of dào, such as teachers and friends (21/33, 2/2). Ultimately, then, epistemic excellence requires reliable, competent per­form­ ance in typical circumstances; a higher-­order competence in assessing and coping with atypical circumstances; an open-­minded, focused, calm approach to identifying appropriate epistemic norms; and a conscientious commitment to mastering them. Xúnzı̌’s discussion raises a cluster of questions about the status of the norms by which we assess and train epistemic competence. How can we determine whether we are indeed sufficiently open-­minded, focused, and

188  Late Classical Chinese Thought calm to identify dào correctly? What grounds are there for thinking everyone who seeks dào will converge on the same norms? What justifies the claim that some particular tradition of dào constitutes an objective, impartial ‘scale’ that reflects the ‘larger patterns’? Might Xúnzı̌’s own dào actually be biased, just as he claims rival conceptions of dào are? We will return to these questions in the section on Zhuāngzı̌ below.

Epistemic Virtue in the Annals Applied epistemology is among the major themes of Lǚ’s Annals, as expressly stated in the postface that follows the first twelve sections, the original core of  the compendium. The scholar-­ officials who wrote and edited the Annals  sought to convince rulers and princes of the pivotal importance of knowledge—­and the utility of scholar-­officials themselves as advisors—­in successful rule, particularly in avoiding catastrophic mistakes that might bring ruin on the state and its people. Applying the notions of bias and impartiality familiar from the discussion of political thought in Chapter 2, the text explains how to conduct oneself according to the ‘patterns’ (lı̌) of the world so as to cancel out personal biases (sī). ‘For biased vision makes the eyes blind; biased hearing makes the ears deaf; biased thinking makes the heart mad.’ If all three are biased, ‘one’s knowledge has no way to be impartial (gōng), and if knowledge is not impartial, fortune steadily declines, while disasters steadily increase’ (Lscq 12.6; 61). Epistemic impartiality is especially critical for a ruler, since his errors in judgement can easily lead to destruction of the state and loss of life. As the postface indicates, epistemic discussions in the Annals are deeply practical, concerned with fortune and misfortune. The most prominent motif in these discussions is competence in avoiding bias and error. Knowledge is treated as conceptually unproblematic. The text is unconcerned with analysis, explanation, or evaluation of knowledge or justification, and it does not distinguish clearly between knowledge, understanding, wisdom, and intelligence. The pivotal concern is with realizing full, competent use of our cognitive capacities by attending to the facts, so that we can employ knowledge to guide action reliably. One passage—­discussed below—­suggests that the text’s epistemological concerns are an extension of the ethical stance that the good life lies in fulfilling our nature-­endowed capacities (see Chapter 3). The Annals repeatedly raises three major epistemological themes. The first is that the dimension of knowledge that matters most is not knowledge of

Epistemology  189 discrete states of affairs but systematic understanding of how things interact and thus what plans will succeed and what will follow from various actions. Of special concern are patterns of causal influence or development and fine patterns of similarity or dissimilarity that affect success or failure. Whenever things are thus-­and-­so, there is surely a cause. If you don’t know the cause, then even if you’re right, it’s the same as not knowing; in the end there will surely be difficulty. . . . The sage does not examine preservation and loss or worthiness and unworthiness but instead examines how these come about. (Lscq 9.4; 44.1)

Prominent examples of this theme include numerous essays that discuss foresight into how things ‘evolve’ or ‘transform’ (huà)—insight into how situ­ations are likely to change or develop over time, grounded in understanding of subtle, long-­term causal relations. According to one essay, ‘in all cases, what is valuable about knowledge is knowing how things evolve’ (Lscq 23.3; 139.1). Such causal knowledge is crucial to effective governance, as rulers must understand the likely consequences of their actions before undertaking them. An example the text gives is that, contrary to a trusted counsellor’s advice, King Fūchāi of Wú attacked and conquered the state of Qí only to later have his own state destroyed in a retributive invasion from its traditional rival Yuè. King Fūchāi offers an example of how affairs may seem favourable but then turn adverse or seem adverse but then turn favourable. ‘Those who understand how the favourable turns adverse or the adverse turns favourable’ are worthy companions with whom to discuss how events ‘evolve’ (25.1; 149.1). Two further stories vividly illustrate the theme of understanding how affairs evolve. In one, a visitor mentions to Zı̌yáng, chancellor of Zhèng, that Lièzı̌, a well-­known scholar, lives in poverty in his state, a situation potentially damaging to the state’s reputation. Zı̌yáng dispatches a large gift of grain to Lièzı̌, who declines it. When Lièzı̌’s wife protests, he explains that since Zı̌yáng bestowed the grain merely at someone’s suggestion, he might equally well later condemn Lièzı̌ for some arbitrary misconduct merely at someone’s suggestion. Eventually Zı̌yáng is killed in a revolt. Had Lièzı̌ unwisely accepted the gift, he would have been obligated to sacrifice his life for Zı̌yáng in morally dubious circumstances. The text praises Lièzı̌, commenting, ‘To avoid carelessly accepting a gift even when troubled by cold and hunger is  foresight into how things evolve. To foresee how things evolve and act first is to be far-­sighted in the inherent features of nature and fate’ (Lscq 16.2; 85.2).

190  Late Classical Chinese Thought The second story concerns Confucius’s ability to project how small details evolve into far-­reaching effects. By the laws of the state of Lǔ—Confucius’s home state—­residents who redeemed another Lǔ native from bonded service in a foreign state would be reimbursed by the Lǔ treasury. Confucius’s student Zı̌gòng redeemed someone but declined to collect the reimbursement. Confucius criticized him, remarking that, because of his decision, no one from Lǔ would redeem people anymore. By contrast, another student, Zı̌lù, saved someone from drowning and accepted an ox the person’s family offered in gratitude. Henceforth, Confucius said, the people of Lǔ would certainly save drowning victims. The text comments, ‘When they begin, matters of order and disorder or preservation and loss are as minute as an autumn hair; examine the autumn hairs, and in major affairs you will not err’ (Lscq 16.6; 90.1). (Animals were thought to grow especially fine hair in autumn as their winter coats developed.) The patterns of the world are knowable, but things interact and develop in subtle, complex ways that require care to discern. Besides causal development, a further area of special concern is partial but limited similarities between things, which can make it genuinely difficult to identify which of their features are significant for guiding action. The work of distinguishing things into informative, analogically relevant kinds is challenging and fallible. What makes people greatly confused is surely the similarities between things. What troubles the jade merchant is stones that resemble jade. What troubles the sword appraiser is swords that resemble Wúgān [a sword of le­gend­ary excellence]. What troubles the worthy ruler are ­people who, [though] widely learned and articulate, [merely] resemble someone competent. (Lscq 22.3; 133.1)

The point is not that reality is deceptive but that recognizing the ‘right’ similarities can be difficult. One problem is that a sorites-­like series of partial similarities can add up to a significant difference. ‘Dogs resemble macaques; macaques resemble apes; apes resemble people; but people are only distantly related to dogs. This is how fools commit serious mistakes’ (Lscq 22.6; 136.1). Another is that things similar in some respects may have other features that vary in unpredictable ways, making it difficult to draw reliable analogical generalizations about different kinds of things. Many kinds of things are [both] so and not-­so; thus states perish and people are massacred without cease. Among grasses there are the shēn and lěi; eaten

Epistemology  191 alone, they kill, but eaten mixed they extend life. . . . Lacquer is liquid; water is liquid; mix the two and they form a solid; wet it and it dries. Gold is soft; tin is soft; mix the two and they become hard; heat the alloy and it becomes a liquid. One dries when you wet it; the other becomes a liquid when you heat it. The features of different kinds of things really can’t be taken for certain; can we know them by analogical inference?  (Lscq 25.2; 150.1)

The second major epistemological theme is that much cognitive error arises from causes that are well understood and thus readily avoided. Foremost among these, for the Annals as for Xúnzı̌, is cognitive bias or one-­sidedness, which presents a particularly troublesome obstacle to knowledge and to fulfilling our natural cognitive capacities. According to two essays, a major source of error is what the texts call ‘confinement’, a one-­sided bias in thought introduced by ‘confining’ one’s attention to certain factors while neglecting others. (The text’s word for such ‘confining bias’ is ‘yòu’. The philosophy of Sòng Xíng sketched in Chapter  3 also advocated ‘removing bias’, using the same technical term.) As in Xúnzı̌, such biases provide a ‘part-­whole’ ex­plan­ ation of error: mistakes arise when the agent attends to only part of the relevant circumstances rather than the overall situation. Here the cause of error is not the complexity of things, as it might be in cases of failure to foresee long-­ term causal consequences or failure to notice subtle dissimilarities between partly similar things. It is the agent’s own incompetence. We make mistakes by confining attention to only some relevant factors while overlooking others. To reflect this idea of fixing the attention one way while obstructing oneself from looking other ways, let me interpret ‘yòu’ too as ‘blinkering’, thereby highlighting the convergence between the views of the Annals and Xúnzı̌. As to what blinkers people, there are many causes, but the crux of these is surely what people enjoy or dislike. Someone who looks towards the east does not see the west wall; someone who gazes towards the south does not observe the north. The attention has something it is fixed on. (Lscq 13.3; 64.1)

The visual metaphor is informative. Errors arise not from a failure to perceive the world or because perception is inherently unreliable. The person looking towards the east reliably sees what lies in that direction. Errors occur because we look one way and neglect the other. The problem lies in how we confine our ‘attention’ (yì, also ‘intention’ or ‘thought’). Such blinkering can lead to farcical errors in judgement.

192  Late Classical Chinese Thought There was a man of Qí who wanted to get gold. In the morning, he put on his clothes and cap and went to the gold-­sellers’ place. Seeing people hand­ling gold, he seized and stole it. The guards arrested and restrained him. They asked him, ‘All the people were there—­why did you seize people’s gold?’ He answered them, ‘It’s just that I didn’t see the people; I saw only the gold.’ This is a really serious case of having something that blinkers you. When people are blinkered by something, indeed they take daylight to be darkness, white to be black, and a sage-­king like Yáo to be a tyrant like Jié. Blinkering makes for serious mistakes indeed.  (Lscq 16.7; 91.3)

Blinkering affects even the most basic cognitive performance, drawing distinctions correctly. Thus, the text claims, removing blinkering is a precondition for knowing: ‘people must first remove blinkers and only then can they know.’ Echoing phrasing we saw in the ‘nurturing life’ discussion in Chapter 3, it asserts that ‘if you remove blinkers, you can fulfil your natural endowment’ (Lscq 16.7; 91.3). The implication is that knowing issues from normal functioning of our natural capacities. Blinkering of the attention produces biases that interfere with this functioning, in extreme cases so severely that we take things one way or another without any grounds at all. There was a man who lost his axe and suspected his neighbour’s son. He looked at how the boy walked: he’d stolen the axe. His facial expressions: he’d stolen the axe. His speech: he’d stolen the axe. All his movements and manners indicated he’d stolen the axe. Digging by his home, the man found his axe. Another day he saw his neighbour’s son again. None of his movements and manners seemed like he’d stolen an axe. It’s not that his neighbour’s son had changed; he himself had changed. The change was nothing other than that there was something that blinkered him.  (Lscq 13.3; 64.2)

A related cause of error—­illustrated in an example shared with Xúnzı̌—is that our standpoint or perspective shapes what similarities between things are prominent, thus potentially biasing our judgement. If you climb a mountain, when you look at oxen below, they resemble goats; when you look at goats, they resemble piglets. The nature of oxen isn’t like goats’; the nature of goats isn’t like piglets’. The mistake lies in the position from which you look. If for this reason someone were to become angry about the small size of the oxen or goats, he’d be the biggest madman in the world. (Lscq 23.5; 141.3)

Epistemology  193 The false similarity between the animals is due to the inappropriate position from which we observe them. A competent agent knows better than to judge size from the top of a distant hill. Whereas blinkering induces error through biased use of our attention, then, injudicious ‘positioning’ can induce error by leading us to consider things from a only single, limited standpoint rather than investigating them from different standpoints. A further type of fixation that produces error is blindly assuming one possesses knowledge when in fact one is ignorant. The Annals is acutely aware of what we now call the Dunning–­Kruger effect, a bias by which those of low ability tend to overestimate their competence. ‘The problem with those who err is that they don’t know yet take themselves to know’ (Lscq 25.2; 150.1). Those who take themselves to know are closed-­minded and unable to learn. So it’s not that failed states lack intelligent officers or lack worthies; it’s that their ruler has no way to ‘connect’ [with any of the information they might offer]. The problem with having no way to connect [with information] is that one takes oneself to know, and so one’s intelligence surely doesn’t connect [to anything]. Now to fail to connect yet take oneself to know is perverse. (Lscq 16.3; 87.1)

Although the text does not explicitly tie this theme to blinkering, the latter motif easily explains it. Those who ignorantly assume they possess knowledge are blinkered by what they are indeed familiar with, such that they fail to attend to other, unfamiliar points. The third major epistemological theme is the text’s proposed remedy for the various epistemic difficulties it presents. How are we to avoid blinkering and alert ourselves to our own ignorance? How do we identify root causes, distinguish things into action-­ guiding kinds, and foresee how events will evolve? For the Annals, the answer lies in combining epistemic humility and caution with discipline in examining things against standards and measures. So the nature of rulers is that none make mistakes because of what they doubt; they make mistakes because of what they don’t doubt. None make mistakes because of what they don’t know; they make mistakes because of what they do know. So even if we don’t doubt, even if we do know, we must examine things against standards, assess them with measures, and check them with numbers. In this way, there will be no mistakes in distinguishing right and wrong and no errors in conduct.  (Lscq 13.5; 66.1)

194  Late Classical Chinese Thought As in Xúnzı̌, then, the epistemology of the Annals ultimately revolves around the issue of improving our epistemic performance by seeking out and carefully applying appropriate criteria. Properly used, our inherent capacities—­ the ‘inherent features of our nature and fate’—are sufficient to attain knowledge, provided we apply them in light of criteria we learn from the historical precedents set by the sage-­kings. Now the most confused don’t know to return to the inherent features of their nature and fate; the next don’t know to observe how the five emperors and three kings succeeded—­so how do they know what is unacceptable in their own era? How do they know where they themselves fall short? The highest is to know things; the next is to know that you don’t know. If you don’t know, then ask; if you lack competence, then learn.  (Lscq 13.5; 66.2)

At the core of the applied epistemology of the Annals, then, is a roughly ar­ticu­lated epistemic virtue, or cluster of virtues, involving humility, caution, discipline, critical self-­assessment, and openness to learning from others. The text does not foreground and label this virtue. But a fitting name for it might be shèn, interpretable as conscientiousness or meticulousness. Many kinds of assertions look wrong but are right; many kinds look right but are wrong. One mustn’t fail to distinguish the threads of right and wrong—­this is something about which the sage is meticulous. So how then to be meticulous? Consider what you hear by tracing the facts about things and the facts about people, and then you’ll get it.  (Lscq 22.6; 136.3)

The Annals thus presents an approach to practical or applied epistemology focusing on epistemic meticulousness and alertness to pitfalls such as blin­ ker­ing. In advocating disciplined use of standards and measures, it stresses the importance of citing appropriate criteria but does not explore how to identify them. In its focus on avoiding error and fulfilling our natural capacities, it seems to imply that errors generally occur only in cases of incompetent performance, knowledge being the default outcome of normal cognitive functioning.

‘Understanding’ and Scepticism in Zhuāngzı ̌ The preceding sections have explained how late classical thinkers regard knowledge as what we might call a ‘taxonomical’ competence in correctly

Epistemology  195 drawing distinctions between relevantly similar and dissimilar things. Knowledge is deeming what is this ‘this’ and what is not ‘not’ (Xz 2/12). Accordingly, a widely shared concern is to identify the norms by which to draw distinctions correctly. The later Mohists apply standards—­exemplars of how to draw distinctions—­as criteria to guide discrimination. Xúnzı̌ ties epi­ stem­ic expertise to a self-­conscious concern with identifying dào, an impartial ‘scale’ by which to check distinctions and avoid bias. The conscientious agent is explicitly concerned with seeking dào and thus grasping the ‘larger patterns’ of things by applying an open-­minded, focused, and calm mindset. Lǚ’s Annals too is concerned with avoiding bias by carefully applying standards to examine our assumptions and by meticulously considering the facts. Xúnzı̌ contends that the open-­minded, conscientious epistemic agent can discover a privileged dào—­the dào passed down through the ‘later kings’ of the Zhōu cultural tradition—­that is uniquely free of bias or blinkering (Xz 21/27). Given Xúnzı̌’s own account of blinkering, however, it is difficult to see how any single dào could claim special authority. Any dào will emphasize certain values or ways of drawing distinctions and disregard others. The selective emphasis of one dào may constitute unacceptable blinkering by the norms of a rival dào, which might offer an equally plausible way to frame the ‘larger patterns’. Indeed, proponents of competing dào are likely to see Xúnzı̌’s claim to special status for the Zhōu dào as patently biased. These observations help to clarify the discursive background to a striking critique of fixed ways of distinguishing ‘this’ and ‘not’ that appears in book 2 of the Zhuāngzı̌, ‘Discourse on Evening Things Out’. As we saw in Chapter 1, ‘Evening Things Out’ holds that any dào we follow is ‘formed’ or ‘completed’ in practice by proceeding along it (Zz 2/33). In undertaking such a practice, we pick out features of things by which to distinguish what is ‘this/right’, or relevantly similar, from what is ‘not/wrong’, or dissimilar. Our practices for deeming things ‘this’ or ‘not’ are the source of recognized boundaries between things (2/22, 2/55). The action-­guiding ‘divisions’ between things that articulate a particular dào are thus instituted by distinction-­drawing practices we adopt in interaction with natural conditions. ‘Evening Things Out’ contends that such distinctions can be drawn in indeterminately many ways, each of them ‘formed’ or ‘completed’ in certain respects while ‘deficient’ in others (2/35). Hence each such dào reveals certain patterns in things while neglecting others. Each has its respective biases or blind spots. ‘So in dividing, something is not divided; in distinguishing, something is not distinguished. . . . In distinguishing, something is not seen’ (2/57). In phrasing that recalls the discussion of ‘blinkering’ in Xúnzı̌ and the Annals, the text suggests that the potential plurality and diversity of dào are

196  Late Classical Chinese Thought ‘concealed’ from those who insist that their way of distinguishing ‘this’ and ‘not’ is uniquely correct, because of how they have ‘completed’ a confined, ‘small-­scale’ dào. Such ‘small-­scale completion’ habituates people into seeing and doing things one way while obscuring other ways. ‘Small-­scale completion’, the text contends, explains the interminable arguments in which competing schools of thought such as the Ruists and Mohists contradict each other as to what is ‘this’ or ‘not’. If we want to contradict how they distinguish ‘this’ and ‘not’—and thus see that a path contrary to theirs can also be dào—­we can best do so through ‘understanding’ or ‘clarity’ (míng) (Zz 2/27). ‘Understanding’ can be interpreted as a form of practical wisdom stemming from a grasp of the pragmatic basis for the distinctions that articulate particular dào—­specifically, how our practices divide various paths out of the field of available dào. One who ‘understands’ sees that, from the perspective of one practice or another, ‘no thing is not that; no thing is not this’. Any dào one might undertake has its respective blind spots: ‘From that one, one does not see it; from this one, one knows it’ (Zz 2/27). Since action-­guiding distinctions are fixed by our practices, however, they can be redrawn in indefinitely many ways, if needed, by modifying our practices. To the agent with ‘understanding’, the pivotal point in following dào is to grasp how the ‘this’ versus ‘not’ distinction can be redrawn without limit in accordance with (yīn) particular circumstances (2/29, 2/31). Aware of how different paths may have different advantages and deficiencies, the sagely person with ‘understanding’ makes no attempt to chart a definite, clear course in advance. Instead of imposing fixed distinctions between ‘this’ and ‘not’, the sage provisionally deals with things according to what is ‘useful’, ‘free-­flowing’, and practically effective (2/47). The sagely dào is to adapt how we draw distinctions to the context, without knowing as we proceed exactly how we will do so (2/37). Xúnzı̌ and the Annals establish a discursive context concerned with epi­ stem­ic conscientiousness and with identifying appropriate dào or standards. In this context, ‘understanding’ can be construed as a deeper, more thorough-­ going insight into and conscientiousness concerning the status of the standards and dào we take as the basis for judgement. An implication is that even the Xúnzian sage who open-­mindedly seeks an unbiased dào has not been meticulous enough. If we are genuinely open-­minded, focused, and calm, we will jettison the idea that any single, practicable dào could provide a uniquely authoritative grasp of the ‘larger patterns’. No one dào reveals all potentially significant aspects of the patterns, although a plurality of dào might allow us to respond fruitfully to different ranges of patterns and thus avoid confining ourselves to ‘small-­scale completion’. The epistemically virtuous agent—­the

Epistemology  197 agent who applies ‘understanding’—will be aware of a range of paths and standards open to us, for various purposes, and will be prepared to adapt to concrete situations by shifting among them, depending on what seems most useful in light of contextually specified, continually evolving ends. Epistemic activity is treated as perpetually contingent, fallible, and ameliorative. On this construal, the person of ‘understanding’ might seem to forgo claims to ever know how things really stand. But consider again the practical nature of dào. In classical Chinese thought, the core concern is not to know how things stand in the sense of seeking a uniquely correct representation of the structure of reality. It is to know how they stand in the sense of knowing how to engage with them effectively in practice, according to some dào. In a dào-centred framework, we can think of knowledge along lines familiar from engineering. There is no such thing as a uniquely correct dào by which to fulfil an engineering task, such as building a bridge. That we successfully build a bridge using one design does not imply that other designs might not work as well or better. That one design is more suitable for one purpose—­quickly transporting heavy loads, for instance—­does not mean that another design—­a moon bridge, for example—­is not also effective for other purposes. The person of ‘understanding’ thus can indeed take herself to know how things stand, in a provisional, conditional sense sufficient for the purposes of some dào. She simply holds that ‘how things stand’ can be understood in a plurality of different ways, associated with different practices and ends.

Scepticism The discussion of ‘understanding’ provides a context within which to approach well-­known Zhuāngzı̌ passages that raise sceptical questions about ambitious claims to knowledge. Gaptooth asked Wáng Ní, ‘Do you know what everything agrees in deeming “this/right”?’ ‘How would I know that?’ ‘Do you know what you don’t know?’ ‘How would I know that?’ ‘So then does nothing have any knowledge?’ ‘How would I know that?’

198  Late Classical Chinese Thought ‘However, let me try to explain it. How do I know what I call knowing is not failing to know? How do I know what I call failing to know is not knowing? ‘Moreover, let me ask you: if people sleep in the damp, their waist aches like it’s killing them, but is that so of a loach? If people live in a tree, they shake with fright, but is that so of a monkey? Of the three, which knows the correct place to live? People eat the meat of pastured and fed animals; deer eat grasses; centipedes find snakes tasty; owls and crows love mice. Of the four, which knows the correct flavour? Apes take gibbons as their mates; elk consort with deer; loaches swim with fish. People take Máo Qiáng and Lady Lì to be beautiful, but if fish saw them, they’d dive into the depths, if birds saw them, they’d fly high and away, and if deer saw them, they’d dash off. Of the four, which knows the correct standard of beauty in the world? As I see it, the bases of benevolence and duty and the paths of “right” and “wrong” are all tangled and jumbled. How could I know how to distinguish them?’ (Zz 2/64)

Creatures of various sorts—­allegorically representing agents of all kinds—­ manifest a de facto plurality of norms, or ‘small-­scale’ dào, for dwelling, diet, and beauty, all of which seem both obvious to them and practically successful. Since these norms all seem fit for purpose to those who follow them, what basis could we have for deeming just one set uniquely ‘correct’ and rejecting the others? From our standpoint as agents, the ‘bases’ of moral values—­their initial, basic uses—­and the ‘paths’ of right and wrong are so diverse and complex that there are no obvious criteria by which we might ‘distinguish’ them into a unified, systematic framework. The practices of agents acting from different perspectives, with different capacities, needs, and traditions, seem to proliferate, not converge. Wáng Ní does not doubt mundane knowledge of everyday fact, such as that fish live in water or monkeys in trees. Nor does he question whether the various creatures’ practices actually suit them, such that in some contingent, weak sense they can plausibly claim to know where to live or what to eat. The issue is whether ‘what I call knowing’ is indeed knowing in some universal, strong sense that applies across diverse practices and perspectives. Wáng Ní takes the weakly sceptical stance that, because of the ‘tangled, jumbled’ way in which we identify and apply values and norms, we find ourselves unable to offer credible grounds for claiming that we have knowledge in this strong sense. He is careful to avoid dogmatically asserting that we cannot know.  Instead, he poses a series of rhetorical questions to imply that, in

Epistemology  199 ­ ractice, we find ourselves lacking criteria or methods that could warrant p either affirming or denying claims to knowledge in a universal or an absolute sense. Wáng Ní’s sceptical questioning dovetails with the discussion of ‘­understanding’. He questions claims to conclusive or universal knowledge because of how he appreciates the plurality and complexity of norms in actual practice. The discussion of ‘understanding’ emphasizes the plurality of dào open to us and warns that ‘small-­scale completion’, or fixed standards of knowledge, ‘conceal’ the actual diversity of dào. The agent with ‘understanding’ is thus unlikely to make knowledge claims that run afoul of Wáng Ní’s sceptical critique.

Change and Dreams Wáng Ní asks how we could know shared, universal norms, given that different agents may practice a plurality of norms we have no grounds to question. Another pair of passages interrogate claims to conclusive knowledge on the grounds that even for a single agent applying a single set of norms, circumstances can change unexpectedly, such that the agent reevaluates her judgements or changes what she values. How do I know that delighting in life is not confusion? How do I know that disliking death is not being like a lost child who doesn’t know the way home? Lady Lì was the daughter of the border guard of Aì. When the King of Jìn first got her, she wept until the tears wet her collar. Only once she reached the King’s palace, shared his luxurious couch, and ate his fine meats did she regret her tears. How do I know the dead do not regret that they originally sought to live?  (Zz 2/78)

We delight in life and dislike death and so seek to preserve life and avoid death. But perhaps the radical change in our circumstances that death brings might lead us to delight in death more than life, just as Lady Lì, who wept when married off to the King of Jìn, later came to delight in her pleasant life with him. To emphasize how the possibility of change constrains knowledge claims, the text introduces the analogy of waking from a dream. Unlike Descartes’ famous discussion, here dreams do not motivate scepticism concerning sense perception as a source of information about the world. Instead, they offer

200  Late Classical Chinese Thought vivid examples of how changes in circumstance can prompt changes in judgement. The implication is that all our judgements should be considered strictly provisional and open to sudden, unexpected change. Someone who dreams of drinking wine weeps when morning comes; someone who dreams of weeping goes off to hunt when morning comes. While dreaming, we do not know it is a dream; during the dream, we even interpret a dream within it. Only after awakening do we know it was a dream. Only when there is a great awakening will we know this was all a great dream. Yet fools take themselves to be awake, clearly and confidently knowing things—­who is a prince, who a herdsman, indeed! Confucius and you are both dreaming; when I say you’re dreaming, I’m dreaming too. (Zz 2/81)

Within the dream, we justifiably have one set of attitudes. If we awake to find ourselves in different circumstances, our attitudes change accordingly. The point is not that we are deluded or that perception is illusory. It is that the grounds on which we draw value distinctions—­and thus feel delight or dislike—­are as contingent as the events in our dreams, and so no judgement can be conclusive or final. The sceptical stance here seems stronger than Wáng Ní’s, in that all judgements—­even mundane claims such as that we are drinking wine—­are to be treated as provisional. We are to take nothing for granted beyond the immediate context and remain prepared for change. This background helps us to understand the most renowned dream passage in the Chinese tradition, Zhuāng Zhōu’s butterfly dream: Once Zhuāng Zhōu dreamed of being a butterfly—­ vividly, vibrantly a butter­fly, delightedly doing as it pleased. He did not know Zhōu. Suddenly he awoke and was plainly, palpably Zhōu. He doesn’t know whether Zhōu dreamed of being a butterfly or the butterfly dreams of being Zhōu. Yet surely there is a difference between Zhōu and the butterfly. This is a case of what’s called ‘the transformation of things’.  (Zz 2/94)

The text’s theme is how things change or transform (huà, the same word the Annals uses for how things develop over time). The point is not that the possibility we might be dreaming casts doubt on our knowledge of reality. It is that we might vividly hold a certain identity and then, as abruptly as waking from a dream, have that identity transform into something quite different,

Epistemology  201 leaving us without grounds for determining which is our ‘home’ or ‘base’ identity. Zhōu and the butterfly are indeed different, but he cannot judge conclusively which of these he is, since each identity seemed fully obvious at the time. For all Zhōu knows, his identity may transform yet again. The question which of the two he ‘actually’ is has no final answer. The possibility of radical transformation renders any judgement, including even our grasp of our own identity, contingent and provisional.

Living with Scepticism Wáng Ní’s scepticism focuses on the absence of neutral or universal standards that apply across different practices. The dream passages undermine confidence in the standards we apply even within our own practice over time, as circumstances change. Both tacitly advise epistemic humility, treating our values and judgements as at best only provisionally effective in our immediate circumstances while remaining heedful that other distinctions may work for others or that what works for us may change. If even our own identity is open to sudden transformation, however, can we continue to live what we think of as normal lives? The exercise of agency normally involves a reasonably stable conception of one’s own identity and circumstances, which provides a basis for committing to certain values and ends over time. The dream passages seem to undermine such a conception. Yet a striking feature of the sceptical stance in these passages is that our epi­ stem­ic limitations are not depicted as inducing anxiety over such issues. To the contrary, sceptical acceptance of the contingent, fallible, inevitably partial nature of judgement complements the Zhuangist ethical stance discussed in Chapter 3, which advocates ‘wandering about’ without fixed ends or norms, ‘depending’ on nothing in particular. A further passage links a sceptical stance to practical recommendations, indirectly connecting sceptical themes to the ideal of ‘understanding’. Suppose you and I engage in a distinction-­drawing dispute. If you win and I lose, are you ultimately right and I ultimately wrong? If I win and you lose, am I ultimately right and you ultimately wrong? . . . If you and I between us are unable to know, others will be even more in the dark. Whom can we get to correct things? Shall we get someone who agrees with you to correct things? Since they already agree with you, how can they correct things? Shall

202  Late Classical Chinese Thought we get someone who agrees with me to correct things? Since they already agree with me, how can they correct things? Shall we get someone who dis­ agrees with you and me to correct things? Since they already disagree with you and me, how can they correct things? Shall we get someone who agrees with you and me to correct things? Since they already agree with you and me, how can they correct things? So then you and I and others between us all being unable to know, shall we wait for still another person?  (Zz 2/84)

‘Distinction-­drawing disputes’ (biàn) were the main public method of determining how to draw distinctions correctly and thus what assertions or judgements should be accepted. (See Chapter  6.) The passage questions their efficacy in resolving questions of what is ‘this/right’ or ‘not/wrong’. Winning a debate does not establish that we have identified what is ‘ultimately’ right, because distinctions between ‘this’ and ‘not’ are drawn by reference to particular practices, and as Wáng Ní and the discussion of ‘understanding’ contend, we lack neutral standards by which to identify some one set of practices as authoritative in an ‘ultimate’ or ‘conclusive’ sense. Even if we invite add­ ition­al interlocutors to join the discussion, they will merely either reiterate the practices we have already considered or introduce further ways to draw the distinction. We can find no non-­circular grounds by which to claim that some judgement is ‘ultimate’ or ‘correct’, since any judgement must presuppose some norms and so beg the question against other norms and associated practices. Debates get us no closer to conclusive answers, the text suggests. They might as well not take place. Since ‘distinction-­drawing disputes’ were the prevailing method of philosophical inquiry—­as practised by the Mohists and Xúnzı̌, for instance—­an implication is that philosophical activity is of little use in settling the very questions that it itself raises. What, then, is the path forward? For this line of Zhuangist thought, the crux is to adjust to circumstances without any fixed limits or boundaries. ‘Harmonize things by natural divisions; respond to them by flowing forth freely, and in this way live out your years. Forget about the years, forget about duty; let yourself be shaken into movement where there are no boundaries, and so accommodate things without boundaries’ (Zz 2/91). We are to forget worries about life and death, set aside conventional ethical norms, and let ourselves be shaken into action where there are no preset guidelines. The text explains ‘harmonizing things by natural divisions’ in terms familiar from the discussion of ‘understanding’: ‘treat as this what isn’t this; treat as so what isn’t so’. Aware that action-­guiding distinctions can be drawn and redrawn in indeterminately many ways, the Zhuangist adept is open to shifting or reversing

Epistemology  203 what counts as ‘this’ or ‘so’ as circumstances may prompt. Accordingly, in seeking a smooth, unobstructed path forwards, the adept defuses conflict and friction by applying ‘understanding’ to adjust distinctions as seems most effective in the particular context. The Zhuāngist response to scepticism is thus to embrace it, treating scep­ tic­al attitudes about claims to ‘ultimate’ or ‘conclusive’ knowledge as, in effect, extensions of the insight and discretion characteristic of ‘understanding’. The concern with conscientiously identifying and applying appropriate epistemic standards broached in the Xúnzı̌ and Annals leads, in ‘Evening Things Out’, to an epistemic humility that eschews fixed standards and ambitious knowledge claims. For ‘Evening Things Out’, epistemic competence lies in cautiously limit­ing one’s claims, noting others’ responses, and continually adjusting one’s judgements as seems to best fit the circumstances.

6 Language and Logic Two core assumptions guide late classical discussions of language. One is that the use of ‘names’ or ‘titles’ (míng) and ‘speech’ or ‘statements’ (yán) is a norm-­ governed social practice. The second is that the main purpose of language is to guide action through the use of names and statements in teachings, laws, commands, rules of propriety, instructions, and similar contexts. Both assumptions are reflected in the predominant topic of discussion on language, one raised repeatedly across the third-­century literature: ‘correcting’ or ‘rectifying’ names (zhèng míng). To ‘correct’ names is to clarify what they refer to and if needed to rectify any lapses from the proper norms of use. All words are regarded as ‘names’ (míng), and any utterance that expresses an intention or a point is considered to constitute ‘speech’ or ‘statements’ (yán). Correcting names is considered vitally important because of the social, action-­guiding role of speech. As we saw in Chapter 1, a topic of intense interest in classical thought was the function of speech in prescriptive contexts, such as teachings, commands, and laws. Some thinkers and texts considered speech a core means of leading people to follow dào. The prevailing view was that for such action-­guiding uses of speech to work smoothly, members of the community need to observe consistent, unified norms for distinguishing the referents of the ‘names’ used. Teachings, commands, and laws can function properly only if those issuing them and those following them use the names in them to pick out the same things and thus can agree on what counts as following them. Moreover, beyond guiding people to follow dào, the use of words and speech is itself a norm-­governed activity that is part of our social dào. For these reasons, some late classical texts consider correcting names a crucial activity of effective government. The first section of this chapter will survey the broad-­ranging late classical discourse on correcting names. Since shared norms for identifying the referents of names are so important in ethical and political contexts, early Chinese theorists needed to explain the grounds for the norms by which names refer to their referents. The prevailing view was that names refer to all things that are ‘the same’ or ‘similar’ in some respect. ‘Ox’ refers to all oxen by virtue of their being ‘the same’ in sharing the features of oxen; ‘horse’ refers to all horses by virtue of their being ‘the same’ Late Classical Chinese Thought. Chris Fraser, Oxford University Press. © Chris Fraser 2023. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198851066.003.0007

Language and Logic  205 in sharing the features of horses. Texts with a theoretical interest in language—­ mainly the later Mohist dialectical texts and the Xúnzı̌ essay on language—­ examine different types and functions of names and seek to explain the grounds for taking things to be ‘the same’ or ‘different’ and thus referring to them by the same name or not. The second major section below will present their views. Early Chinese theorists discuss language mainly in terms of function, not grammatical structure. Accordingly, for them, the act of assertion—­expressing a claim or judgement about something—­need not take a particular form, such as uttering a grammatical sentence. In some contexts, simply applying a name to a contextually indicated object can be a speech act with the pragmatic force of an assertion. In later Mohist dialectics, a paradigmatic example would be to indicate an animal, either by pointing or by using an indexical pronoun such as ‘this’ or ‘that’, and then utter the name ‘ox’, thereby asserting that the animal is an ox. Since the correct use of names depends on ‘sameness’ relations, this assertion is correct—­it ‘fits’ or is ‘so’ of the object—­if and only if the animal in question is indeed ‘the same’ as the kind of animal normally referred to by ‘ox’. Disputing whether an assertion is correct, then, is fundamentally a matter of disputing what is or is not relevantly ‘the same’. Consequently, early Chinese logic is largely devoted to exploring how we can effectively argue about relations of sameness and difference, the main concern being varieties of analogical reasoning. The third section of this chapter briefly surveys concepts and features in the late classical study of logic.

Correcting Names An effective way to begin discussion of correcting names is to consider the most well-­known passage in all the early Chinese literature concerning names (míng) and speech (yán), from the Confucian Analects. Traditionally, many of the remarks in the Analects were considered to come from the lifetime of the historical Confucius, and the text itself was treated as compiled during and shortly after his lifetime. Recent scholarship suggests that much of the Analects’ content may have been produced generations after Confucius’s lifetime, and the passage on correcting names has long been suspected of being chronologically much later than Confucius’s death in 479 bc. Without pretending to settle the issue, we can point out that the passage on correcting names aligns closely with themes about names and speech that are common in third-­century bc discourse, while correcting names is not mentioned in

206  Late Classical Chinese Thought any other text from before this time. Hence the Analects passage about correcting names may well belong to this period. The passage introduces correcting names as a top priority in the work of a government minister. Zı̌ Lù said, If the ruler of Wèi awaited the Master to manage his government, what would the Master do first? The Master said, Surely it would be to correct names. . . . If names are not correct, speech does not conform [to things]. If speech does not conform [to things], affairs are not accomplished. If affairs are not accomplished, ceremonial propriety and music do not flourish. If ceremonial propriety and music do not flourish, punishments and penalties are not on the mark. If punishments and penalties are not on the mark, the people have no place to put hand or foot. So the names the gentleman uses are surely appropriate to speak and his speech is surely appropriate to carry out. In his speech, the gentleman is simply nowhere careless. (Analects 13:3)

The passage illustrates three major features broadly representative of discourse about language in late classical thought. One is that the use of names is regarded as a social practice essential to effective governance, which therefore should be directed by the government as part of the bailiwick of a prime minister. Management of the use of names is crucial to accomplishing ­ ­practical tasks, sustaining a flourishing ethical culture, and administering the legal system. The second is that the function of language that attracts the most attention is its role in guiding action. Speech (yán) is something to be ‘carried out’ or ‘put into practice’ (xíng), presumably alluding to its use in commands, instructions, and laws. The correct use of names is crucial for accomplishing affairs, presumably because names for things need to be used in a consistent, unified way for speakers and listeners to coordinate their actions in undertaking work. The passage presents a series of disruptive consequences likely to follow from incorrect use of names. (This series is probably intended as a loose description of how disruption arising from improper use of names is likely to proliferate, not a series of strict causal relations.) If the community cannot use speech to coordinate work, any hope of undertaking joint social and ethical cultivation through ceremonial propriety and musical rituals fails, because proper observance of these ritualized norms requires a shared understanding of the names that specify various social roles and associated patterns of conduct. Without a flourishing ethical culture, people will be unaware of how to behave and those administering the laws may be ignorant of their point.

Language and Logic  207 People may run afoul of the law unintentionally, while officials may apply laws arbitrarily, with the result that punishments do not apply where they are actually justified or needed. If punishments become unpredictable, people will be paralysed, unable to move hand or foot for fear of inadvertently incurring penalties. In light of the ethical implications of improper use of names, the gentleman is especially meticulous in his speech, using only names that are surely appropriate in the context and making only statements that can indeed be carried out. The third feature concerns the underlying theoretical framework, in particular the concepts that are and are not employed. Discussions of language tend to focus on two concepts, ‘names’ (míng) and ‘speech’ or ‘statements’ (yán). All words are considered names, no distinction being drawn between parts of speech or between subject and predicate. (In written classical Chinese, there are no morphological distinctions between different parts of speech.) As explained in other texts, such as Xúnzı̌ and Lǚ’s Annals, ‘speech’ refers to an utterance of any length that expresses a thought or intention. A single instance of ‘speech’ can comprise a phrase, a sentence, or several sentences and can report a fact, present an argument, issue a command, state a law, express an ethical teaching, or fulfil some other function. (In classical Chinese, a phrase standing alone can be a grammatically complete utterance, so ‘speech’ need not take the form of a subject-­verb sentence.) In line with this range of functions, the use of names and speech can be evaluated along several dimensions. In this passage, for example, names can be ‘correct’ (zhèng) and ‘appropriate’ or ‘permissible’ (kě); speech may ‘conform’ (shùn)—perhaps to the patterns of things, perhaps to dào—­and may be ‘appropriate’ or ‘permissible’ to act on. The use of language to report facts or express the speaker’s ideas is not foregrounded. In the Analects passage, no concept corresponding to ‘meaning’ is mentioned, nor are mental ideas or contents associated with names. Neither the fact-­reporting sentence nor the truth of such sentences stands out as an object of special attention. The Analects passage does not specify precisely what the names at stake are or how they are to be ‘corrected’. Since the passage alludes broadly to accomplishing tasks, conforming to ethical guidelines (such as those of ceremonial propriety), and obeying laws, the scope of the names concerned could be quite broad. If we browse through the Analects seeking potential examples, we find passages in which Confucius is depicted explaining what conduct qualifies to take names such as ‘benevolent’ (6:30), ‘filially devoted’ (1:11), and ‘scholar-­officer’ (13:20). In Analects 2:7, for example, he criticizes the prevailing use of ‘filial devotion’ (xiào), remarking that ‘what nowadays is considered filial devotion’ merely refers to providing materially for one’s parents, without

208  Late Classical Chinese Thought showing them appropriate respect. Extrapolating from such examples, correcting names appears to be an activity in which an authoritative figure provides guidance as to the proper referent of action-­guiding terms such as the names of virtues or ideal role figures. Names are corrected not by giving strict definitions but by explaining characteristic features by which to judge whether something fulfils the norms associated with the name.

Names and ‘Parts’ Many texts pair the issue of correcting names with that of clarifying or fixing ‘parts’, ‘divisions’, or ‘roles’ (fèn). This latter notion is the same concept we saw used in Chapters 2 and 3 to refer to one’s social role or one’s part in society. When paired with the concept of names, ‘part’ or ‘division’ refers generally to whatever object is associated with a name in a particular context. ‘Name’ and ‘part’ thus have a complex semantics. In some contexts, ‘name’ refers to terms for everyday objects, while ‘part’ refers to the portion of the things in the world normally designated by some name. In other contexts, ‘name’ can refer to social ranks, titles, or roles, while ‘part’ refers to the duties, responsibilities, or norms associated with these ‘names’. (By analogy, think of the English phrase ‘doing one’s part’ or the use of ‘part’ to refer to a role in a play.) ‘Part’ can even refer to a portion or an allotment of goods allocated to the holder of a name or title. As we will see, discussions of names freely mix these uses, a likely ex­plan­ ation being that the writers consider them different aspects of the same topic. The Guǎnzı̌ ‘Prince and Rulers (I)’ essay reiterates the importance of observing the correct use of names while illustrating the connection between names and ‘parts’. The text offers a direct, succinct statement of the link between correct names and dào: since names guide action, they must be correct to lead us in following dào properly. If names are correct and parts (fèn) clear, the people will not be confused about dào. The dào is that by which the sovereign guides the people. Thus dào and Virtue issue from the ruler. His regulations and commands are passed to the ministers, tasks are assigned to officials, and the strength of the common people is put into action on his commands. Thus for the prince nothing is as valuable as his speech (yán); for his subjects, nothing is as dear as their strength. Speech being issued to subordinates and strength exerted on behalf of superiors, the dào of subject and ruler is complete. (Gz 79/3; 30.4)

Language and Logic  209 The ruler uses names and corresponding ‘parts’—here likely referring to jobs or duties—­to direct people to follow dào. Accordingly, he attaches the highest importance to his use of speech, in this context understood mainly as commands that direct the actions of those below him. The discussion in which this passage appears is concerned with how members of the social hierarchy from the prince on down should each focus on their assigned ‘part’ or ‘role’ and its associated duties without overstepping their place. In this context, then, ‘names’ can plausibly be construed narrowly, as referring to the titles of different social roles, while ‘parts’ are the responsibilities specified for each role. The text speaks of different levels of the hierarchy as being ‘divided’ into different parts, with different duties, yet nevertheless joining together as a coherent whole (Gz 79/12; 30.5). In effect, then, ‘parts’ here allude to a div­ ision of labour, ‘names’ to the titles of different roles or jobs within this div­ ision. Dào is clarified through correct names and clear ‘parts’ because those following the prince’s commands must understand various job titles the same way and associate them with clearly delineated roles and responsibilities. Given the tight conceptual connection between names and ‘parts’, names are regarded as inherently prescriptive, associated with norms of action and in effect embodying dào. The ‘Fixing Parts’ essay in the Book of Lord Shāng illustrates further dimensions of the correct use of names and the conceptual relation between names and ‘parts’. The essay advocates definitively ‘fixing’ or ‘settling’ names and ‘parts’ so as to eliminate potential arguments concerning how to apply laws and other standards (fǎ). All members of the community, whether ‘foolish or intelligent’, will then understand exactly what is permitted or proscribed. The treatment in this essay illustrates the semantic flexibility of ‘names’ and ‘parts’. Consider the following example: A single rabbit running, a hundred people chase it. It’s not that they think the rabbit can be divided into a hundred parts but that the name [that is, title to the rabbit] hasn’t been fixed. Meanwhile, the market is full of vendors hawking rabbits, but thieves dare not take one, because names and parts [titles and allotments] have been fixed.  (SJS 26/32/11)

‘Name’ here is a designation of ownership corresponding to the allotment of some item as a particular person’s ‘part’. The point of the example is that names and the associated ‘parts’—that is, the objects the names designate—­ must be ‘fixed’, as title to the rabbits for sale in the market is, to avoid contention and chaos, as when a hundred people compete to catch a single rabbit.

210  Late Classical Chinese Thought The passage extends this point to cover all names used in laws and the objects that form the ‘part’ designated by each name. In this context, then, the scope of the names and parts discussed seems fully general, including not merely titles and duties but any names and the objects they refer to. Now if laws are not clear and the names in them are not fixed, the people of the realm can argue about them, each person offering a different argument and nothing being fixed. The ruler making laws above while the people argue about them below, this is the laws not being fixed and the people below ­acting as the sovereign above. This is what’s called ‘names and parts failing to be fixed’. . . . This is the dào by which extensive wrongdoing arises, the ruler is deprived of authority and power, the state perishes, and the city altars are destroyed.  (SJS 26/32/13)

To maintain social order, all members of the community must share the same understanding of the names used in laws, and the ‘parts’ names refer to must be fixed, so that ‘the officials and people of the realm all understand and apply [laws] as one, without personal bias’ (SJS 26/31/14). Hence in making standards or laws, the sagely ruler ‘ensures they are clear and easy to understand and the names are correct’ (26/32/25). To fix names and parts, prevent argument, and ensure people understand the laws, the text proposes that the ruler install officials whose duty is to teach the public what the names in laws refer to. In this case, then, what ensures names are correct and parts are fixed is the authoritative instruction these expert officials provide (26/32/18). The Analects claimed that if names are not corrected, people will be unable to move hand or foot for fear of stepping afoul of the law. ‘Fixing Parts’ proposes an institutional solution to ensure people know where they can safely tread.

Names and Social Order Two essays in Lǚ’s Annals emphasize the importance of correcting names in governance, presenting it as a prerequisite for social order. These discussions reiterate and clarify the significance of the action-­guiding functions of language and help to illustrate the relation between names and ‘parts’. One issue driving the interest in correcting names is that values and norms—­and thus dào—­are expressed through evaluative ‘names’ such as ‘worthy’, ‘good’, and ‘acceptable’. (As these examples show, ‘names’ include

Language and Logic  211 adjectives as well as nouns.) If these value-­laden names are not applied to the right objects, their normative force will be misdirected, leading to disorder and disruption rather than order and stability. The problem will be especially severe if it is the ruler himself who uses names incorrectly. If names are correct, there is order; if names are misplaced, there is dis­ order. . . . All disorder is a matter of objects and names not matching up properly. Though a ruler may be unworthy, he may be like someone who employs the worthy, heeds what is good, and does what is acceptable. The problem is that what he calls worthy is unworthy, what he calls good is depraved, and what he calls acceptable is perverse. This is names being different from how things are in fact, words referring to something different from their objects. When the unworthy are taken to be worthy, the depraved good, and the perverse acceptable, how can the state be free of disorder and the ruler escape danger?  (Lscq 16.8; 92)

The text gives the example of King Mı̌n of Qí, who claimed to admire worthy ‘scholar-­officers’ (shì) and sought to employ them as ministers, yet under questioning from the moral activist Yı̌n Wén proved unable to explain or consistently identify what persons are properly called ‘scholar-­officers’. At Yı̌n’s prompting, the King agreed that someone who is filially devoted, loyal, trustworthy, and fraternal ‘could be called a scholar-­officer’ and is suitable to be a minister. Yet he insisted such a person would be too disgraced to be a minister if he declined to defend his honour by fighting when insulted. Yı̌n points out that the person would still manifest the conduct that qualified him to be deemed a scholar-­officer in the first place—­filial devotion, loyalty, trust­ worthi­ness, and fraternity. Moreover, in refraining from aggression, he would actually be conforming to the King’s own command to avoid injuring or killing. Hence the King’s refusal to employ him seems confused, even self-­ contradictory. Intriguingly, for comparative philosophy of language, in explaining the proper use of ‘scholar-­officer’, Yı̌n does not mention def­in­ itions, meanings, or essences. He simply proposes a list of characteristic features that make it appropriate to ‘call’ or ‘refer’ (wèi) to someone as a scholar-­officer. These features are not developed into a theory about the meaning of the name ‘officer’ or the essence of what officers are. They are treated simply as practical criteria for identifying persons who appropriately take the name ‘officer’. The essay contends that names are used incorrectly because of ‘corrupt explanations’, or distorted accounts of what they refer to, such as that

212  Late Classical Chinese Thought someone who fails to answer an insult with a challenge to duel can no longer be considered a worthy ‘scholar-­officer’. ‘If explanations are corrupt, the impermissible is deemed permissible and the not-­so is deemed so, the not-­ right is deemed right and the not-­wrong is deemed wrong’ (Lscq 16.8; 92.1). The solution is for the gentleman to offer ‘explanations’ that ‘state the facts about the worthy and unworthy’, ‘convey what runs contrary to good order and produces disorder’, and allow us ‘to know the facts about things and how to sustain people’s lives’. Here, then, the fact-­reporting functions of speech are invoked to help clarify the distinctions between what is or is not morally ­worthy, contributes to social order, and fosters human life. Reliable ex­plan­ ations of these distinctions help to sustain the correct use of action-­guiding terms by clarifying what objects they properly refer to. The other Annals essay on names is concerned initially with maintaining good order by carefully examining whether in practice ‘parts’ or duties properly correspond to the names or titles used of them. ‘Correcting names and examining parts’ are crucial methods of effective governance. The famous horseman Wáng Liáng managed horses by tying them tightly to control their reins, such that of the four horses, none dared spare any effort. A ruler who follows dào also has ‘reins’ by which to manage the various ministers. What are the reins? Correcting names and examining parts, these are the reins of governing. So examine names according to the actual objects to seek the facts; listen to speech and investigate the kinds invoked without allowing anything contrary [to the proper kind relations]. Many names do not match up with their objects, while many tasks do not match up with the results. So the ruler cannot fail to examine names and parts. (Lscq 17.1; 93.3)

The discussion emphasizes the issue of clearly delineating the duties associated with job titles, but this point is seamlessly blended with the general issue of ensuring that members of the community use the same names of the same objects—‘ox’ for oxen, ‘horse’ for horses—­so that all understand instructions in the same way. Suppose there were a man who when he sought oxen used the name ‘horse’ and when he sought horses used the name ‘ox’. He would surely not get what he sought. And if because of this he resorted to threats and anger, his stewards would surely complain, while oxen and horses would surely be in dis­ order. The hundred officials are a multitude of stewards, the myriad things a herd of oxen and horses. Not correcting their names or dividing up their job

Language and Logic  213 duties, yet frequently employing punishments and penalties—­no disorder is greater than this.  (Lscq 17.1; 93.4)

The oxen and horses analogy again indicates that the core concern is with the use of names and speech to direct action through commands, instructions, or guidelines. The representational or fact-­reporting use of speech comes into the picture because speech guides action reliably only if names are indeed used correctly to refer to the intended objects. Hence, the text contends, correcting names is a prerequisite for social and political order. Expounding on wisdom and competence while in reality making mistakes and being confused; praising the eminent and worthy while in reality associating with the lowly and inferior; acclaiming the pure and white while ­following the filthy and polluted; requiring impartial standards from others while dwelling in greed and crookedness; employing the courageous while being full of fear and trembling—­these five are all cases of taking oxen to be horses and horses to be oxen, the names being incorrect. . . . The task of achieving good order lies in correcting names.  (Lscq 17.1; 93.4)

At its core, correcting names concerns how to reliably translate the normative guidance encoded in names and speech into practice. The issue is thus closely related to legal interpretation and to philosophical discussions of rule following. The prevailing approach to explaining the use of names in the late clas­sic­al literature is based on the concept of ‘parts’. Proper use of names rests on grasping the ‘parts’ that correctly match up with the names. To do so, members of the speech community must know how to divide (fēn) or distinguish (biàn) the ‘parts’ of the world that do or do not take the name. To name is in effect to divide the world into parts; successful communication rests on speakers and listeners dividing the parts in the same way. Theoretical discussions of names are thus mainly extensional, focusing not on a concept akin to sense or intension but on reference. Correcting names is chiefly a process of training members of a speech community to follow consistent practices in ‘dividing’ the ‘parts’ referred to by different names. This point emerges clearly in the detailed theoretical discussion provided in Xúnzı̌’s treatment of correct names.

Xúnzı ̌ on Correct Names The Xúnzı̌ essay on ‘Correct Names’ presents the clearest statement of the theoretical motivation for correcting names, leaving no doubt as to its

214  Late Classical Chinese Thought pol­it­ical, authoritarian character. A distinctive feature of the Xúnzian stance is that, rather than attributing misuse of names to carelessness, confusion, ignorance, or bias, Xúnzı̌ contends it arises from other thinkers and public activists who deliberately disrupt the right use of names. In effect, Xúnzı̌ claims that rivals who propose doctrines he rejects are not simply mistaken but are using names improperly. According to Xúnzı̌, a proper king regulates names so that their use is ‘fixed’ and different objects are distinguished, the dào proceeds and the king’s intentions are communicated, and thus the king can lead the people to unity (Xz 22/7). When conventions governing the use of names are carefully maintained, people are unified in conducting themselves conscientiously by the proper standards (fǎ) and following the king’s orders. Thus the king’s achievements endure, and enduring achievements and successful accomplishments are ‘the height of good order’ (22/10). The main threat to such orderly regulation of language is those who engage in the ‘great depravity’ of ‘splitting phrases and recklessly inventing names in order to disrupt correct names’, a crime comparable to tampering with tallies and measures, which produces widespread confusion, not to mention arguments and litigation (22/7). For Xúnzı̌, names are akin to tallies or measures that we use to conduct business, fixed symbols or units used as a shared basis for exchange or work. Misusing names for things is akin to a hawker defrauding a buyer about the weight of a sack of grain. A judicious ruler will control the use of names to ensure that everyone understands commands and standards in the same way, thereby minimizing disputes, promoting social unity, and ensuring that people’s actions conform to the ruler’s intentions. Unfortunately, with the sage-­kings gone and the rise of ‘deviant expressions’—assertions that Xúnzı̌ considers bizarrely mistaken—­ the relations between names and the objects they denote has fallen into disorder, so that the distinctions between what is ‘this’ and ‘not’—or right and wrong—­have become unclear and even law-­abiding officials or conscientious scholars cannot avoid disorder (Xz 22/10). Were a proper king to arise again, according to Xúnzı̌, he would follow some conventional uses of old names while also creating some new names to deal with new circumstances. To do so effectively, the king would need to grasp three fundamental issues concerning naming, which Xúnzı̌ ties to three types of paradoxical sayings that disrupt the proper use of names: the purpose of names, the basis for distinguishing the different kinds of things that names denote, and key points in regulating names. The political imperative to regulate the use of language, then, motivates Xúnzı̌ to present a theory about the purpose of, basis for, and establishment of names,

Language and Logic  215 which he then applies to refute the ‘deviant expressions’ he claims incites linguistic disorder. (‘Expressions’ or ‘rhetoric’, cí, refers to utterances comprising two or more ‘names’ that declare a thought or intention about something.) Xúnzı̌’s theory about the basis for and establishment of names will be treated in the next section, on semantic theory. Here our concern is with his explanation of the purpose of names, which helps to clarify the significance of correct names. For Xúnzı̌, the purpose of names is to express ‘intentions’ so as to accomplish work. If the relations between names and objects are obscure and twisted, such that different speakers express them differently, different social ranks will be unclear and objects that should count as being of the same kind, taking the same name, will not be distinguished properly. Thus the wise for this reason separately regulated names to refer to objects, above using them to clarify high and low ranks, below using them to distinguish the same kind of thing from the different. High and low ranks being clarified, the same and the different separated, in this way there will be no problem of failing to communicate intentions and no troubles with difficulty or failure in work. This is the purpose of having names.  (Xz 22/14)

The purpose of names, then, is to convey aims or ends of action and thus en­able the community to cooperatively carry out tasks. This purpose is fulfilled by enforcing regulations fixing the referents of names so as to clearly distinguish different social roles and different kinds of things. Xúnzı̌ thus explicitly draws together the two dimensions of the conception of ‘parts’ explored above: different social roles and different kinds of objects. To follow instructions and accomplish tasks according to their superiors’ expectations, members of the speech community need to agree in how they distinguish both different roles or jobs and different sorts of objects. In Chapters 2 and 3, we saw how Xúnzı̌ envisions society as organized into a hierarchy of inter­related ranks and roles, with associated norms of duty for each. Here he presents a view on which language exists to encode this hierarchical social structure and guide those within it in performing their duties. The scheme of social roles and kind distinctions demarcated by the system of ceremonial propriety fixes the ‘parts’ to which correct names must correspond. At the same time, regulating the correct use of names is a crucial step in guiding performance according to ceremonial propriety, as people must use and understand names correctly in order to distinguish and perform various roles and duties. Xúnzı̌ claims that misuse of names arises when people ‘split phrases’, recklessly initiate new uses of names, or advocate ‘deviant expressions’—that is,

216  Late Classical Chinese Thought bizarre, unorthodox claims. One example the text gives of such ‘deviant expressions’ is Sòng Xíng’s doctrine that to be insulted is not disgraceful (see Chapter  3), which Xúnzı̌ claims is an instance of ‘confusion due to using names to disorder names’ (Xz 22/30; 22.10). The reasoning here is not transparent, but Xúnzı̌’s stance seems to be that, by the standard use of ‘insult’ and ‘disgrace’, to be insulted is indeed disgraceful, and to deny this is to employ names in an unorthodox way, thus ‘using names to disorder names’. As we saw in Chapter 3, Xúnzı̌ contends that the sage-­kings themselves set a standard for using these names by which there are two kinds of disgrace, social disgrace and moral disgrace. Since being insulted is indeed socially disgraceful, according to Xúnzı̌, Sòng’s ‘deviant expression’ that it is not disgraceful is a misuse of the name ‘disgrace’. Whether or not we find this line of argument persuasive, it is significant that Xúnzı̌ appeals to the correct use of names to rebut an opponent’s substantive ethical view. In effect, he seeks to apply the doctrine of correct names to prohibit expression of philosophical theses he rejects.

Naming and the Natural Order The Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts extend the conception of correct names as central to sociopolitical order into a vision in which naming reflects the inherent order of the world itself, correct names being a means of aligning human activity with the patterns of the cosmic dào. To fulfil ‘the dào of emperor-­kings’, a ruler must ‘attain proper correspondence between names and objects’ (‘Canonical Methods’, Mwd 82). If ‘names and objects are properly settled, things are correct in and of themselves’ (‘Canonical Methods’, Mwd 54), presumably because the ruler does not attempt to interact with things in ways contrary to their inherent place in the patterns of the world. ‘When names are correct, good order obtains; when names are misaligned, disorder obtains’ (‘Ten Canons’, Mwd 142). By contrast, ‘if names advance while objects retreat, this is called losing the dào’ (‘Canonical Methods’, Mwd 76). That is, if use of names in speech diverges from how objects in the world actually stand, our path of activity strays from the patterns of nature and we diverge from the dào. Grasping the patterns that guide the use of names and applying the right names to things is thus pivotal to understanding the ‘constant dào of Heaven and earth’. So in observing the world, someone who grasps dào surely carefully observes the origins of affairs and examines their forms and names. Once forms and

Language and Logic  217 names are fixed, one can locate the adverse and the favourable, differentiate life and death, and settle preservation and loss, prosperity and decline. Then one can align these with the constant dào of Heaven and earth so as to fix wherein fortune or misfortune, life or death, preservation or loss, prosperity or decline lie. Then in a myriad undertakings one never errs from pattern (lı̌). . . . This is called ‘possessing the dào’.  (‘Canonical Methods’, Mwd 94)

Here the issue of correct names concerns not just reliable communication but aligning speech and norms with the patterns of the world itself. The passage uses the term ‘forms’ instead of ‘objects’, ‘form’ being a technical term for the characteristic features by which something takes a name. By carefully observing and naming the ‘forms’ of different kinds of events or affairs, we can identify the patterns that govern favourable or unfavourable outcomes and so learn how to reliably follow ‘the constant dào of Heaven and earth’. On this view, the norms governing correct use of names are not something those in authority can simply stipulate. Instead, to grasp the proper relations between ‘names and patterns’, one must undertake to follow dào and become empty, still, impartial, and upright (‘Canonical Methods’, Mwd 100). In this way, the practitioner of dào—­presumably the sagely ruler—­can detect the rele­vant similarities and differences between the ‘forms’ of various objects and events. Why attach such cosmic significance to naming? The relations between names and objects are the contact points where the system of human standards, norms, and laws attaches to the natural world. For this system to function effectively, names must latch on to actual patterns of similarity and causality in a way that reliably serves human interests. If the distinctions between the various ‘parts’ denoted by names correspond to genuine patterns in the world, the system of names and associated norms for action will indeed encode dào. Hence we can see how, in the thought of the silk manuscripts, assigning the correct names to objects could be seen as properly fitting them into an orderly framework, within which ‘things are correct in and of themselves’. The challenge is whether proponents of this view can plausibly defend the claim that there is some single, unique framework of name-­object relations that successfully yields such a naturally correct order.

A Zhuangist Critique The doctrine of correcting names raises deep questions about the nature of and grounds for communication and the basis for norms of language use. Must speakers and listeners indeed share the same norms for distinguishing

218  Late Classical Chinese Thought the referents of names in order to communicate smoothly? If so, who or what fixes certain norms as appropriate or authoritative? Can speech indeed provide a reliable, consistent means of guiding us to follow dào? Unsurprisingly, given the account of Zhuangist thought in preceding chapters, the Zhuāngzı̌ contains passages hinting at negative or sceptical responses to these questions. For the ‘Discourse on Evening Things Out’, for example, dào is not something that can be pinned down through fixed use of names, and no single set of standards of name use can be authoritative. Intriguingly, in the context of the present discussion, one passage appears to question the idea that fixing reference is needed to facilitate communication. Speech is not blowing air. Speakers have something they say. It’s just that what they say is never fixed. So in the end is there speech? Or has there never been speech?  (Zz 2/23)

The text makes the commonsense observation that speech is not just blowing air; in speaking, we do say something. Yet, contrary to the aim of correcting names, the reference of the terms we use has never been ‘fixed’. Reference is to at least some degree variable or indeterminate. This observation leads to a reductio ad absurdum argument against the view that names must be ‘fixed’ or ‘corrected’ for us to communicate smoothly. If the reference of names must be ‘fixed’ for us to succeed in saying something, it seems that in the end there is no speech, because in practice reference is not fixed. But to claim there has never been speech is absurd, as people manifestly do manage to communicate in speech. So it seems that speech does not require that names be fixed after all. Communication does not require control of and unity in norms governing the use of names. Indeed, since the ability to communicate with others is a prerequisite for correcting their use of names, correcting names cannot be necessary for communication. A proponent of correcting names might respond that this line of argument misses the point. Correcting names may not be a precondition of communication. Still, it facilitates the ruler’s use of speech to guide the community in following dào. Linguistic unity and order promote social unity, political order, and conformity to dào. This response, reflecting the widely shared view that dào requires extensive social control and meticulous regulation of language use, represents the main target of the Zhuangist dispute with advocates of correcting names. On the Zhuangist view, there can be no justification for regulating language or imposing rigid norms on speech and action, because doing so is likely to interfere with following the most suitable dào, which may

Language and Logic  219 vary and shift for different agents in different circumstances. (See the discussion of dào in Chapter  1.) Since dào is fluid, variable, and open-­ended, the fitting use of names is likely to be so as well. Indeed, another passage in ‘Evening Things Out’ contends that ‘dào has never had borders; speech has never been constant’ (Zz 2/55). Only because we dogmatically hold objects to be ‘this’ or ‘that’ are there fixed boundaries. Any dào we follow is formed through our practices, and objects take certain names because, in the course of practice, we dub them such and such (2/33). Anything can be ‘so’ or ‘permissible’, depending on how our practices pick out contextually relevant features. Any speech that is actually used in practice is in some respect ‘permissible’, or applicable for some purpose. Only our biased commitment to some fixed, previously elaborated way of acting and speaking blinds us to this point (2/25). ‘Evening Things Out’ contends that any path we pursue in practice develops certain ways of interacting with things while neglecting others. Every path is thus ‘complete’ in some respects while ‘deficient’ in others (Zz 2/35). Correcting names according to some fixed set of standards ties us to a single, limited dào of language use at the cost of relinquishing other potentially fruitful ones. A thorough programme of controlling name use might even hamper communication, by curbing the creativity and innovation that are normally part of speech. The Zhuangist approach would be to allow speakers to use names in whatever ways seem ‘ordinary’ or ‘useful’ in different contexts and then, if miscommunication occurs, simply explain themselves. When others diverge from our use of names, perhaps—­contra Xúnzı̌—they are not using names incorrectly but expressing different opinions or following different dào.

Semantic Theory The doctrine of correcting names calls for fixing the use of names so that the speech community agrees on the correct referents of general terms such as ‘ox’ or ‘horse’. What is the basis for grouping objects together as the extension (the referents) of the same term? The prevailing answer in late classical discourse is that the objects that make up the extension of a name are ‘the same’ in some respect. Late classical semantic theories—­primarily those of the Mohist dialectical writings and the Xúnzı̌ ‘Correct Names’ essay—­are devoted to explaining the grounds for and different types of sameness that underwrite the use of names. A core question is whether the sameness that explains the

220  Late Classical Chinese Thought use of names for ‘kinds’ (lèi), such as ‘ox’ or ‘horse’, is fixed by nature, independently of human activity, or by human practices.

Later Mohist Semantics The Mohist dialectical writings develop a naturalistic semantic theory that explains reference, and thus communication, by appeal to speakers’ mastery of norms for distinguishing the different sorts of things denoted by names. Unlike ‘ideational’ theories of language familiar from early modern Western philosophy, the Mohists do not explain the relation between names and objects by appeal to mental ideas or meanings that names stand for. Instead, through shared practices for distinguishing ‘the same’ from different sorts of objects, members of the speech community are able to recognize the things to which each general term refers. Since all things denoted by a name share the same characteristic features, use of the name informs listeners what the things spoken of ‘are like’, in effect giving their ‘measurement’. Although the Mòzı̌ displays a deep interest in the action-­guiding functions of speech or statements (yán), the Mohist dialectical writings do not advocate correcting names. The one brief reference to correcting names merely offers the technical observation that those who purport to ‘correct’ names must be sure to preserve the underlying distinctions between ‘this’ and ‘that’, or what does and does not take the name (B68). It is unclear why the Mohist Canons have so little to say about what became the most prominent topic in discussions of language. One explanation might be that these texts predate the surge of interest in correcting names. According to the dialectical texts, names (míng) are what we use to speak about, make assertions, or refer to (wèi) objects or situations (Canons A80). Names are used in at least four types of speech acts (A77, A79). They can be used to name things, as when we name dogs ‘hounds’, and to apply terms of praise or criticism. They can be used to command, thereby making a person do something, and they can ‘mention’ or ‘bring up’ something, typically in the course of making a statement (yán). Using a name such as ‘dog’ or ‘hound’ to talk about an object is ‘mentioning’ it or ‘bringing it up’ (A79). ‘Stating’ or ‘speech’ (yán) consists of uttering such ‘mentionings’ of things (A32). Different types of names have extensions of varying scope. ‘All-­reaching’ names, such as ‘thing’, can refer to anything. ‘Personal’ or ‘private’ names, such as the proper noun ‘Jack’, ‘stop at’ one thing only, the individual that bears the name (A78). ‘Kind’ names, such as ‘horse’, are general terms that

Language and Logic  221 ‘proceed to’ refer to all things inherently similar to each other in some feature. Kind names are established by dubbing some group of things that share intrinsic features with a name (A78, A86). By naming a certain kind of animal ‘horse’, for example, we commit to applying the same name to all similar objects—­in the case of horses, all objects that share the same horsey shape and visual appearance (Mz 44/33–36). Other general terms apply to things on the basis of extrinsic similarities, which the Mohists consider ‘sameness in being united together’ in some way (A86). For example, items could count as the same in being located in the same place (A86), as the residents of a city are all located in that city, or in performing the same function, as hammers might have a variety of shapes while all being used for striking (B58). This ‘sameness’ relation explains communication for the Mohists. All objects that take some name are the same in sharing certain features, and members of the speech community are assumed to share a background competence in distinguishing objects that indeed have those features. Given this competence, a speaker’s use of that name to ‘mention’ an object tells them what the object is ‘similar to’ and thus enables them to know about it, in that they know it is similar to other objects denoted by that name. Hence using names is a process of ‘using what people understand to correct what they don’t know . . . like using a ruler to measure an unknown length’ (B70). We can use a ruler to measure length because we know the length of the marks on the ruler and we see that the thing measured is the same length as one of the marks. Analogously, by using names, we draw on what listeners are familiar with—­other objects associated with a name—­to inform them about what they do not know—­a further object we refer to using the name. Using a name of an object thus amounts to giving a measurement of it or ‘presenting a model for it’ (A31). When we refer to something as a ‘horse’, we are using the name ‘horse’ as a model for it, indicating that it is the same kind of object as the exemplars by which we learned to distinguish horses from non-­horses. Hence, the Mohists hold, just as we can point to an object to show others something, we can also use a name to ‘show’ them something (B53). How do we determine which objects count as relevantly similar and thus take the same name? The clearest account the Mohists give is for kind names, or names for objects they consider intrinsically similar in some way. Examples include ‘horse’ and ‘round’. Whether an object falls within the extension of a kind name, they explain, is determined by comparing it with a ‘standard’ or ‘model’ (fǎ) for that kind to see whether they are similar (A70). ‘Standard’ or ‘model’ here is the same concept we encountered in our earlier discussions of  ethics and politics, and the Mohists’ use of the concept in semantics

222  Late Classical Chinese Thought exemplifies its use in other fields. As examples of standards for ‘round’, the text cites concrete round objects, a wheelwright’s compass, and the thought or intention (yì) of a round thing (A70). From a discussion in canon B57, it seems likely that ‘thought’ refers to remembered or imagined features associated with the name ‘round’. A particular round object takes the name ‘round’ if its features are similar to one of these models (A71). Perhaps it aligns closely with a sample round object or a compass, for example. Whether it indeed counts as similar is decided by a perceptual comparison of similarity, as agreed by those using the name. In the case of names based on the function, location, or other features of things, whether the name applies would rest on agreement among interlocutors as to whether the object has the relevant feature. The Mohist approach to identifying the underlying similarity between things that take the same name is thoroughly pragmatic. In the case of things that take the same name by virtue of being ‘united together’, the similarity relation is obviously a product of human activity, as interlocutors or the speech community decides what objects count as being grouped together under a name. In the case of kind names, the Mohists claim there is an inherent sameness between things of the same kind (A86–87). They thus seem to hold the realist stance that natural features fix the relevant sameness relation. (This stance dovetails with early Mohist realism about dào, as the Mohists held that their dào was that intended by Heaven or Nature itself.) However, they offer no deeper explanation of this relation than that human interlocutors agree it obtains. The selection of some object or objects as standards or models for use of a name is pragmatic and conventional. Standards or models are not definitions, which specify defining features of the thing in question. Nor are they abstract forms or essences, which specify its essential nature. They are merely examples of the kind of object in question. Should controversy arise over whether a particular object takes a name, interlocutors are to settle the ‘basis’ or ‘criteria’ by which the name is used (A97). In the case of horses, for example, the ‘criteria’ might be body shape, hair, hooves, and tail, because horses’ equine frame, mane, single hooves, and skirted tail distinguish them from other livestock. But the immediate grounds for grouping animals together as horses are simply that human observers take these features of different horses to be obviously similar to each other, indicating some inherent sameness in the animals involved. The Mohists thus describe a discursive, social enterprise in which the reference of names is settled by citing paradigmatic exemplars, agreeing on just what sort of object these exemplars represent, and jointly settling which of

Language and Logic  223 their features are relevant to distinguishing that sort of object. The basis for grouping things together under a name is a shared practice of distinguishing similarities and differences by comparison to conventionally adopted models for the objects denoted by the name. Names allow us to communicate by indicating what the thing a speaker mentions is ‘similar to’ (A70–71) or ‘the same as’ (A86). They can indicate this because of background practices by which speakers jointly distinguish the kind of similar thing denoted by the name. When speakers both understand the reference of the names they use, according to the Mohists, they are able to communicate and thus ‘connect thoughts’ (B41). Unlike familiar Western folk theories of language in which words express ideas and we understand the word by virtue of grasping the idea, ‘thoughts’ or ‘intentions’ (yì) are not psychological contents that explain why names are used as they are. They are the intention or aim with which one speaks—­the object a speaker seeks to inform listeners about or the purpose the speaker seeks to accomplish, such as to get others to attend to a problem or to carry out a command. The theoretical role of ‘thought’ is not that the listener is able to understand the speaker’s words by virtue of grasping the speaker’s thought. (Canons B57–58 indicate that it is possible to understand a name, such as ‘hammer’, without knowing the associated thought.) It is that the listener can grasp the thought by virtue of understanding the reference of names (B41). ‘Expressing’ or ‘communicating’ thoughts is an aim or outcome of successful communication, rather than an explanation of why names refer to the things they do.

Xúnzı ̌’s Semantics The preceding discussion of Xúnzı̌ on correcting names explained his view that the purpose of names is to communicate ‘intentions’—usually aims or ends of action—­and carry out tasks. Xúnzı̌ proposes that this purpose is fulfilled by fixing the referents of names so as to clearly distinguish different social roles and different kinds of things. Here we want to look at his ex­plan­ ation of how different names come to refer to the objects they do. Xúnzı̌’s basic approach resembles the Mohists’ while presenting a clearer, more precise account than they do of the basis for distinctions of similarity and difference. Like them, he holds that names refer to objects by dint of ‘sameness’ relations identified through social practices. His approach to communication is extensional, as theirs is, appealing to reference relations and not to meanings or intensions. Also like the Mohists, he explains the use of

224  Late Classical Chinese Thought names without appeal to mental ideas or contents corresponding to names. Like them, he implies that the use of a name is analogous to giving a measurement of something. For Xúnzı̌, naming is based on judgements of sameness and difference. All things relevantly the same take the same name; different kinds of things take different names (Xz 22/21–23). We saw above that the Mohists take things of the same kind to share an intrinsic sameness (Canons, A86), which conventionally chosen standards or models (fǎ) help us to identify. Xúnzı̌’s stance is that the samenesses and differences relevant to naming are themselves determined by conventions of the speech community. This stance is an application of his more general view—­discussed in Chapter 1 above—­that dào is a cultural artefact shaped by interaction between human interests and natural conditions. Nature in itself does not fix the patterns of sameness and difference that underlie the use of names, but nor are these patterns purely arbitrary constructs. The causal basis for distinguishing similarities and differences between things, Xunzi says, is the sense organs. The senses of creatures of the same species detect things in a similar way and so different parties will converge in how they perceive sameness and difference. This is the basis for shared naming conventions, by which people can reach agreement in what they are talking about: So then on what grounds do we deem things similar or different? I say: On the grounds of the sense organs. As to any creatures of the same kind, with the same feelings, how their sense organs detect things is similar. So they converge in how they model things as resembling each other. This is the means of reaching consensus on conventional names by which to indicate things to each other.  (Xz 22/15)

So for Xúnzı̌ convention dictates not only the names a speech community chooses to use and the distinctions it recognizes, but the underlying relations of sameness and difference on which the use of names is based. Xúnzı̌ holds that the eyes, ears, mouth, nose, and body each differentiate among their respective objects. The eyes, for example, differentiate among shapes, bodies, colours, and patterns. The heart then uses its ‘verifying’ cap­ acity to recognize relations of sameness and difference. The heart depends on the sense organs to ‘register’ features appropriate to each—­shapes for the eye, sounds for the ear, and so on—­which it then identifies by applying names. Like the Mohists, Xúnzı̌ assigns no role in this process to mental ideas or

Language and Logic  225 contents. The sense organs are described as ‘attending to’ or ‘assessing’ things, by which they differentiate features relevant to each organ—­shapes, colours, and patterns for the eyes, notes and tones for the ears, and so forth. The heart then uses its capacity for cognition to recognize sounds through the ears, shapes through the eyes, and so on. The theoretical framework comprises only features of things, the sense organs, which differentiate these features, and the heart, which recognizes them. On Xúnzı̌’s account, then, the ‘grounds for deeming things the same or different’ and thus taking some name or not (Xz 22/21) are the shared, convergent differential responses of human sense organs to natural features, which serve as a basis for establishing conventions by which to use names. The precise conventions we adopt then depend on the leadership of sagely rulers, who—­consistent with Xúnzı̌’s cultural theory of dào, as discussed in Chapter 1—select conventions that ‘align’ effectively with natural conditions in ways that further human interests. The distinctions between kinds that underwrite the use of names are thus grounded in causal interaction between human perception and interests and human-­independent features of the world. They are a product partly of human convention, as regulated by wise rulers, and partly of how inherent features of the natural world impinge on our senses and affect the success of our endeavours. In spelling out this position, Xúnzı̌ resolves a fundamental question not adequately addressed in the Mohist dialectical writings. For the Mohists, things inherently divide into kinds based on intrinsic similarities. Oxen and horses are inherently two distinct kinds of animals, for example, and we cannot simply decide to treat them as a single kind, calling them by the same name, without encountering conflicts or contradictions in how we use names. However, Mohist texts do not give a thorough explanation of why things are divided into kinds in just the way they are, nor of the grounds for picking out features by which to distinguish kinds correctly. Xúnzı̌’s account addresses these questions directly, taking the pragmatic stance that kinds are identified by conventions grounded in shared perceptual responses to natural features. Xúnzı̌ contends that once we understand the basis for deeming things the  same or different, we will be prepared to rebut ‘deviant expressions’— outlandish statements—­that disrupt the proper use of names by making absurd claims about objects (Xz 22/31). Above we considered one example the text gives of such a ‘deviant expression’, Sòng Xíng’s claim that to be insulted is not disgraceful. A further example directly relevant to similarities and differences is Sòng’s contention that our characteristic desires are few (see Chapter 3). Xúnzı̌ holds that if we know how to distinguish similarities and

226  Late Classical Chinese Thought differences properly, it is simply obvious that people’s desires are many, not few. The range and amount of things people want are relevantly similar to what we would normally call ‘many’, not ‘few’. Having settled the basis for establishing conventions distinguishing the same from different kinds of things, Xúnzı̌ holds, we must consider ‘pivotal points in regulating names’ (Xz 22/29). These are guidelines concerning the proper use of names to refer to things. Names in themselves, Xúnzı̌ says, do not inherently refer to one thing or another, nor are they inherently appropriate or inappropriate. They simply need to be simple, direct, and not conflict with each other, while conforming to relevant naming conventions (22/25). Obviously, objects that are the same take the same name, while objects that are different take different names (22/21). However, since names can refer to things at different levels of generality, in some cases more than one name can refer to something. Xúnzı̌ explains that, when sufficient for communication, a single term (such as ‘horse’) can be used; when a single term is insufficient, a compound term (such as ‘white horse’) can be used. If the single term and the compound term do not ‘preclude’ each other—­that is, their extensions are not mutually exclusive—­both can be used of the same thing, because one (‘horse’) is more general than the other (‘white horse’). Sometimes we need to mention many things together, and so we use ‘collective names’, or more general terms, of which the most general is ‘thing’. Sometimes we want to refer to only part of all the things there are, and so we use ‘separating names’, such as when we distinguish only ‘birds-­and-­beasts’ from all the other things there are. There can be various partly overlapping ‘collective’ or ‘separating’ names, Xúnzı̌ indicates. Here he advances beyond the Mohists, who pointed out that names refer at different levels of generality but identified only three levels—­ completely general names (‘thing’), kind names (‘horse’), and ‘personal’ names (‘Jill’). In explaining that single and compound terms can refer to the same thing without ‘precluding’ each other, Xúnzı̌ may be alluding to such claims as Gōngsūn Lóng’s famous paradox that ‘white horses are not horses’. Gōngsūn in effect argued that since the extension of ‘white horse’ is not identical to that of ‘horse’, the two terms cannot refer to the same animals, and so white horses are not horses. Xúnzı̌’s implicit rebuttal is that as long as they do not preclude each other, both terms can be used. There is no difficulty in applying both ‘white horse’ and ‘horse’ to white horses, because ‘horse’ is a more general term, ‘white horse’ a less general one, the extension of which is included in that of ‘horse’. Xúnzı̌ appears to cite the white horse paradox as an example of what he calls ‘confusion due to using names to disorder objects’—that is,

Language and Logic  227 making unorthodox statements that confuse the relation between, for ex­ample, horses and coloured horses (22/32). The paradox can be refuted, he suggests, by checking it against naming conventions, as everyone—­even proponents of the paradox—­conventionally uses ‘horse’ of white horses.

Logic and Argumentation For both the later Mohists and Xúnzı̌, the semantics of terms is grounded in practices for distinguishing things as ‘the same’ or ‘different’. To predicate a general term of something is to distinguish it as ‘the same as’ or ‘of a kind’ with other things denoted by that term. An assertion is in effect an utterance indicating that something is or is not ‘the same’ as or ‘of a kind’ with something else. Hence argumentation or disputation—­the process of supporting an assertion by citing other claims—­is typically seen as a process of distinguishing whether things are or are not ‘the same’ or whether something belongs to a certain kind. Consistent with this approach to semantics, logical inquiry largely focuses on analogical reasoning, and argumentation is treated as primarily analogical. Neither the Mohists nor the Xúnzı̌ investigates formal logic or deductive inference, nor do they formulate an explicit notion of logical consequence. The Mohists clearly employ versions of the laws of excluded middle and non-­ contradiction (see Canons A74, for example), along with concepts of logical ‘permissibility’ (kě) and ‘perversity’ (bèi) that are intertwined with a conception of logical consistency. (An assertion is ‘permissible’ if it could be uttered in some situation without violating semantic or pragmatic norms. Assertions are ‘perverse’ if they are not ‘permissible’. Logical consistency is a necessary but not sufficient condition for ‘permissibility’; logical contradiction is a sufficient but not necessary condition for ‘perversity’.) They also employ a rigorous system of quantifiers and conjunctions of implication. However, none of these logical notions is foregrounded and investigated systematically. Instead, discussion focuses on a field of activity the Mohists, Xúnzı̌, and others call  biàn—‘disputation’, ‘dialectics’, or more literally ‘distinction drawing’. Disputation overlaps the fields of semantics, logic, and rhetoric and was considered a core aspect of conceptual and empirical inquiry, legal argumentation, and political persuasion. Typically taking the form of a public debate, it seems to have originated in the practice of litigation and in the rhetoric court advisors used in the ‘persuasions’ by which they tried to influence political policy. Primarily a type of analogical argumentation, disputation, like much

228  Late Classical Chinese Thought legal rhetoric, often took the form of citing a precedent, analogy, or model and explaining why the case at hand should be treated similarly or not.

The Later Mohists on Disputation The later Mohists’ ‘Lesser Selection’ depicts disputation as a general process of reasoning and judgement that covers virtually all inquiry, including topics corresponding to politics, semantics, natural science, and ethics. By disputation we clarify divisions between what is this and not and judge the guidelines of order and disorder; clarify places of sameness and difference and examine the patterns of names and objects; settle benefit and harm and resolve doubt. Only then can we lay out what is so of the myriad things and sort out parallels in groups of statements.  (Mz 45/1)

Other texts portray disputation as a competitive, argumentative activity, a kind of public debate or dispute. The narrowest, most concrete descriptions depict it as a process of arguing over whether, with respect to some name, something is ‘this’ or ‘not’, part of the extension of the name or not. Anything that is ‘this’ and so takes the name is ‘the same’ in respect to whatever features are associated with that name. So disputation is a process of distinguishing what is or is not ‘the same’. Disputation in the narrow sense of arguing over whether a name is properly predicated of some thing is the core component activity of disputation in the broader sense of public debate or clear, meth­od­ ic­al inquiry. Disputation in the broad sense of debate or dialectics is an extended process of disputation in the narrow sense of drawing distinctions. Mohist canons A73–74 explicate disputation in its most concrete sense. It is contending over which of two complementary terms, such as ‘ox’ and ‘non­ox’, ‘fits’ a thing. Such pairs of terms divide all objects into two mutually exclusive categories: any one thing is either ox or non-­ox. In disputation, one side calls an object ‘ox’, the other calls it ‘non-­ox’, and the side whose claim fits the object wins. In this context, the speech act of calling an object ‘ox’ or ‘non-­ox’ has the pragmatic significance of an assertion, since the speaker is indicating the animal at hand as a subject and predicating a term of it. So disputation can be understood as a debate over which of two contradictory assertions is true. But the Mohists themselves frame it differently, as a dispute over whether the object is of the kind ox or not. Equivalently, they see disputation as a matter of debating whether, with respect to the term ‘ox’, the object is ‘this’ or ‘not’.

Language and Logic  229 How do participants in such a dispute make the case that, with respect to some term, something is indeed ‘this’ or ‘not’? The answer again appeals to standards or models (fǎ). We argue for drawing a distinction one way or another by proposing a standard, model, or exemplar of the kind of thing referred to by the term in question and then explaining how the object or situ­ation at hand is or is not relevantly similar to it. In the case of kind names, a thing is ‘so’ when its observable features are ‘similar’ to the standard (Canons A70–71). Things can ‘match’ the standard ‘exactly’, as when a circle is exactly the same shape as the standard, or by what is ‘appropriate’, as when we deem a man ‘swarthy’ by the colour of his skin, not his hair or eyes (A83, A96). The overall process of citing a standard or model, explaining the reasons for distinguishing something as ‘this’ or ‘not’, and thus achieving understanding is called ‘explanation’ (shuō) (A72, 45/2). ‘Explanation’ is the analogue, in clas­ sic­ al Chinese thought, of giving an argument to support an assertion. However, an ‘explanation’ has no particular formal structure and is not associated with a conception of logical proof. It is simply the process of explaining the grounds for distinguishing something as ‘this’ or ‘not’.

Methods of Disputation in the ‘Lesser Selection’ The later Mohist dialectical writings contain a short text known as the ‘Lesser Selection’ specifically devoted to introducing basic concepts of disputation. (The title likely refers to the text being the shorter of a pair of texts salvaged by ‘selecting’ them from a pile of damaged bamboo writing materials. Parts of it may be fragmentary, and the content could have originated from two or more texts.) This text is the clearest, most detailed source available on the early ­history of Chinese logic. We quoted the opening lines above, which present disputation as a general activity of inquiry applicable across a wide range of  fields. The text then explains the basic components and principles of disputation: By names, mention objects. By expressions, put forth thoughts. By ex­plan­ ations, present reasons. Select and propose on the basis of kinds. Having it oneself, one doesn’t condemn it in others. Lacking it oneself, one doesn’t seek it in others.  (Mz 45/2)

Disputation employs three linguistic units—‘names’, ‘expressions’, and ‘ex­plan­ ations’. Each is explained in terms of function, not structure. ‘Names’ are used

230  Late Classical Chinese Thought to mention or talk about objects. ‘Expressions’ are strings of names used to express thoughts. (In this context, cí, ‘expressions’ or ‘rhetoric’, refers to names combined into phrases to utter yán, ‘speech’ or ‘statements’.) Insofar as ‘expressions’ can be used to make assertions, they overlap functionally with sentences. However, whereas a sentence has a subject-­verb grammatical structure, ‘expressions’ can range from just a phrase to several sentences. ‘Explanations’ are pieces of discourse that present the reasons for drawing a distinction one way or another. They are functionally analogous to the premises of an argument but have no specific structure. The passage directly informs us that argumentation is understood to be primarily analogical, as it states that assertions are accepted and proposed on the basis of ‘kind’ relations, by deeming things to be of the same kind or not. In judging such relations, we are to avoid bias, applying the same grounds whether evaluating our own claims or the opponent’s. The text thus indicates that Mohist dialectics is devoted primarily to the study of fair or unbiased analogical persuasion. Another section introduces four core rhetorical techniques applied in disputation, all of them methods of analogical persuasion. The four are ‘analogy’, ‘paralleling’, ‘pulling’, and ‘pushing’. The four do not necessarily form a sequence; they can be used singly or in combination. Readers familiar with them will find they are not at all proprietary methods of the Mohist school but are used widely across early texts. The first technique, ‘analogy’, is explained as ‘mentioning other things and using them to clarify it’. The speaker draws an analogy between the case at hand and another, more familiar or easily understood example in order to explain their claim and persuade others to accept it. ‘Pulling’ and ‘pushing’ are technically forms of argument ad hominem, in that the basis for our assertion is the opponent’s commitment to a similar assertion concerning what we take to be a similar case. ‘Pulling’ refers to citing the opponent’s precedent in accepting an assertion about something and challenging them to explain how the precedent is distinct from the case at hand. It is typically signalled by a rhetorical question asking how the present case is any different from the precedent. ‘Pulling’ thus shifts the burden of argument to the other side and invites them to try to block an implicit ana­ logic­al inference from the precedent to the case at hand by showing that the two are actually dissimilar. ‘Pushing’ refers to asserting a claim about something on the basis of a proposed similarity to another claim the opponent has already accepted. It is typically signalled by a contention that others accept a certain claim and therefore should accept our assertion as well. Since ‘pulling’

Language and Logic  231 and ‘pushing’ are primarily ad hominem techniques used in face-­to-­face debate, they appear mainly in contexts depicting speakers engaged in debate or attempting to persuade each other of something. The final technique, ‘paralleling’ is the most difficult and controversial of the four to interpret. The text describes it only loosely as ‘placing expressions side by side and jointly proceeding’. ‘Paralleling’ thus involves a linguistic comparison in which strings of expressions are extended or developed in some parallel way. Tentatively, I suggest this description is probably best explained by a simple, general interpretation. ‘Paralleling’ refers to presenting a series of syntactically parallel utterances, one or more of which are used to argue by structural analogy that one or more others should be accepted. The similarity in phrasing is supposed to persuade us that there is also an ana­ logic­al relation between the things described, such that if we accept the initial parallel utterances, we should accept the others. On this interpretation, the following is an example of paralleling: White horses are horses; riding white horses is riding horses. Black horses are horses; riding black horses is riding horses. The first utterance above could be taken as grounds for asserting the second. Alternatively, both utterances together could be taken as grounds for asserting a further parallel utterance: Brown horses are horses; riding brown horses is riding horses. As the Mohists understand paralleling, these examples could also support utterances unrelated to riding horses, such as the following: Yellow dogs are dogs; feeding yellow dogs is feeding dogs. Oxen are animals; feeding oxen is feeding animals. The point is to employ syntactical similarity to persuade us to accept new, ­parallel utterances. The syntactic parallelism is intended to guide us to recognize a similarity in the things or activities described. The cases of brown horses, yellow dogs, and oxen described are analogous to those of white and black horses. Paralleling is not limited to utterances parallel to those above. The discussion in the ‘Lesser Selection’ makes it clear that paralleling can be used with a variety of structural patterns, such as the following:

232  Late Classical Chinese Thought Reading books isn’t books; liking reading books is liking books. Cockfights aren’t gamecocks; liking cockfighting is liking gamecocks. Being about to fall into a well isn’t falling into a well; stopping someone about to fall into a well is stopping someone from falling into a well. Being about to go out the door isn’t going out the door; stopping someone about to go out the door is stopping someone from going out the door. By analogy to this list of parallel utterances, the Mohists contend we should also accept the following: Being about to die young isn’t dying young; stopping someone from being about to die young is stopping someone from dying young. Holding there is fate isn’t fate; rejecting holding there is fate is rejecting fate. The litany of parallel examples is intended to prime us to accept the new, parallel utterances and to see them as identifying further cases aptly described using syntactically similar phrasing.

Problems with the Methods The latter half of the ‘Lesser Selection’ presents a taxonomy of several types of cases in which the Mohists contend that such syntactic parallels can help justify further utterances, along with examples of cases in which they cannot. Among the text’s central claims is that parallelism—­and indeed all four of the rhetorical techniques—­is potentially misleading. To illustrate the grounds for the Mohists’ worries, we can consider several examples that contrast parallels they accept with others they reject. As we saw, the Mohists affirm this pair of parallel utterances: White horses are horses; riding white horses is riding horses. Black horses are horses; riding black horses is riding horses. This sort of parallel, they hold, could provide analogical grounds for also affirming utterances such as these: Jane is a person, caring about Jane is caring about people. Neighbours are people, helping neighbours is helping people.

Language and Logic  233 This type of case the Mohists call ‘this and so’, because the first part of the utterance correctly states that something is ‘this’ with respect to some kind name (as white horses are ‘this’ with respect to ‘horse’), while the second part correctly states that some action is ‘so’ with respect to some predicate (as riding white horses satisfies the predicate ‘riding horses’). The Mohists probably hold that any ‘this and so’ utterance can be offered as a parallel to support other ‘this and so’ utterances. Now can we take the preceding examples to support the following, syntactically parallel utterance? Carts are wood, riding carts is riding wood. Structurally, this looks exactly like the ‘this and so’ examples. Yet the Mohists reject this utterance, probably because they think ‘riding wood’ is a nonsense phrase that is never ‘so’. The correct utterance to make is ‘carts are wood, riding carts is not riding wood’, an instance of ‘this but not so’. As with ‘this and so’, parallels between ‘this but not so’ utterances can be drawn to support further ‘this but not so’ utterances. For example, the following utterances might all be taken to support each other. Carts are wood, riding carts isn’t riding wood. Boats are wood, getting in boats isn’t getting in wood. Houses are brick, living in houses isn’t living in brick. Paralleling reliably guides utterances only when used in cases of the same type. Lest they draw faulty parallels, then, dialecticians must carefully distinguish between cases properly treated as ‘this and so’, ‘this but not so’, or other types. Moreover, as many readers must be wondering, the Mohist taxonomy of types of utterances looks suspiciously arbitrary. After all, why not take riding carts to count as riding on wood? It seems that paralleling is hardly a reliable or an authoritative approach to supporting an utterance. The Mohists themselves share this worry. Despite their confidence in the power of disputation to resolve epistemic, ethical, and political problems, a major aim of the ‘Lesser Selection’ is to warn against blindly relying on any fixed method of persuasion in disputation. Unlike a valid deductive argument, analogical distinction-­drawing is not invariably reliable. The text points out potential flaws in each of the four methods it introduces. Analogies are not always reliable, because things similar in some respects may be significantly different in others. Syntactic parallels hold only in some cases, and so

234  Late Classical Chinese Thought parallelism is not always a reliable guide to what utterances to accept. When we appeal to an opponent’s precedent, the grounds by which the pre­ce­dent is ‘so’ and those for our own utterance may actually be different. Likewise, an opponent’s reasons for accepting some utterance may be different from ours. The ‘Lesser Selection’ explains: Things have respects in which they are the same, yet it doesn’t follow that they are completely the same. Parallels between expressions are correct only up to a point. When things are so, there is that by which they are so. Their being so is the same, but that by which they are so isn’t necessarily the same. When people accept things, there is that by which they accept them. Their accepting them is the same, but that by which they accept them isn’t necessarily the same. Thus expressions in analogies, paralleling, pulling, and pushing become different as they proceed, become dangerous as they change direction, fail when taken too far, and leave their roots as they flow, and so one cannot fail to be cautious and cannot invariably use them. So statements have many methods, separate kinds have different reasons, and so one cannot look at only one side.  (Mz 45/7)

Whether a name is correctly predicable of a thing depends on the satisfaction conditions for the name. Things may be similar in some respects without fulfilling the satisfaction conditions for the same name. Expressions may be similar in structure while having dissimilar satisfaction conditions. Hence we  must be cautious in using the four techniques. Any guidance provided by  similarities between things or parallels between utterances must always be  checked against the reasons—­the grounds or criteria—­for using various names and expressions. This caution underscores the nature of the logical inquiries in the ‘Lesser Selection’. The text is not investigating formally valid, truth-­functional inference procedures, but examining ways in which analogical i­ nferences—­in particular those based on syntactic parallels—­do or do not yield what the writers consider semantically correct utterances. When they do not, the Mohists reject the results by appeal to what they take to be the underlying norms governing the semantics of names and expressions, which they see as more fundamental than syntactical or formal features. Their observations about potentially misleading syntactic parallels may have helped direct them away from the study of formal, truth-­functional logic. But the focus of their inquiry was always primarily analogical, not deductive and truth-­functional.

Language and Logic  235

Xúnzı̌ on Disputation According to Xúnzı̌, if a judicious ruler implements the proper approach to regulating correct names, the ruler can prevent debate over ‘deviant expressions’ or preposterous assertions and instead quickly identify the confusions on which they rest. Such an ideal ruler may be unavailable, however, and so there remain occasions on which it may be necessary to engage in disputation to settle the proper use of names. Moreover, Xúnzı̌ holds, at times the gentleman must engage in disputation (Xz 5/42). Besides emulating the sage-­kings and following the code of ritual propriety and righteousness, the gentleman enjoys discussing dào, as all people are fond of discussing what they deem good. Accordingly, besides a theory of names, Xúnzı̌ also presents a concise account of disputation. This account comprises a discussion of four major ‘forms’ or ‘patterns’ of argumentative discourse: ‘naming’, ‘specifying’, ‘explaining’, and ‘disputing’ (22/36). As in the Mohists’ discussion, these components of disputation are explained in terms of function, not structure. ‘Explanation’ and ‘disputation’ have no specific premises-­conclusion structure, for example. The four form a series of activities, in which interlocutors move on to successive stages only if communication breaks down in earlier ones. Parties engaged in discussion undertake the first of the four stages—­ explicitly naming things—­if they find themselves unable to convey some object or situation they aim to communicate. The aim of this stage is to be sure both sides use the same name for the same object. Naming alone may be insufficient for communication, however, because speaker and listener may lack a shared understanding of exactly what objects are being named. In that case, they move on to the second step, seeking agreement in specifying what the name refers to. This step refers to clarifying and reaching a shared understanding of precisely what object speaker and listener are using the name to talk about. If neither naming nor specifying succeeds in allowing the two sides to communicate smoothly, interlocutors try ‘explaining’, or giving reasons for how they distinguish sameness and difference and thus apply certain names to certain objects. If explaining fails as well—­presumably because one side rejects the other’s explanation—­they move on to disputation proper, attempting to settle the use of names by debating how to draw the relevant distinctions. The function of disputation and explanation is specifying and naming—­that is, clarifying what things speakers are referring to and what names are used of them (Xz 22/40). Despite its different terminology, then, Xúnzı̌’s account

236  Late Classical Chinese Thought converges with the Mohists’ in holding that disputation is a process of settling whether a certain name or expression fits an object or not. The two accounts also share similar views of the practical significance of disputation. Because disputation and explanation can settle name–­object relations, Xúnzı̌ says, they are the heart’s means of ‘representing dào’ and thus conveying how to act. The heart seeks to represent dào insofar as its chief role is to be the ‘work supervisor’ of dào—­the organ in charge of guiding the task of following dào (22/40). Xúnzı̌ presents a further brief discussion of the methodology of argumentation that also converges with Mohist views. As we saw, for the Mohists, a typical method of disputation was to propose a standard or an exemplar of the kind of object in question and then propose reasons for distinguishing the case at hand as similar to or different from the standard. Xúnzı̌ describes a similar methodology. ‘In all argumentation, one must first establish paradigms of correctness; only then is it permissible to proceed’ (Xz 18/102). Like the Mohists’ standards, these paradigms stand as criteria against which to compare things in order to distinguish ‘this’ from ‘not’ and so resolve disputes. Consistent with his ethical and political theory, Xúnzı̌ claims that the regulations of the sage-­kings are the ultimate standard of correctness, providing ‘the boundaries of this and not’ and ‘the origin of social roles, re­spon­si­bil­ ities, names, and signs’. Hence in all cases of making assertions and arguments, specifying the use of names, and distinguishing ‘this’ from ‘not’, we are to ‘take the sage-­kings as teachers’, or models to emulate. In doing so, we cite their methods or practices and then explain how some assertion or practice does or does not align with them. Through this approach, we can identify basic eth­ ic­ al distinctions—­ such as that between social and ethical honour and disgrace—­that ‘sage-­kings take as standards, scholars and high officers take as dào, administrators seek to maintain, and the common people take as custom’ (18/111). As always, for Xúnzı̌ as for most late classical thinkers and texts, the purpose of argumentation, discussion, and inquiry—­of what we think of as philosophy—­is ultimately practical, to clarify dào and guide us in following it.

Glossary (Some of the entries below include pronunciation hints. A question mark indicates a ­rising tone, like the end of a question in English. An exclamation point indicates a sharp falling tone, like an exclamation in English.) ài 愛 (care, concern, love; pronounced roughly like ‘aye!’). In Mohist ethics, the ­attitude people should all have towards each other. Analects 論語. Anthology of sayings attributed to and anecdotes about Confucius, his followers, and their associates. The dates of the different material may range from the fifth through the third century bc. bèi 悖, 誖 (perverse, contradictory, inconsistent; pronounced roughly like ‘bay!’). In early Chinese logic, a term for assertions or explanations that are ‘impermissible’ because they violate semantic or pragmatic norms. See kě below. In ethics and pol­it­ics, a near synonym for luàn 亂 ‘disorderly’. bì 蔽 (blinkered, blinded, biased, obstructed; pronounced roughly like ‘bee!’). Xúnzı̌’s term for epistemic bias, blinkering, or one-­sidedness. biàn 辨 (to distinguish, to judge, distinction). Technical term for distinguishing between what does or does not take a ‘name’ and thus forming a judgement. Sometimes used as equivalent to biàn 辯. biàn 辯 (distinguish, dispute, debate, dialectics). A discursive, often agonistic activity in which two sides dispute how to draw distinctions and thus form judgements. Biàn 辨 in the sense of ‘distinguishing’ or ‘judging’ is the outcome of biàn 辯 in the sense of ‘dispute’ or ‘debate’. Sometimes used as equivalent to biàn 辨. bias. See sī. Bóhūn Wúrén 伯昏無人. A teacher mentioned in two Zhuāngzı ̌ stories. Probably a fictional character. Book of Lord Shāng. See Shāngjūnshū 商君書. ‘Canonical Methods’. See Jīng Fǎ 經法. cè 冊 (‘sheaf ’; pronounced roughly like ‘tsuh!’). A short bamboo-­strip scroll used as writing material. Contrasts with piān 篇. ceremonial propriety. See lı̌ 禮. cháng 常 (constant, consistent, regular, reliable; pronounced ‘chahng?’). In many texts, an ideal to seek with respect to dào and the use of language and standards (fǎ). Chēng 稱 (‘Precepts’). One of the Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts. Chǔ 楚. A powerful state in the south. Conquered by Qín in 223 bc.

238 Glossary Chūnqiū 春秋 (‘Spring and Autumn’, ‘Annals’). Name for the historical period (ca. 770–481 bc) preceding the Warring States. Also used as a title similar to ‘Annals’. Chúnyú Kūn 淳于髡 (fourth century bc). Thinker and official from Qí associated with the Jìxià assembly. Appears in Mencius and Lǚ’s Annals. cí 辭 (expression, rhetoric, pronouncement, phrasing; pronounced roughly like ‘ts?’). An utterance or string of utterances expressing an intention or a viewpoint. In some contexts, a near synonym of yán, ‘speech’. ‘Confucianism’. See Rú 儒. dào 道 (‘way’, ‘ways’, or ‘the Way’). The central normative and structural concept in Warring States thought. See the first several paragraphs of Chapter  1. Since most ­readers are familiar with the Chinese word ‘dào’, the book generally leaves it untranslated. Dàodéjīng 道德經. Brief, eclectic late fourth-­century collection of sayings and remarks presenting a ‘Daoist’ metaphysical and ethical outlook. Also known as the Lǎozı̌. ‘Daoism’ (dào jiā 道家). General label for the loose, heterogeneous tradition or traditions of thought represented by writings collected in the Dàodéjīng, Zhuāngzı̌, Huáinánzı̌, and other texts. With respect to Warring States thought, ‘Daoism’ is a retro­spect­ive construct. During this period, no recognized ‘Daoist’ movement or school of thought existed. Dào Yuán 道原 (‘The Dào Source’). One of the Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts. dé 德 (‘Virtue’, ‘power’, ‘capacity’, ‘agentive power’; pronounced roughly like ‘duh?’). The dispositions, capacities, and abilities by which agents follow dào and objects have the features they do. To distinguish dé from moral virtues, throughout the text it is translated as the capitalized word ‘Virtue’. desire. See yù 欲. duty. See yì 義. è 惡 (bad, ugly, vile; pronounced roughly like ‘uh!’). Xúnzı̌ famously claims that ­people’s inherent nature is è. empty. See xū 虛. expressions. See cí 辭. fǎ 法 (standard, model, method, law, to emulate, to take as a model). Central concept in discussions of whether or how explicit, institutionalized guides or rules should be used to direct conduct. See Chapter 2. Also a central concept in Mohist semantic theory and logic. See Chapter 6. fate. See mìng 命. fēi 非 (not, wrong, to condemn, to reject). Paired with shì (this, right, approve, endorse) to express basic pro/con values and action-­guiding attitudes. feelings. See qíng 情.

Glossary  239 fēn 分 (to divide, to distinguish, division, distinction). In late Warring States thought, judgement, action, and language are all understood as based on dividing objects into different kinds, which prompt norm-­governed responses. Fēn is a general term referring to the act of dividing and the resulting divisions. fèn 分份 (part, role, portion, division, distinction, share, allotment). General term for the different parts or roles in society differentiated by social norms, such as the norms of ceremonial propriety, along with the corresponding duties or re­spon­si­bil­ ities and allotted emoluments or allowance. Often paired with ‘names’ (míng), the names or titles of the parts or roles, as in ‘míng-­fèn’, ‘titles-­and-­duties’. In some contexts, fèn may refer to whatever parts, duties, or objects correspond to a name or title. See Chapters 3 and 6. Gāozı̌ 高子 (fourth century bc). Philosopher from Qí who interacted with Mencius. Little is known of his views. gentleman. See jūnzı̌ 君子. gōng 公 (impartial, objective, public, shared). An ideal of judgement and action, ­pivotal in ethics, politics, and epistemology. Contrasts with sī (partial, biased, ­personal, selfish). See Chapters 2, 3, and 5. Gōngsūn Lóng 公孫龍 (late fourth through mid-­third century). A brilliant debater from Zhào famous for defending paradoxical claims such as that white horses are not horses. Lǚ’s Annals depicts him debating Kǒng Chuān, a descendant of Confucius, in the court of Lord Píng Yuán of Zhào (d. 251 bc) and advocating pacifism to King Zhāo of Yàn (r. 311–279 bc). He is the namesake of the very brief anthology Gōngsūn Lóngzı̌ 公孫龍子, of which two or three short texts may be genuine Warring States material. Guǎn Zhòng 管仲. Renowned statesman, minister to Duke Huán of Qí (r. 685–643). Guǎnzı ̌ 管子. Warring States anthology named after Guǎn Zhòng. Contains texts on a variety of topics dating to the fourth through second centuries bc. See the Introduction for discussion. Guō Xiàng 郭象 (252–312 ad). Later thinker who collated and edited the version of the Zhuāngzı̌ now in circulation. Hán 韓. A relatively weak central state. Conquered by Qín in 230 bc. Hàn 漢 dynasty (206 bc–220 ad). Dynasty that succeeded the Qín. Hán Fēi 韓非 (ca. 280–233 bc). Legalist thinker from Hán who travelled to Qín, where his writings influenced King Yíng Zhèng, then fell victim to court intrigue and committed suicide. Hánfēizı̌ 韓非子. Late Warring States anthology of Legalist writings attributed to Hán Fēi. Hán Yù 韓愈 (768–824 ad). Táng dynasty poet and intellectual who introduced doctrine of the ‘orthodox transmission of dào’ from Confucius to Mencius.

240 Glossary hé 和 (harmony, harmonize, coordinate, cooperate; pronounced like ‘huh?’). An eth­ ic­al end in Zhuāngzı̌. In the context of relations between different parties, to ­har­mon­ize is to remove conflict and find a way of cooperating or coexisting. It is not necessarily to reach agreement or concord. In the context of personal ethical ­cultivation, it is to elim­in­ate disruption or conflict and attain balance or equilibrium. Heaven. See tiān. huà 化 (transform, change, evolve, develop). In Zhuāngzı̌, the cosmos and all things within it are caught up in a constant process of huà (change or transformation). In Lǚ’s Annals, knowledge of huà is an epistemic end. In Xúnzı̌, people are able to huà (transform, reform) such that their conduct is not determined by their bad inherent nature. Huáinánzı̌ 淮南子 (ca. 139 bc). Important Hàn-­dynasty collection of lengthy texts on a range of topics, generally adopting a ‘Daoist’ philosophical orientation, produced by scholars in residence at the court of Liú Ān 劉安, Prince of Huáinán. Draws extensively on portions of the Zhuāngzı̌, which the Huáinán scholars may have collated into the 52 book edition held in the Hàn imperial library. Huán, Duke of Qí 齊桓公 (r. 685–643). The first of the five ‘hegemons’ during the Spring and Autumn period. Employer of Guǎn Zhòng. Huán Yuān 環淵 (fourth century bc?). Figure associated with the Jìxià assembly. Reported to have been from Chǔ. Huáng-­Lǎo 黃老. Portmanteau term for ‘Yellow Emperor and Lǎozı̌’. A Hàn-­dynasty label for an eclectic, vaguely defined strain of ‘Daoist’ thought popular around 100 bc. Use of the term for Warring States texts is probably anachronistic. impartiality. See gōng 公. Jiē Yú 接予 (fourth century bc?). Figure associated with the Jìxià assembly. Reported to have been from Qí. A figure named ‘Jiē Yú’ 接輿 appears as a character in the Analects and the Zhuāngzı ,̌ but the context places him in the early fifth century bc, long before Jìxià existed. Jìn 晉. Central state partitioned among Hán, Wèi, and Zhào in the fifth century bc. jìn 禁 (prohibitions). A type of law or legal regulation. jīng 精 (vitality, vital essence or fluid, refined form of something). The refined, ­condensed form of qì (breath, vapour), the dynamic stuff of which the cosmos and all things are constituted. jìng 靜 (stillness, calm, quiet). Central concept in a prominent line of thought on ­eth­ic­al cultivation found in the Zhuāngzı̌, Guǎnzı̌, and other texts. See Chapter 4. Jīng Fǎ 經法 (‘Canonical Methods’). One of the Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts. Jìxià 稷下. A large community or assembly of scholars and their followers retained by the kings of Qí from roughly the middle of the fourth century through the middle of the third century bc. See the Introduction. Often referred to as the Jìxià

Glossary  241 ‘academy’. Jìxià was not an academy in the sense of an organized institution of learning, such as a university, but it can be considered an academy in the sense of a state-­sponsored community of scholars. jūnzı ̌ 君子 (gentleman, prince). Like the English ‘gentleman’, jūnzı̌ originally referred to a social rank but later came to be used primarily for an ethical status. In some Warring States texts, jūnzı̌ refers to the ruler or prince. In others, especially Ruist ethical discussions, it is a label for an ethically ideal or admirable figure. kě 可 (acceptable, appropriate, permissible, possible; pronounced roughly ‘kuh’). In classical Chinese logic, an utterance is kě if it could be correct or appropriate in some situation. An utterance is not kě if it is bèi. See bèi above. kind. See lèi 類. Kǒngzı ̌ 孔子 (‘Master Kǒng’). Chinese name latinized as ‘Confucius’. Kǒng Qiū 孔丘 (d. 479 bc). Confucius’s surname and given name. Lǎozı ̌ 老子 (‘Old Master’). Teacher-­figure who appears in a number of stories in the Zhuāngzı̌ and other texts. Possibly fictional or a composite of several historical figures. After the Warring States period, a tradition developed of attributing to him the short fourth- to third-­century text known as the Dàodéjīng, and so the text is also called the Lǎozı̌. Legalism. A rough label for a doctrinal outlook in Chinese political philosophy that pursues impartial, consistent rule through the use of explicit laws, guidelines, and standards; concentrates power entirely in the person of the sovereign; minimizes the role of discretion in administration; and seeks to eliminate any role for moral character in maintaining social order. ‘Legalism’ is a retrospective label for Warring States collections of texts such as Shāngjūnshū and Hánfēizı̌ and was not a recognized ‘school’ or ‘movement’ at the time. For discussion, see Chapter 2. lèi 類 (kind; pronounced roughly ‘lay!’). Important concept in Warring States semantic and logical theories. A lèi is a collection of things that are inherently ‘the same’ in some respect and so take the same ‘name’. In later Mohist logic and semantics, lèi are understood mereologically, as concrete wholes (jiān 兼) constituted by all the things that are their parts (tı̌ 體). Discursive knowledge lies in being able to sort things correctly into various lèi. lı ̌ 理 (pattern, grain; to pattern, to organize, to manage; pronounced roughly ‘lee’). As a noun, a technical term for how things are organized, covering their structure, activity, interaction, and development. As a verb, the act of organizing things into an orderly pattern or arrangement. lı ̌ 禮 (ceremonial or ritual propriety; ceremonies or rites). In Ruist and other traditions, norms of ceremonial propriety provide a fundamental guide to the ethical life. See Chapters 3 and 4. lì 利 (benefit, profit, welfare). The central good in Mohist ethics.

242 Glossary Lı̌ Jì 禮記 (‘Record of Rituals’, ‘Book of Rites’). A compendium of texts of various dates describing the administration, social structure, and ceremonial rituals of the Zhōu dynasty. Lı̌ Sī 李斯 (280–208 bc). Former student of Xúnzı̌ who served as prime minister of Qín during its victorious campaign to unify the Warring States and through the reign of the first emperor. lı ̌ yì 禮義 (ceremonial propriety and duty). In Xúnzı ,̌ the ‘system of propriety and duty’ refers to ethical and cultural norms and standards of right governing conduct in various social roles and situations. See Chapters 3 and 4. lìng 令 (edict, decree). A form of legal instruction or regulation. Liú Bāng 劉邦 (d. 195 bc). Founding emperor of the Hàn dynasty (206 bc–220 ad). Liú Xiàng 劉向 (77–6 bc). Hàn dynasty scholar and archivist who edited numerous collections of texts in the imperial library. Lord Shāng. See Shāng Yāng. lǜ 律 (ordinance, statute). A type of legal regulation. Lǚ’s Annals 呂氏春秋. Also known as The Annals of Lǚ Bùwéi. Compendium of texts compiled under the sponsorship of Lǚ Bùwéi. The postface to the first major section dates that section to 239 bc. Lǚ Bùwéi 呂不韋 (d. 235 bc). Wealthy merchant who held office as prime minister of Qín from 251 bc to 235 bc. Patron to a large assembly of scholars. luàn 亂 (disorder, chaos). The opposite of zhì, ‘good order’. lùn 論 (discourse, sort, discuss). To sort things into kinds (lèi) and discourse on the relations between them. To discuss affairs in a systematic way. Luòyáng 洛陽. Capital of the ‘Eastern Zhōu’ dynasty. Mǎwángduī 馬王堆. Site in Chángshā, Húnán, where a rich trove of funerary objects, including numerous manuscripts written on silk, was excavated in the 1970s. Mencius. Latinized name for Mèngzı̌. Mencius. Latinized name for the Mèngzı̌ collection of texts. Méng 蒙. According to Hàn dynasty Records of the Grand Historian, place where Zhuāng Zhōu was employed. Mèng Kē 孟軻. Personal name of Mèngzı̌. Mèngzı ̌ 孟子 (‘Master Mèng’). Important fourth-­century bc Ruist teacher. Namesake of the Mèngzı̌. Mèngzı ̌ 孟子 (‘Master Mèng’). One of the ‘various masters’ anthologies, collecting conversations and sayings attributed to Mencius. Mı ň , King of Qí 齊湣王 (d. 284). Son of King Xuān.

Glossary  243 míng 名 (names, titles, words). The basic units of speech, used to refer to objects (see shí). In early Chinese thought, all words are ‘names’. ‘Names’ may also refer to job titles or titles of social roles (see fèn). In this respect, ‘names’ are regarded as inherently prescriptive. To be called ‘father’ or ‘prince’, for instance, is to be subject to the norms associated with proper performance of the role of father or prince. míng 明 (clear, bright; to understand, be clear about, clarify; understanding). Important concept in the epistemology and psychology of book 2 of the Zhuāngzı̌. mìng 命 (command, mandate; fate, destiny; to name). The doctrine of Heaven’s mìng (mandate) was an influential Zhōu-­dynasty view that political authority was justified by the command of Heaven, a nature- or sky-­deity. In early Ruism, mìng is sometimes understood as uncontrollable causal factors that shape outcomes independently of human effort or virtue. In Mohism, mìng is fatalism, the view that human effort does not affect the outcomes that befall us, which the Mohists reject. In Zhuāngzı̌, mìng is a label for uncontrollable factual circumstances, which we must accept and cope with. Mò 墨. Name for the Mohist ‘school’ or ‘movement’. Also Mòzhě 墨者. The Mò and the Rú (‘erudites’, Confucians) were the only two named, self-­identified ‘schools’ or ‘movements’ in late classical thought. Mò Biàn 墨辯. Name for the Mohist dialectical writings, books 40–45 of the Mòzı̌. Mò Dí 墨翟. Personal name of Mòzı̌. ‘Mohism’. See Mò 墨. Mohist ‘Dialectics’. See Mò Biàn. Mòzı ̌ 墨子 (‘Master Mò’, mid-­fifth century bc). Teacher-­figure who founded the Mohist movement, which lasted from the fifth through the second century bc. Mòzı ̌ 墨子 (‘Master Mò’). One of the ‘various masters’ anthologies, a collection of writings by members of the Mohist school with dates ranging from the fifth to the late third or the second century bc. names. See míng 名. order. See zhì 治. patterns. See lı̌ 理. parts. See fèn 份. piān 篇 (‘scroll’, ‘bundle’, ‘book’). A long scroll made of bamboo strips used as writing material. Contrasts with cè. In modern Chinese books, ‘piān’ are chapters, but in Warring States texts the word referred to physical scrolls, which could contain one or more individual works or a part of a longer work. See the Introduction. ‘Precepts’. See Chēng 稱. propriety. See lı̌ 禮. Qí 齊. Powerful eastern state conquered by Qín in 221 bc.

244 Glossary qì 氣 (breath, vapour; pronounced roughly like ‘chee!’). In early Chinese cosmogony, metaphysics, and physiology, the dynamic energy-­stuff of which everything is formed. Qín 秦. Powerful western state that eventually conquered all other states to unify ‘the realm’ under the Qín dynasty in 221 bc. qíng 情 (feelings, conditions, facts, characteristics, constitution; pronounced roughly like ‘ching?’). Refers to the actual state of things, including occurrent psychological states and thus feelings. The qíng of something refers to characteristic features of or facts about it. Quǎnróng 犬戎. Non-­Sinitic people who invaded the Western Zhōu capital in 771 bc. quán xìng 全性. To fulfil one’s inherent nature (xìng) and thus make it ‘whole’ (quán). rén 仁 (benevolence, kindness, goodwill). A core virtue in mainstream ethics, a form of concern, care, or kindness to o ­ thers. Often understood relationally, such that the attitudes and conduct characteristic of rén may vary depending on whether one is dealing with family members, friends, neighbours, political superiors or subordinates, ­strangers, and so forth. roles. See fèn 份. Rú 儒 (‘erudite’, ‘scholar’, ‘Confucian’). Name for the loose ethical, social, and political movement associated with figures such as Confucius, Mencius, and Xúnzı .̌ The Rú and the Mò (Mohists) were the only two named, self-­identified ‘schools’ or ‘movements’ in late classical thought. self-­so. See zì rán 自然. Shāng 商 dynasty (ca. seventeenth century (?)–1046 bc). Dynasty that preceded the Zhōu. Shāng Yāng 商鞅, also known as Gōngsūn Yāng 公孫鞅 or Lord Shāng 商君 (d. 338 bc). Influential Legalist thinker and Qín statesman after whom the Book of Lord Shāng is named. Hán Fēi identifies him as a major influence, crediting him with clarifying the importance of fǎ (standards, methods). Shāngjūnshū 商君書. Anthology of fourth- and third-­century Legalist writings attributed to Shāng Yāng. shén 神 (spirit, spiritual). A core part of the person, composed of pure, condensed jīng or qì, that subconsciously controls action and other functioning. Also, an entity similar to a ghost or phantom. As an adjective, a performance or result that is preternaturally efficacious or successful, as if done by spirits. shèn 慎 (meticulous, conscientious). An epistemic virtue highlighted in Lǚ’s Annals. See Chapter 5. Shēn Bùhài 申不害 (d. 337 bc). Prime minister of Hán, namesake of a collection of writings, largely lost, entitled Shēnzı̌ 申子. Hán Fēi identifies him as a major influence, crediting him with insight into the importance of shù (managerial methods). Shèn Dào 慎到 (late fourth century?). Figure reported to have been from Zhào, associated with the Jìxià assembly. Namesake for a collection of Legalist writings en­titled

Glossary  245 Shènzı̌, of which only fragments survive. Hán Fēi identifies him as an important influence, crediting him with explaining the importance of shì (positional or institutional power). (See Chapter 2.) Book 33 of the Zhuāngzı̌, itself probably a second-­ century bc text, attributes to him views on dào and agency quite unlike the thought of the Shènzı̌. (For discussion, see Chapter  1.) Possibly two or more figures have been conflated under the name of Shèn Dào. If in fact Hán Fēi and the Zhuāngzı̌ are referring to the same person, he might have held that, given a political system in which shì was employed effectively, one could relinquish individual agency in the way described in the Zhuāngzı̌. Shēnzı ̌ 申子 (‘Master Shēn’). Collection of political writings, largely lost, attributed to Shēn Bùhài. Shènzı ̌ 慎子 (‘Master Shèn’). Collection of Legalist political writings of uncertain date attributed to Shèn Dào. Now mostly lost, although significant fragments survive. shēng 生 (life, growth, birth, generation). The process of birth, growth, and life. Core concept in the ‘nurturing life’ (yǎng shēng) discourse. See Chapter 3. shí 實 (objects, stuff, facts, reality; pronounced like ‘shr?’). The objects referred to by míng (names), or the facts or actual state of affairs. Can be used as a countable noun or a mass noun. shì 士 (officer, knight, scholar, gentry; pronounced like ‘shr!’). Name for a class of distinguished, capable, or educated men suitable for service in government. Lowest level of the aristocracy. One of the ‘four occupations’, contrasting with farmers, artisans, and merchants. Initially, shì referred mainly to military officers. Over the course of the Warring States, the makeup of the class shifted from warriors to low-­ level aristocratic scholars and then to scholar-­officials who filled bureaucratic posts. shì 是 (this, right, approve, endorse; pronounced like ‘shr!’). Paired with fēi 非 (not, wrong, to condemn, to reject) to express basic pro/con values and action-­guiding attitudes. shì 勢 (power, posture, position, positional or institutional power; pronounced like ‘shr!’). See Chapter 2. Shí Dà Jīng 十大經 (‘Ten Canons’). One of the Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts. shù 術 (arts, techniques, methods). In Legalism, the managerial techniques the ruler uses to control his ministers. shùn 順 (conform, accord, flow along with). In Daoism, a mark of appropriate action. shuō 說 (explain, persuade; explanation, persuasion, doctrine, teaching). In early Chinese logic, shuō refers to giving reasons for an assertion. Pronounced shuì, the same graph refers to an advisor’s or a counselor’s ‘persuasion’ or brief for a policy, pos­ition, or plan of action. sī 私 (partial, biased, personal, selfish, self-­interest; pronounced like the first two ­letters in ‘silk’). A fault in judgement and action, pivotal in ethics, politics, and epis­tem­ol­ogy. Contrasts with the ideal of gōng 公 (impartial, objective, public, shared). See Chapters 2, 3, and 5.

246 Glossary Sīmǎ Qiān 司馬遷 (ca. 145–86 bc). Archivist and historian who completed the Records of the Grand Historian, a project launched by his father, Sīmǎ Tán. Considered the father of Chinese historiography. Sīmǎ Tán 司馬談 (d. 110 bc). Hàn dynasty astrologer and archivist who began the work of producing the Shı̌ Jì 史記 (often interpreted as Records of the Grand Historian), the first comprehensive historical record in the Chinese tradition. Credited with an essay identifying six different ‘lineages’ or ‘families’ of thought Confucianism, Mohism, Legalism, Names, Yīn-­Yáng, and Daoism. Sòng 宋. Small central state conquered by Qí in 286 bc. Sòng Xíng 宋鈃 (late fourth to early third century bc?). An anti-­war activist and thinker associated with the Jìxià academy. Usually mentioned along with his associate Yı̌n Wén. His views are reported by Xúnzı ,̌ who rebuts them, and in book 33 of the Zhuāngzı̌. For discussion, see Chapter 3. Spring and Autumn. See Chūnqiū 春秋. standards. See fǎ 法. stillness. See jìng 靜. tài yī 太一 (‘ultimate unity’, ‘supreme one’). In some ‘Daoist’ writings, the original, primeval unity from which the cosmos emerged. ‘Ten Canons’. See Shí Dà Jīng 十大經. thought. See yì 意. tiān 天 (Heaven, Nature, sky). The Zhōu dynasty deity. In some contexts, a nature- or sky-­deity; in others, a semi-­personalized conception of nature; in still others, a fully naturalistic conception of nature. See discussion in Chapter 1. Tián 田 clan. Powerful family that controlled the state of Qí for most of the fourth and third centuries bc. tiān dì 天地 (heaven-­and-­earth, the natural world). Tiān mìng 天命 (Heaven’s mandate). Zhōu dynasty doctrine that grounded the ruler’s authority in his having received the ‘mandate of Heaven’. Heaven bestows or withdraws its mandate depending on the ruler’s moral worthiness. tiān xià 天下 (‘all under heaven’, ‘the realm’, ‘all the world’, the social world). Tián Pián 田駢 (late fourth century bc?). Figure associated with the Jìxià assembly. Also mentioned in book 33 of the Zhuāngzı̌, which groups him with Shèn Dào, suggesting that they shared a rough outlook. tōng 通 (competence, mastery, free-­ flowing, connecting, unobstructed). In the Zhuāngzı̌, a criterion of appropriate, effective action. various masters. See zhūzı̌. Virtue. See dé 德. vitality, vital essence. See jīng 精.

Glossary  247 vital vapour. See qì 氣. wander. See yóu 遊. Wáng Tái 王駘. A figure, likely fictional, mentioned in the Zhuāngzı̌ as having a large retinue of followers. Warring States. See zhàn guó 戰國. way. See dào 道. wéi 為 (deem, act, undertake, be, become, judge). Any action or judgement may be an instance or a matter of wéi. In some Daoist texts, wéi denotes activity imposed on, and thus contrary to, the patterns of dào. Appropriate activity (and judgement) is thus wú wéi (‘non-­action’). wèi 偽 (endeavour, undertaking, artifice). A key concept in Xúnzı̌’s moral psychology, contrasting with ‘inherent nature’ (xìng). ‘Nature’ refers to what we do by virtue of spontaneous functioning, requiring no work or learning; ‘endeavour’ refers to any activity requiring work, learning, or considered choice. See Chapter 4. ‘Endeavour’ (wèi) is sometimes explained as a matter of conscious or deliberate effort. However, the crux of Xúnzı ’̌ s explanation is not that endeavour is conscious or deliberate but that it is activity that goes beyond spontaneous functioning. wèi 謂 (call, refer, assert, state). An utterance that involves applying ‘names’ to objects. Wèi 魏. Central state conquered by Qín in 225 bc. Wēi, King of Qí 齊威王 (r. 356–320 bc). King of Qí who may have fostered development of Jìxià assembly. Member of the Tián clan. Father of King Xuān. wèi wǒ 為我 (‘for oneself ’). An ethical stance associated with Yáng Zhū, according to which one’s only end should be self-­interest. See Chapter 3. Wú 吳. Eastern state conquered and absorbed by its southeastern rival Yuè in 473 bc. wú wéi 無為 (non-­action, non-­interference, not taking initiative). A normative view on which appropriate action is marked by the absence of ‘initiative’ or ‘undertaking’ (wéi) that imposes one’s personal biases (sī) on a situ­ation, rather than ‘responding’ (yìng) or ‘conforming’ (shùn) to the circumstances. It is helpful to think of wú wéi as ‘non-­interference’ in things. Xī’ān 西安. City in central China near site of Zhōu dynasty and Qín dynasty capitals. xiào 孝 (filiality, filial devotion; pronounced like ‘shee-­ow!’). An important ethical virtue in many Warring States traditions of thought. See Chapter 3. Xiàochéng, King of Zhào 趙孝成王 (r. 266–245). xīn 心 (heart, mind, intention, attitude; pronounced like ‘shin’). The governing organ of the body, located in the centre of the chest, responsible for thought and action. xíng 行 (conduct, practice, carry out; pronounced roughly like ‘shing?’). General term for conduct. Sometimes paired with dào to refer to carrying out dào. Sometimes paired with yán (speech), to contrast word and deed, what one says and what one does.

248 Glossary xíng 刑 (penal code, punish; pronounced roughly like ‘shing?’). One of several terms for different types of legal regulations. xìng 性 (inherent nature, character, or dispositions; pronounced roughly like ‘shing?’). A prominent focus of controversy in both ethics and moral psychology. See Chapters 3 and 4. xū 虛 (empty, vacant, open, indeterminate; pronounced roughly like the second ­syllable of ‘tissue’). The absence of any determinate features, forms, or objects. In Warring States thought, xū is typically but not always distinct from kōng 空 (void, empty) and wú 無 (absence, non-­existence). It usually refers to what is open, indeterminate, and unfixed rather than absence or void. In some Daoist texts, xū is a psycho-­physiological state pivotal to appropriate action (see Chapter 4). In Xúnzian epistemology (Chapter 5), it is a state of open-­mindedness in which what one has previously learned does not obstruct new learning. Xǔ Xíng 許行 (fourth century bc). Figure who appears in Mencius advocating a ­simple, agrarian lifestyle. Xuān, King of Qí 齊宣王 (r. 319–301 bc). King of Qí who oversaw flourishing of the Jìxià assembly. Member of Tián clan. Reported to have taken counsel from Mencius. Xún Kuàng 荀況. Xúnzı̌’s personal name. Xúnzı ̌ 荀子. Third-­century bc text collecting writings by Xún Kuàng and his followers and associates. (‘Xúnzı ’̌ is pronounced roughly like ‘shyun-­dz’, or the second syllable of ‘fission’ followed by ‘dz’.) yán 言 (speech, statements, teachings). A topic of controversy in late classical thought is whether, and the extent to which, yán can reliably guide us in following dào. See Chapters 1 and 6. Yàn 燕. Northeastern state conquered by Qín in 222 bc. Yán Huí 顏回. Confucius’s favourite and most talented student. Yán Yuān 顏淵. Another name for Yán Huí. yǎng 養 (nurture, foster, develop, cultivate, provide for; pronounced like ‘yahng’). Yǎng shēng (nurturing life), or maintaining good health and fulfilling one’s life-­ process, was a prominent third-­century ethical stance. In Xúnzı̌, ethical norms are understood to ‘nurture’ or ‘provide for’ people’s well-­being. Yáng Zhū 楊朱 (fourth century?). A figure associated with the ethical egoist doctrine of being ‘for oneself ’. See Chapter 3. yì 意 (attention, intention, thought; pronounced ‘ee!’). Yì may direct action and may be expressed by yán (speech). yì 義 (duty, right, norms, morality). In some contexts, yì refers to duties or norms of conduct associated with social roles. In others, its use is more similar to the general concept of moral rightness. Often paired with rén (benevolence), as rén-­yì, to refer to both the good and the right—­attitudes and conduct that are benevolent (and so

Glossary  249 perhaps go beyond minimal standards of right) as well as those that conform to basic moral norms. yīn 因 (reason, cause, basis; to respond to, act on the basis of, or act according to something). In later Mohist semantics, yīn can be the feature of an object that determines whether it takes a ‘name’. In ‘Daoist’ texts, it refers to action prompted by the context, rather than imposed on it. Yı̌n Wén 尹文 (fourth to third century bc). Anti-­war activist and thinker, colleague of Sòng Xíng. Depicted in Lǚ’s Annals in conversation with King Mı̌n of Qí (d. 284 bc). yīn-­yáng 陰陽. Two basic types of qì (dynamic vapour), primal negative (yīn) and positive (yáng) elemental energies. The balance and interaction between them determines various phenomena, including the seasons, the weather, and our psycho-­physiological health. This concept pair is a basis for correlative metaphysics and doctrines in calendrical texts about aligning human activity with the seasons and the cosmos. yìng 應 (respond). In Daoist thought, the apt dào is a fitting response to the situation rather than action taken on one’s own initiative and imposed on circumstances. Yíng Zhèng, King of Qín 秦嬴政王 (259–210 bc). King of Qín who conquered all rival states to become first emperor in 221 bc. yóu 遊 (wander, roam, play; pronounced ‘yo?’). Important ethical concept in Zhuāngzı̌. See Chapters 3 and 4. yòu 囿 (confinement, bias, blinkering; pronounced ‘yo!’). Also written 尤 and 宥. Epistemological concept in the Annals. See Chapter 5. Yuè 越. A state in the southeast defeated in 334 bc by Chǔ and Qí, which split its ­territory between them. Yuè Lìng 月令 (‘Monthly Orders’). Calendrical text incorporated into the first of the three major parts of Lǚ’s Annals. yù 欲 (desire, want, urge). Moderating or managing desires or wants was a prominent topic in several schools of third-­century ethical thought, including the ‘nurturing life’ discourse, Sòng Xíng’s ethics, and Xúnzı ’̌ s moral psychology. See Chapter 4. zé 則 (norm, regularity). Zēngzı ̌ 曾子 (‘Master Zēng’, 505–435 bc). Personal name of Zēng Shēn 曾參, influential student of Confucius and teacher of Confucius’s grandson Zı š ī 子思 (483–402 bc). Zhàn guó 戰國 (‘Warring States’, 481–221 bc). Name for the last several centuries before the Qín unification in 221 bc. Zhāng Yǔ 張禹 (d. 5 bc). Hàn dynasty high official and scholar who edited the Analects. Zhào 趙. Central state, conquered by Qín in 228 bc. Zhāo Xiāng, King of Qín 秦昭襄王 (r. 306–251 bc).

250 Glossary Zhào Qí 趙岐 (108–201 ad). Hàn dynasty commentator on and editor of Mencius. zhèng 正 (correct, upright, straight; pronounced roughly ‘juhng!’). zhèng míng 正名 (correcting or rectifying names, correct names). See Chapter 6. zhī 知 (to know, knowledge; pronounced ‘jr’, roughly like the first three letters in ‘jerk’). See Chapter 5. zhì 志 (intent, intention, purpose, aim; prounced ‘jr!’). Typically, the direction, aim, or focus of the xīn (heart). In some contexts, a synonym for yì (intention, thought). zhì 治 (order, control, govern; prounced ‘jr!’). ‘Good order’ (zhì) is a basic good in much of Warring States ethical and political discourse. Zhōu 周 (ca. 1045–256 bc; pronounced like ‘joe’). Name of the dynasty that ended during the Warring States period. Zhuāng Zhōu 莊周 (late fourth to mid third century bc?). Figure after whom the Zhuāngzı ̌ anthology is named. He appears as character in a number of stories in the Zhuāngzı .̌ It is unclear whether he had any role in producing the text. Zhuāngzı̌ 莊子. One of the ‘various masters’ anthologies. A heterogeneous collection of writings, mostly with a broadly ‘Daoist’ orientation, with dates ranging from perhaps the end of the fourth century through the second century bc. (‘Zhuāngzı̌’ is pronounced like ‘jwong-­dz’.) zhūzı ̌ 諸子 (‘various masters’). General label for the various texts and traditions of thought associated with pre-­Hàn ‘masters’. Sometimes used in the phrase zhūzı̌ bǎijiā 諸子百家 ‘the various masters and hundred families (of thought)’. The various figures and texts referred to by names ending in ‘zı ̌ 子’ (‘master’) are all counted among the ‘various masters’. zì rán 自然 (self-­so, in-­and-­of-­itself; pronounced roughly like ‘dz-­ran’). The Daoist notion that if free of interference, things proceed along a course of activity in and of themselves, without guidance or direction. To interfere with such self-­so activity is to act contrary to dào. Zōu Yǎn 鄒衍 (third century bc). A thinker associated with the Jìxià assembly who developed yīn-­yáng theory and correlative cosmology.

For Further Reading To streamline the discussion and appeal to a broad, general audience, this book focuses on primary sources only and omits the usual scholarly apparatus of notes and references to the recent secondary literature. Readers interested in classical Chinese thought are encour­ aged to pursue further reading in a variety of sources, which will introduce on­going dis­ cussions and controversies in recent scholarship. Here I will introduce selected works that each cover a range of primary sources, as the present book does, but go into more detail concerning the secondary literature. A convenient and rewarding place to start learning more about Chinese philosophy is the informative, detailed online Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (https://plato.stanford. edu/index.html). Also helpful is the Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy (https://iep.utm. edu). Searching either site for names and topics mentioned in this book will quickly lead the reader to a variety of detailed, carefully written articles with extensive, regularly updated bibliographies. Two popular introductions to Chinese philosophy provide a good starting point for ­readers seeking an overview of the field. An especially clear, easy to follow introductory text is Karyn Lai, An Introduction to Chinese Philosophy, second edition (Cambridge University Press, 2017). Also widely consulted is Bryan Van Norden, An Introduction to Classical Chinese Philosophy (Hackett, 2011). An interesting survey that emphasises the implications of recent philological work on early texts is Paul Goldin, The Art of Chinese Philosophy: Eight Classical Texts and How to Read Them (Princeton University Press, 2020). Two older works that remain widely referenced in the field are A. C. Graham, Disputers of the Tao: Philosophical Argument in Ancient China (Open Court, 1989), and Chad Hansen, A Daoist Theory of Chinese Thought (Oxford University Press, 2000). Graham’s work summarizes the results of his long, influential research career, while Hansen’s, first published in 1992, presents a pathbreaking new way of looking at the dialectical develop­ ment of classical Chinese philosophical discourse. A pair of engaging thematic studies of the classical period are Bryan Van Norden, Virtue Ethics and Consequentialism in Early Chinese Philosophy (Cambridge University Press, 2012) and Franklin Perkins, Heaven and Earth Are Not Humane: The Problem of Evil in Classical Chinese Philosophy (Indiana University Press, 2014). Each provides an insightful, detailed overview of the early period from the perspective of a particular theme—­virtue ethics, in Van Norden’s case, and the problem of evil, in Perkins’s. A rich source for the background context of late classical thought is Masayuki Sato, The Confucian Quest for Order: The Origin and Formation of the Political Thought of Xun Zi (Brill, 2003), which provides the most detailed discussion in English of the broader world of thought in China around the beginning of the third century BC. For readers especially interested in Daoism, a helpful guide into the field is Steve Coutinho, An Introduction to Daoist Philosophies (Columbia University Press, 2013). Finally, an insightful, ambitious recent survey of the development of ethical and pol­it­ ical thought in early China—­also from Oxford University Press—­is Tao Jiang, Origins of Moral-­Political Philosophy in Early China (Oxford University Press, 2021).

Appendix The Sources This appendix offers more information on the primary sources on which the main chapters of the book are based, which were presented briefly in the Introduction. Analects 論語 (‘Categorized Sayings’). The Analects is a compilation of sayings attributed to and anecdotes about Confucius (Kǒngzı ̌) and his disciples and associates. It is considered a foundational text in the Rú (‘Erudite’, ‘Confucian’) tradition. The material is highly heterogeneous, and the dates of the various short entries likely range from around or shortly after the life of Confucius (died ca. 479 bc) through at least two generations of followers and very likely more. (The text includes sayings from late in the life of Confucius’s disciple Zēngzı ̌, for example, who died more than 40 years after him.) Multiple versions of the Analects are known to have existed in ancient times, and it appears the collection is but one of several albums of ‘Confucius sayings’ that were in circulation. The version we read today derives from an edition produced by Zhāng Yǔ (d. 5 bc), who assembled a composite text organized into 20 ‘scrolls’ (piān) by combining the two editions extant in his day. As remarked briefly in Chapter 6, portions of the material may be from as late as the third century bc. Guǎnzı̌ 管子 (‘Master Guǎn’). This lengthy anthology is named after the seventh-­century bc statesman Guǎn Zhòng, minister to Duke Huán of Qí (r. 685–643), a pair of figures who feature as characters in a number of dialogues included in the corpus. Guǎn Zhòng is unlikely to have been the author of any of the content, as the earliest material was probably written at least two centuries after his death. The main historical connection to Guǎn is geographical: many of the texts likely originated in the state of Qí, where they may have been the products of discussions and inquiry among scholars gathered at Jì Xià. The transmitted version of the text was arranged by the Hàn dynasty archivist and editor Liú Xiàng (77–6 bc). It includes 86 piān, of which 10 are missing, with only the titles preserved. The Guǎnzı ̌ comprises writings on a wide range of topics, including ethics, politics, administration, economics, military affairs, geography, agriculture, and meditation or ‘inward cultivation’. Traditionally classified as a ‘Legalist’ text, the Guǎnzı̌ includes some writings with a Legalist doctrinal orientation but many others with doctrinal features characteristic of Ruist or Daoist thought, as well as proto-­scientific, metaphysical texts employing yīn-­yáng theory (see Chapter  1). The ethical and political writings collected in the Guǎnzı̌ are a major repository of late classical philosophy that has been relatively neglected. The dates of various Guǎnzı̌ writings probably range from the middle of the fourth century bc through to the Hàn dynasty. In selecting individual piān for discussion, I have relied extensively on the tentative dating proposed by Allyn Rickett in his introductory remarks on each. (See W. Allyn Rickett, tr., Guanzi: Political, Economic, and Philosophical Essays from Early China, volume 1, rev. ed. [Boston: Cheng & Tsui, 2001] and Guanzi: Political, Economic, and Philosophical Essays from Early China, volume 2 [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998].) Readers should understand that different parts of the Guǎnzı̌ discussed here present diverse doctrinal stances. For example, ‘Prince and Ministers (I)’, a source treated in several chapters here, presents fundamentally different views from ‘Standards and Prohibitions’ or ‘Relying on Standards’, discussed in Chapter 2.

254  Appendix: The Sources Hánfēizı̌ 韓非子 (‘Master Hán Fēi’). The Hánfēizı̌ is a voluminous collection of writings attributed to or associated with the ‘Legalist’ thinker Hán Fēi (ca. 280–233 bc), a member of the royal clan of the small, central state of Hán and reportedly a former student of Xúnzı ̌. Having failed to win influence with the king of his home state, Hán Fēi was dispatched as an envoy to the powerful western state of Qín, where his writings had found favour with King Yíng Zhèng, later the first emperor of the Qín dynasty. Having persuaded the King of Qín to adopt policies he recommended, Hán fell victim to court intrigue orchestrated by Lı ̌ Sī, a counsellor to the king and also a former student of Xúnzı ̌, and was tricked into drinking poison. (After the death of the first emperor, Lı ̌ himself later met with an even worse fate, being cut in two in the marketplace as punishment for purported disloyalty.) Like the Guǎnzı̌, the transmitted text of Hánfēizı̌ was edited and rearranged by the Hàn dynasty scholar Liú Xiàng. Liú probably included a body of essays by Hán Fēi along with material by other, unnamed scholars. Among the 55 piān of the extent version are two books of commentary giving Legalist interpretations of the Dàodéjīng and several lengthy collections of sayings and anecdotes. The authorship of much of the collection is open to debate. A significant portion of the material is consistent enough in style and doctrinal outlook to plausibly be attributed to Hán himself. Other parts display differences in orientation that could be explained as signs of different authorial hands. Taken as a whole, for the purposes of discussion, the Hánfēizı̌ presents a reasonably coherent synthesis of key Legalist ideas, which the text itself attributes to several different thinkers (see Chapter 2). Lǚ’s Annals or Lǚshì Chūnqiū 呂氏春秋, also known as The Annals of Lǚ Bùwéi. The Annals was produced by a team of scholarly retainers to Lǚ Bùwéi (291–235 bc), prime minister of the state of Qín, around 239 bc. As a display of his stature and power—­and also to exert influence over future rulers—­Lǚ assembled a vast corps of scholars to produce a compendium that, in the Hàn historian Sīmǎ Qiān’s words, would ‘cover all affairs of Heaven and earth, the myriad things, and the past and present’. A shrewd, successful merchant from Wèi, Lǚ befriended a minor prince of Qín who, through Lǚ’s schemes and machinations, rose to become King of Qín and thereupon named him prime minister. When the King died three years later, passing the throne to his 13-­year-­old son Yíng Zhèng—­the future First Emperor of Qín—­Lǚ continued as prime minister and regent, sharing influence over the youth with his mother, the Queen Dowager. In 238 bc, when Yíng Zhèng reached maturity, his mother’s lover—­whom Lǚ had introduced to her—­mounted a failed revolt. Suspected of treachery, Lǚ was exiled to the south of Qín, where he committed suicide in 235 bc. King Yíng Zhèng went on to conquer all rival states and unify the realm under his rule in 221 bc. The Annals—­or at least the first 12 sections of it—­is the only one of the source anthologies discussed here that can be considered a planned, organized ‘work’, albeit one apparently executed by an editorial committee, not a single author or even a small group of authors. The text is divided into three major collections of short essays, the ‘almanacs’, ‘examinations’, and ‘discourses’. The essays in the first part, the almanacs, are organized around the 12 sections of the ‘Monthly Orders’, originally a separate calendrical text. A postface to this part indicates that these 12 sets of essays were jointly completed in 239 bc. The remaining two parts—­the bulk of the compendium—­was probably completed some time afterwards. Although the Annals was the product of a unified, deliberate plan, the purpose of this plan was to produce a compendium that would draw together a vast range of knowledge and diverse doctrinal standpoints relevant to educating a young prince. The text comprises a total of 160 short essays—­most likely produced by numerous writers and editors—­that cover themes and doctrines from most major trends, traditions, or lines of thought at the time, including Ruist, Mohist, and Daoist thought, other less easily categorized stances,

Appendix: The Sources  255 psycho-­physiological cultivation, medical theory, yīn-­yáng and proto-­scientific correlative metaphysics, agriculture, and military matters. Some discussions are probably best interpreted not as presenting the stance of any distinct school or tradition but as exploring prevailing themes or ideas shared by many thinkers or schools. In other places, the essays present distinct, probably incompatible standpoints. The compendium as a whole coheres not on the level of doctrinal outlook but on that of shared, overarching concerns. A clear aim, for example, is to convince the sovereign and others in power to exercise authority cautiously and judiciously, drawing prudently on moral and epistemic cultivation and the lessons of history and scholarly reflection. These goals can be facilitated by employing and heeding the good counsel of scholar-­gentry such as the Annals writers themselves. Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts 馬王堆帛書. These are four previously unknown texts discovered among a collection of silk manuscripts unearthed in 1973 at Mǎwángduī, Hunan, from a tomb sealed in 168 bc. The four are ‘Canonical Methods’ (Jīng Fǎ), ‘Ten Canons’ (Shí Dà Jīng), ‘Precepts’ (Chēng), and ‘The Dào Source’ (Dào Yuán). ‘Canonical Methods’ and ‘Ten Canons’ each comprise a number of short, individually titled sections. The identity and doctrinal affiliation of these manuscripts and the relationship between them have been the subject of much debate. Some scholars contend they are the long-­lost Four Classics of the Yellow Emperor mentioned in the Hàn History and are representative of a vague, poorly understood category of thought that ancient sources refer to as ‘Huáng-­ Lǎo’, or ‘Yellow Emperor and Lǎozı .̌’ Others rejoin that only one of the four texts mentions the Yellow Emperor, and the content of the four does not cohere in a manner suggesting that they are all parts of a single work. Indeed, the ‘Canonical Methods’ and ‘Ten Canons’ themselves could well be composite works, each drawing together short texts presenting different tendencies of thought. I take the silk manuscripts to offer intriguing first-­hand testimony concerning lines of thought current between the late decades of the third century and early decades of the second century and thus worth including in this study. I remain neutral on their doctrinal affiliation, on whether they are definitive of ‘Huáng-­Lǎo’ thought, and even on whether they should be attributed to a single circle of writers or editors. When discussing their content, I refer to them simply as the ‘silk manuscripts’ and cite them as four independent texts. Mencius (Mèngzı̌) 孟子 (‘Master Mèng’). The Mèngzı̌, latinized as Mencius, is a collection of sayings attributed to and anecdotes about Mèng Kē, a prominent fourth-­century teacher and counsellor in the Rú tradition. Mèng self-­identified as a later-­generation follower of Confucius and the Rú tradition. Much later in history, starting with Hán Yù (768–824) in the Táng dynasty, orthodox Rú scholars anachronistically elevated Mèngzı ̌ (‘Master Mèng’, latinized as ‘Mencius’) to the rank of ‘second sage’, anointing him the second major figure in transmission of the dào from Confucius. Historically, however, during the Warring States and early imperial era, he was merely one of a number of prominent Rú figures and was considerably less influential than Xúnzı ̌. The material in the Mencius was likely composed and compiled mainly by Mèngzı ̌’s firstand second-­generation disciples, although some may be by later followers of his lineage. The text was edited and significantly abridged by Zhào Qí (108–201 ad) during the Hàn dynasty. The version passed down since Zhào is divided into seven sections, each sub­div­ ided into two parts, each of which is in turn divided into a number of sayings and conversations. Some of these probably record remarks and conversations of Mèngzı ̌ himself. Others may be partly fictionalized or may reflect discourse that took place after Mèngzı ̌’s death around the end of the fourth century. In Chapter 4, we consider a selection of ma­ter­ ial from Mencius that appears to engage with a third-­century philosophical controversy.

256  Appendix: The Sources Mòzı̌ 墨子 (‘Master Mò’). The Mòzı̌ is a large collection of texts produced by several generations of followers of Mò Dí (fl. ca. 430 bc), a craftsman who founded a p ­ hilo­soph­ic­al, religious, and political movement that at its peak was as influential as the Rú (‘Confucian’) movement. The collection includes 71 piān, of which 18 are lost. The Mòzı̌ addresses a wide range of philosophical, scientific, and practical topics, including issues in ethics, politics, economics, religion, semantic theory, logic, mechanics, optics, and military tactics. The dates of the material may range from the middle to late decades of the fifth century through the late third century. Accordingly, much of the Mòzı̌ predates the period of interest in this book. However, a handful of Mòzı̌ essays probably date from the third century, and the concerns and rhetoric of several sections of the texts known as the Mohist ‘Dialectics’ (Mò Biàn), or the ‘later Mohist’ writings, seem to place them in the same third-­ century intellectual milieu as, for example, parts of the Xúnzı̌ and the Zhuāngzı̌. Accordingly, these are treated in the chapters on ethics, epistemology, and language and logic. Shāngjūn Shū 商君書 (Book of Lord Shāng). This is a relatively short collection of texts attributed to Shāng Yāng, also known as Gōngsūn Yāng or Lord Shāng, a mid-­fourth-­ century minister in the state of Qín who was highly influential in the development of Legalist thought. Hán Fēi credits Shāng with emphasizing the importance of standards or models (fǎ) in government. The Shāngjūn Shū is the earliest extant source for Legalist thought. Some portions could be from Shāng’s own hand. Others may have been written by disciples and followers. Still others are likely from decades or even a century after his death. Much of the book is probably from the fourth century and so outside the scope of this study. However, certain parts are very likely third-­century material. I follow Yuri Pines in taking piān 9, 17, and 26, discussed in Chapters 2 and 6, to be third-­century works on the grounds that they mention historical figures alive near the end of the fourth century or use terminology unlikely to have come into use before the third century. (See Yuri Pines, The Book of Lord Shang [Columbia University Press, 2019].) Shènzı̌ 慎子 (‘Master Shèn’). The Shènzı̌ was a collection of writings attributed to Shèn Dào, about whom little is known beyond that he was associated with the Jìxià assembly of scholars in Qí probably during the late fourth century bc. Hàn dynasty archivists recorded a collection under this name comprising 42 piān, of which all but incomplete pieces of seven are lost, along with other assorted fragments. The extant version of Shènzı̌ is a truncated reconstruction from fragments preserved in later compendiums of notable texts. The date of the material is uncertain, but it appears to be late fourth to third century bc and so I have tentatively included it in the discussion in Chapter 2. Xúnzı̌ 荀子 (‘Master Xún’). This collection of mostly third-­century writings is attributed to Xún Kuàng, an influential scholar, teacher, and official who self-­identified as a follower of the Rú tradition. Although the sources about his life are confusing and even contra­dict­ ory, Xún Kuàng seems to have been born late in the fourth century, flourished during the middle decades of the third century, and died some time after 238 bc. At one point in his career, he was considered a senior teacher at the intellectual centre of Jìxià in Qí. The Xúnzı̌ depicts him in an interview with King Zhāo Xiāng of Qín (d. 251 bc) and debating military affairs in the court of King Xiàochéng of Zhào (d. 245 bc). He is reported to have held an official post in Chǔ, an appointment that probably ended no later than 238 bc, when his patron there was assassinated. The Xúnzı̌ comprises 32 piān, the bulk of which may have been composed either by Xún Kuàng or under his supervision, although parts of the text show signs of later editing, re­arrange­ment, and interpolation. Perhaps one-­fifth of the collection might have been compiled without Xún’s input. The Xúnzı̌ is among the texts that were collated and

Appendix: The Sources  257 rearranged by the Hàn archivist Liú Xiàng, who may have moved short texts around and combined texts that were originally separate. A conspicuous result of later editorial re­arrange­ment is that a number of piān are literarily incoherent, joining together material on manifestly different topics. For example, only about half of the important piān entitled ‘Correct Names’ is devoted to discussing names. Much of the remainder consists of an unrelated, albeit equally vital discussion of moral psychology. The Xúnzı̌ marks a shift in the typical Ruist literary format from the short sayings and conversations characteristic of the Analects and Mencius to extended essays and com­pil­ ations of brief, essay-­like paragraphs. Because of the sophistication and breadth of the thought presented in the Xúnzı̌, it is among the most extensively discussed sources in this book. Since the portions of the anthology with which we will be concerned show a high degree of doctrinal coherence—­allowing for development and revision over Xúnzı ̌’s long career—­and historically Xúnzı ̌ seems likely to have had a direct hand in producing the texts, it is the one source that I will frequently refer to as presenting the views of a particular figure, Xúnzı ̌. Zhuāngzı̌ 莊子 (‘Master Zhuāng’). The final ‘various masters’ source discussed in the book is the Zhuāngzı̌, a collection of writings presenting a diverse range of partly overlapping doctrinal outlooks later grouped together under the label of ‘Daoism’. The Zhuāngzı̌ is traditionally attributed to Zhuāng Zhōu, about whom almost nothing is known. Zhuāng supposedly lived in the late decades of the fourth century and died in the early decades of the third. According to the Hàn archivist Sīmǎ Qiān, he was employed as a minor official in a place called Méng, apparently located in the central state of Sòng. In reality, little is known about him beyond a few anecdotes in the Zhuāngzı̌, which could well be fictional. He is not even the most prominent literary figure in the text—­Confucius appears as a character in Zhuāngzı̌ anecdotes more often than Zhuāng Zhōu does. There is no strong evidence that Zhuāng either did or did not have a hand in producing any of the material collected in the Zhuāngzı̌. The version of the Zhuāngzı̌ described by Hàn archivists comprised 52 piān. The recension that has come down to us is that of the much later thinker Guō Xiàng (252–312 ad), who reports that he collated the extant books and discarded about one third of the ma­ter­ ial as being of lesser quality or topically irrelevant. Guō may also have rearranged some of the content. As a result of his editorial work, it is now practically impossible to reconstruct what the Zhuāngzı̌ materials might have looked like at the end of the third or middle of the second century bc. It is also difficult to date the Zhuāngzı̌ materials with any confidence. Some of the writings may be from the late fourth century, but many appear to date to the third century, with a few piān most likely originating in the first half of the second century. One pivotal example is the breathtaking ‘Discourse on Evening Things Out’—book 2 in the Guō Xiàng version—­which seems best explained as belonging to the same intellectual milieu as the later Mohist dialectics and the Xúnzı̌, both of which are probably third-­century sources. Some sophisticated writings, such as the ‘Autumn Waters’ dialogue in book 17, are prob­ ably best explained as mid-­third-­century material, while stories such as those about pol­it­ ical life in book 4 or personal virtue in book 5 could conceivably be from the late fourth century, although stylistically they seem more likely to be third-­century works. A few piān—­such as ‘Robber Zhí’ (book 29) and ‘The Fisherman’ (book 31)—are written in a narrative style that marks them as most likely second-­century material. The content of the Zhuāngzı̌ is divided into three sections: seven ‘inner’, 15 ‘outer’, and 11 ‘mixed’ piān. Most of the piān are composite and heterogeneous in content, containing a mixture of stories, conversations, and essays addressing a variety of topics. (The few

258  Appendix: The Sources exceptions include piān 30, ‘A Persuasion on Swords’, and 31, ‘The Fisherman’, which are both extended, coherent narratives.) The collection as a whole does not present a single, systematic, coherent doctrinal stance; nor do most of the individual piān, or, in my view, the ‘inner’ piān. Rather, the corpus offers a medley of diverse philosophical stances and themes. Much of the writing can helpfully be thought of as tied together by ‘family resemblances’ between related but distinct positions. The anthology as a whole can be regarded as an archive of short contributions to a range of interrelated, criss-­crossing discourses on various topics. An ancient editor or editors gave the seven ‘inner’ piān three-­character thematic titles, while all the other piān have two-­character titles taken from their first line of text. The wording of several of the three-­character titles alludes to concepts occurring in certain syncretic Zhuāngzı̌ writings with a doctrinal outlook overlapping that of the Hàn dynasty Huáinánzı̌ (ca. 139 bc). A plausible explanation is that whoever chose these titles might have been associated with the circle of scholars gathered at the court of the Prince of Huáinán around the middle of the second century bc. Indeed, as scholars such as Harold Roth and Esther Klein have suggested, possibly it was members of this circle who compiled the version of the Zhuāngzı̌ collected in the Hàn imperial library. The Huáinánzı̌ text borrows material liberally from the Zhuāngzı̌ without acknowledgement. This treatment contrasts with that given the Lǎozı̌, which the Huáinánzı̌ cites frequently. One plausible explanation is that when the Huáinánzı̌ itself was produced, around the middle of the second century bc, a considerable amount of the material that eventually went into the Zhuāngzı̌ had yet to be gathered together under that title. Since the scholars at Huáinán were clearly familiar with this material, it may have been they who organized it into the Zhuāngzı̌. Since the Míng dynasty (1368–1644), scholars have suspected that only the ‘inner’ piān could be from the hand of a historical Zhuāngzı ̌. The view that the inner piān represent the largely coherent work of single author is still common in the literature. However, recent scholarship—­especially work by Esther Klein—­has furnished grounds for questioning whether the ‘inner’ piān even existed as a distinct group before the Hàn dynasty, since no Hàn author mentions them or assigns them a privileged status. They appear more likely to have been a Hàn or later editor’s selection of high quality, thematically related passages from among a large, relatively disorganized corpus of material. (One of them, piān 6, ‘The Great Ancestor-­Master’, even appears to contain Hàn dynasty material.) Much, although not all, of the material in the ‘inner’ piān is of high philosophical quality, but a significant portion of the material in piān 17 through 21, for example, is of equally high quality and is not readily distinguishable in style from the ‘inner’ piān considered as a whole. As we saw in discussions throughout this book, portions of the Zhuāngzı̌ are of the highest philosophical interest. Given the collection’s heterogeneous structure and content, however, it is crucial to understand that different Zhuāngzı̌ writings may present rather different views, which may cohere or agree to various degrees or not at all. To offer just one example, the critical arguments in the ‘Discourse on Evening Things Out’ (book 2) against claims to authoritative knowledge are probably just as effective against certain other, relatively dogmatic passages in the Zhuāngzı̌ as they are against their stated targets, the Ruists and the Mohists. Hence in this book I work with Zhuāngzı̌ material at the level of the individual passage or group of interrelated passages, rather than ascribing a single doctrinal outlook to the entire corpus or even to the ‘inner’ piān as a whole. General descriptions of Zhuangist views may apply only to selected portions of the anthology and not to others.

Index For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages. action/actions  3, 19–20, 23–5, 27–8, 31, 33–8, 40, 47–8, 59, 61–3, 65–6, 74–5, 81, 91–3, 96–7, 99–101, 108, 111, 118, 123, 126–9, 132–3, 138–41, 149–53, 155–67, 171, 176–7, 180–1, 186–90, 204, 208–9, 213–15, 217–19, 223, 233 action-guiding causes 193 distinctions  46, 51–2, 131–2, 196, 202–3 divisions  51, 195 functions  206–7, 210, 220 names  51, 208 patterns  46, 171 role of speech  204 terms  211–12, 231 activists  1, 7–8, 11, 89–90, 157–8, 211, 213–14 administration  7–8, 15, 31–2, 37, 43, 61–4, 68–70, 75, 108, 138–9, 157–8, 253 administrators 236 agency  17–18, 30, 35, 38–41, 48–9, 62, 76, 78, 135, 138–9, 157, 162–3, 165–6, 168, 180, 186–7, 201 agents  17, 23–4, 26–8, 38–41, 50–3, 99–100, 108, 119, 132, 138–9, 143, 155, 161–2, 164–6, 175, 177–86, 191, 193–9, 218–19 agricultural communities  21, 139 lifestyle 7 production  60, 62 society 31 agriculture  15, 32–3, 253–5 alignment  26, 31–3, 35, 47, 68, 84, 96, 101–4, 125, 147, 149, 159–60, 165–6, 179, 205–6, 216–17, 221–2, 225, 236 with dào  17, 39–40, 136, 143–5, 160, 216–17

with Heaven and Earth  33, 47, 216–17 with natural conditions  47, 104 with natural features  47–8 with nature  48–50, 105 with the natural world  101–2, 169–70 all under Heaven  5–6, 38–9 almanacs  31, 33 ‘Monthly Orders’  32–3, 254 Analects  1, 7, 9–10, 15, 17–18, 30, 77–8, 99–100, 205–8, 210, 253, 257 anarchism  89–90, 94–6 anecdotes  11–14, 16, 116, 130–1, 253–5, 257 animals  32, 45, 47–8, 59, 126, 139–40, 154–5, 168–9, 174, 177–8, 185, 190, 193, 198, 205, 220–2, 225–7, 231 Annals of Lǚ Bùwéi, see Lǚ’s Annals anthologies  7, 10–15, 98, 253–4, 257–8 anti-morality  123–4, 126, 128, 144 anti-violence 7 anti-war activist  8 argumentation  8–9, 20, 227–36, see also disputation aristocrats  1–2, 8–9, 53, see also gentry artefacts  26–7, 41–2, 148–9, 224 artisans  43, 62–3, 84–6, 100, 106–7, 119, 140, 153, 157, see also craftsmen arts of the heart  171–2, 180, 186–7 assertions  20, 90, 172, 175–8, 194, 202, 205, 214–15, 220, 227–31, 235–6 associates  8, 11, 15, 30, 253, see also disciples, followers assumptions  14, 23–4, 63–4, 73, 89–90, 144, 194–5, 204 attitudes  21, 23–4, 46, 52, 70, 91, 95–6, 107, 115–16, 120–1, 131–2, 134–5, 152, 169–70, 172–5, 180–1, 200, 203

260 Index authoritarian approach/stance  89, 138–9 attitude 95–6 character 213–14 outlook 49–50 political system  43–4, 61–2, 66–7, 97 authority  17, 19–20, 26, 39–40, 57–8, 61–2, 65, 72–5, 79–80, 82, 88–9, 137–9, 143–4, 195, 210, 217, 254–5, see also political authority awareness  19–20, 127–8, 172–5 benefit  18, 43, 57–8, 60–1, 65, 67, 71–2, 82, 102–6, 111–13, 118–23, 145, 153, 158–9, 183–4, 228 benevolence  18, 29–30, 35, 69, 71–2, 78, 82–3, 93–5, 113–14, 119–20, 123–9, 138–40, 147–8, 158, 198, 207–8 Bentham, Jeremy  121 bias  2, 51, 58, 62–8, 70–1, 73–8, 81, 87–9, 92, 111–12, 115–16, 125–6, 137, 157, 159–61, 163, 166–7, 171–2, 182–4, 186–8, 191–7, 210, 213–14, 219, 230 Bóhūn Wúrén  8 Book of Lord Shāng (Shāngjūn Shū) 9–10, 16, 77, 256 ‘Establishing Standards’  79 ‘Fixing Parts’  209–10 see also Shāng Yāng books, see piān boundaries  8–9, 51, 124, 127, 129, 161, 195, 202–3, 219, 236 calendrical framework  32 calendrical texts  31, 254 canonical lists  2–3 ceremonial propriety  30, 58–9, 67, 70, 86, 99, 104, 106, 128–9, 139–40, 158, 183–4, 206–8, 215 ceremonies  32, 46, 87, 94–5, 99–100, 132 chaos  37, 56, 209–10 character  18–19, 25–6, 28, 68, 72–3, 78–9, 81–4, 87–9, 112–14, 120, 129, 138, 153–5, 169–70, 213–14 characteristic desires  115–18, 141–2, 225–6 children  47–8, 59, 101–2, 104, 106–7, 121–3, 125–6, 149, 167, 199 Chǔ  6–8, 256

Chúnyú Kūn  8 commands  20, 43–4, 48, 60–1, 79–81, 94–5, 137, 204, 206–9, 211, 213–14, 220, 223 common people  44, 60–2, 65–9, 75–6, 83–4, 137, 208, 236 communities  6–8, 10, 17–18, 21, 26, 28, 31, 33, 42, 44–6, 48–9, 55, 57–62, 65–7, 69, 71–2, 83, 89–97, 101–9, 116, 122–3, 135–9, 144, 153–4, 180–1, 204, 206–7, 209–10, 212–13, 215, 218–22, 224 compendiums  11–12, 15, 112–13, 188, 254–6 conduct  29–30, 32–3, 35–6, 46, 49, 61–3, 67–9, 71–2, 74, 77–8, 81–2, 84, 87, 89, 91, 99–102, 106–7, 109, 114–18, 120–1, 127–9, 134–45, 147, 150–1, 176–8, 183, 188, 193, 206–8, 211, 214, see also norms of conduct conflict  6, 35, 45, 50, 56, 59–60, 95–6, 99–103, 131, 145, 202–3, 225–6 Confucian Analects, see Analects Confucianism, see Ruism (Confucianism) Confucius  2–3, 6–9, 15–16, 30, 51, 124–5, 127, 158, 162–4, 166–8, 190, 200, 205–8, 253, 255, 257 consequentialism  97, 102–3, 108, 119–20, 123, see also Mohist consequentialism constructivism 50, see also craft constructivism, cultural constructivism contextual dào 164–70 correcting names  20, 204–20, 223 correct names  20, 176–7, 204, 206, 208–9, 211, 213–17, 220, 235, see also names craft conception  17, 26–7, 41–50 craft constructivism  45, 48–50 crafts  23–4, 26–7, 41–3, 53–4 craftsmen  16, 153, 256, see also artisans creative emptiness 36–7 processes  26, 38, 44, 53–4 responsiveness 129 uses 130 creativity  26–7, 219 crime  50, 76, 80–1, 135–6, 214 criminal actions 35–6 justice 32

Index  261 laws 107, see also laws punishment 31–2, see also punishment criminals  120, 153 cultivation  15, 19, 45, 84, 138–9, 142–4, 154, 156, 158, 162–3, 167, 187, 253–5, see also ethical cultivation, moral cultivation cultural achievement 103–4 artefacts  148–9, 224 commitment 88–9 community 21 construct  45–50, 101–2, 139 constructivism  17, 27, 46, 48–50 heroes 154 identification 50 influences  135, 141 leaders  17, 27, 45 llifestyle 7 mediation 169–70 milieu 32–3 mores  1, 72–3 norms  17, 104 order 143–4 practices  10–11, 18–19, 94–5, 115, 183–4 standards 139 tradition  30, 105, 186–7, 195 value 27 customs  21–2, 43, 68–9, 114–16, 137, 153–4, 236 Dàodéjīng  36, 44, 124–5, 254 Daoism  2–3, 9, 15–16, 96, 123–4, 257 Daoist conception  128–9, 159–60 critique 124–5 ideas 8–9 primitivism  19, 134 school 8–9 self-cultivation 187 thought  36, 253–5 dào of Heaven  26, 30, 32–5, 78, 160, 216–17 decrees  58, 61–2, 65, 68–71, 77–80, 167 deities  27–30, 37–8, 71–2, 119 Descartes, René  199–200 desires  43, 59, 99–103, 111, 118, 134–5, 139–45, 147, 151–3, 158–9, 172–3,

181, 225–6, see also characteristic desires disciples  6–7, 15, 163, 255–6, see also associates, followers disorder  32–3, 43, 45–7, 49, 56, 58–60, 75, 85–6, 88, 95–6, 99, 102–3, 106–8, 113, 118, 137–8, 145, 152–4, 190, 210–16, 226–8 disputation 227–36, see also argumentation distinction-drawing  182, 227–8, 233–4 disputes 201–2 practices  51, 195 division of labour  45, 62, 100, 102, 104, 209 dreams 199–201 dukes  6, 167, 253 duty/duties  18, 31–2, 44–6, 48–9, 56, 59–63, 65–9, 71, 78–9, 82–3, 87, 89, 94–5, 98–109, 113–14, 118–29, 136–7, 139–40, 142, 145–8, 150–1, 153–5, 157–8, 167, 186–7, 198, 202–3, 208–10, 212–13, 215, see also norms of duty economic circumstances 41–2 development 6 distress 59 management 43 production 63–4 prosperity  47, 97 wealth 77 economics  15, 253, 256 education  6, 15, 18–19, 35, 45–6, 65–6, 72–3, 79, 85–90, 103–6, 111–12, 134–6, 138–9, 141–3, 149, 155–6, 254–5, see also moral education emperor-kings  91, 109, 216, see also sage-kings emperors  6, 157–8, 194, 216, 254–5 emptiness  36–7, 40, 127, 135, 156–60, 165–7 epistemic activity  180, 196–7 agency  180, 186–7 agents  175, 184–6, 195–7 competemce  177, 182, 185–8, 203 conscientiousness  171–2, 196–7

262 Index epistemic (cont.) cultivation 254–5 discussions 188 endeavours 180 excellence  171–2, 182, 187 expertise 180–8 humility  193, 201, 203 impartiality 188 incompetence 182 intermediaries 181 limitations 201 meticulousness 194–5 performance  19–20, 171–2, 179–80, 194 problems 233–4 stance  19–20, 172 virtue  19–20, 172, 188–94 epistemological concepts  19–20, 171–2, 188 discussion  19–20, 171, 182 themes  188–9, 191, 193 theories 3 epistemology  3–4, 19–20, 23, 25, 63, 171–203, 256 ethical cultivation  18–19, 25, 134–70, 206–7 development  18–19, 86, 134–6, 143–4, 154 life  21–2, 98, 105–6, 115–16, 141, 143–4 norms  45–6, 68, 95–6, 98, 104–6, 120, 135–6, 143–5, 202–3 theories  3, 18, 72, 98, 118–19 ethics  1–2, 7, 15, 18, 23–4, 72–3, 84, 98–133, 139, 221–2, 228, 253, 256 role ethics  98, 105–9 expertise/experts  53–4, 73, 75, 83–9, 138–9, 154–5, 164, 180, 186–7, 194–5, 210 epistemic 180–8 fate  78, 93–4, 114, 167, 189, 194, 232 favours  31–2, 73, 76, 111–12, 159–60 filial devotion  58, 106–7, 116, 119, 122–3, 138, 207–8, 211 followers  6–12, 16, 27–8, 30, 50, 147–8, 187, 253, 255–6, see also associates, disciples forgetting  158, 164–7 four seasons  31, 36, 67, 111–12

Gēng Sāng Chǔ 114 gentlemen  30, 35, 45–7, 65–6, 74, 84–5, 87–8, 103, 116–18, 125, 145, 153–5, 180, 186–7, 206–7, 211–12, 235 gentlemen-princes  46–7, 49–50 gentry  1–2, 6, 8, 11–12, 62, 157–8, 254–5, see also aristocrats geography  8, 10–11, 15, 253 ghosts/spirits  27–8, 31–2, 37–8, 118–19, 156–9, 162–7, 184 Gōngsūn Lóng  7, 226–7 Gōngsūn Yāng, see Shāng Yāng governance  17–18, 25, 44, 49–50, 55–7, 65, 68–74, 78–81, 85, 89–96, 189, 206, 210, 212 government  6, 32, 55, 69, 71–3, 77, 82–3, 86, 88–93, 95–7, 100, 108, 110, 121–3, 135–6, 138–9, 157–8, 204, 206, 256 Great Dào  38–40, 51, 75 Guǎn Zhòng  10–11, 15, 253 Guǎnzı ̌  2–4, 7–12, 14–15, 17–19, 34, 74, 97–8, 105–9, 118–19, 134, 254 ‘Arts of the Heart (I)’  34, 158–9 ‘Correcting the Age’  43–4, 49–50 ‘Five Aids’  65, 105–6, 109, 123–4, 138–9 ‘Inner Cultivation’  159 ‘Prince and Ministers (I)’  22, 42–5, 48–9, 60–2, 64, 66–7, 69, 89–91, 94–5, 253 ‘Prince and Ministers (II)’  22, 57, 61 ‘Prince and Rulers (I)’  137, 208 ‘Reliance on Standards’  75, 81, 253 ‘Standards and Prohibitions’  74, 87, 253 ‘The Four Seasons’  31–2, 36 Hán  3, 6–8, 13, 79–81, 115, 257 Hán dynasty  5–6, 8–13, 39, 112–13, 123, 147–8, 253, 255–6, 258 Hán Fēi  2, 15, 79–80, 82, 254, 256 Hánfēizı ̌  9–10, 15, 71, 74, 77–81, 123, 254 ‘Eminent Learning’  78 ‘The Dào of the Sovereign’  159–60 Hán Yù  255 harmony  32, 36, 59, 65–9, 76, 88, 116, 119, 129, 131–3, 138, 141–2, 157–8 health  18, 31, 37, 93–6, 109–12, 114–15, 126–9, 141–4, 146–7, 149, 151, 157, 167

Index  263 Heaven  28–30, 35–6, 40–3, 46–9, 71–2, 74–5, 101–2, 109–12, 119–20, 125, 128–9, 135, 142–3, 147, 149–50, 152, 155–7, 159–60, 162, 165, 169–70, 217, 222, see also all under Heaven, dào of Heaven, Son of Heaven, Virtue of Heaven Heaven and Earth  26, 28, 31, 33–4, 36–8, 46, 125, 156–7, 254 hegemons 5–6 Huáinánzı ̌  112–13, 258 Huìzı ̌ 129–30 humanity  26–33, 36, 39–42, 45–50, 52, 57, 59, 61, 101–2, 109–10, 114, 119, 122–4, 141, 153–4 impartiality  17–18, 55, 63–4, 66, 70, 72–3, 75, 77, 81, 83–4, 88–9, 92, 111–12, 125–6, 159–60, 188 Jiē Yǔ  8, 153, 192 Jìn  5–6, 199 Jìxià  8, 79–80, 256 Jìxià assembly of scholars  2–3, 7–8, 16, 256 judgement  11–12, 19–20, 26, 33–4, 63, 68, 72–3, 75–6, 83–9, 125–6, 138, 171–2, 178, 182, 184–6, 188, 191–2, 196–7, 199–203, 205, 224, 228 Kant, Immanuel  138–9 Klein, Esther  258 Kǒng Qiū, see Confucius language  1–4, 8–9, 20, 23–5, 46, 48, 126–7, 176, 179–80, 204–37, 256, see also semantics Lǎo Dān (Lǎozı ̌)  2, 124–7, 168 law/laws  17–18, 20, 23, 38, 63–4, 73, 77–8, 83–4, 88–9, 206–7, 210, 214–15, see also legal leaders/leadership  6–7, 11, 17, 27, 29–30, 42, 47, 59–60, 70–2, 77–9, 99–100, 103–4, 109–10, 138, 225, see also political leaders/leadership legal argumentation 227–8 incentives 57–8 interpretation 213 philosophy 87

rhetoric 227–8 system 206, see also laws Legalism  2, 9, 15, 70–89, 160 Legalist appeals  17–18, 55 approach  55, 71, 83–4 concern 74 ideal 85–6 interpretations 254 state 73 texts  8–9, 70–3, 80, 253 thinkers  15, 159–60, 254 thought  16, 70–2, 77, 256 writings  16, 74 Legalists  17–18, 72–3, 81–2, 86, 88–90 Lièzı ̌ 189 lifestyle  7, 21, 35, 94–5, 115 Lı ̌ Jì ‘Record of Rituals’  32, 99–100 Liú Bāng  6 Liú Xiàng  13, 253–4, 256–7 logic  3, 8–9, 20, 24–5, 81, 204–36, 256 logical consistency 227–8 inquiries  20, 227–8, 234 proof 229 puzzles 7 theories 3 Lord Shāng, see Shāng Yāng loyalty  5–6, 62–4, 66, 68–9, 71–3, 79–80, 82–3, 91, 106–7, 116, 119, 135–6, 138, 211 Lǚ Bùwéi  2–3, 8, 15, 254 Luòyáng 5–6 Lǚ’s Annals  2–3, 8–12, 15, 19–20, 32, 37, 60–1, 66, 82, 97, 109, 112–19, 123, 134–5, 141–4, 146–7, 157, 171–2, 188–97, 200–1, 203, 207, 210, 212, 254–5 ‘Characteristic Desires’  111 ‘Exalting Virtue’  81–2 ‘Relying on the Prince  60, 111–12 ‘Suitable Authority’  82 ‘Taking Life as Fundamental’  109–10 ‘Valuing Life’  111 masters  2–3, 7–8, 10, 111, 257 anthologies 11–14

264 Index masters (cont.) collections  12, 14–15 text  10–13, 147–8 Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts  9–10, 15–16, 217, 255 ‘Canonical Methods’  22, 33, 216–17, 255 ‘Ten Canons’  118–19, 216, 255 ‘The Dào-Source’ 36 measures  63, 67, 69–71, 75–7, 86, 92, 99–101, 137, 145, 193–4, 214, 220–1, 223–4, see also models, standards Mencius (Mèngzı ̌)  1–3, 7–8, 16, 146–51, 255 Mencius (Mèngzı ̌)  1, 7–11, 16, 35, 112–13, 122, 134–5, 144–5, 147–50, 255, 257 Mèng Kē  16, 147–8, 255 metaphysics  17, 21, 26, 253–5 military affairs  1–2, 15, 32, 253, 256 aggression 116 conquest 116 matters 254–5 might  6, 77 power  5–6, 82–3, 106 service 6–7 strength 72 system 136 tactics 256 Míng dynasty  258 Mıň, King  7–8, 211 models  23, 44, 48, 63, 69, 84, 119–20, 128, 179, 221–4, 229, 236, 256, see also measures, standards Mò Dí  16, 256 Mohism  2–3, 71–2, 113, 119–23, 131–2, 174, 177, 183–4, 230 Canons  120–1, 220, 223–4, 227–9 Dialectics  16, 171–80 ‘Lesser Selection’  228–34 ‘Models and Standards’  119–20 Mohist consequentialism  18, 98, 118–23 dialectical texts/writings  11–12, 19–20, 35–6, 84–5, 120, 172, 204–5, 220, 225, 229–30, 256–7 epistemology  3, 172, 177 ethics  98, 119, 122–3 logic 3 realism 222

semantics  3, 220–3 state of nature  56 taxonomy 233 theories  3, 56–7, 118–19, 121, 182 thought  20, 172, 180–1, 254–5 views  181, 236 Mohists  6–7, 20, 30, 56–7, 71–2, 84, 86, 116, 119–23, 125–6, 131–2, 171–82, 194–6, 202, 220–9, 231–6, 258 moral cultivation  137, 139–40, 147, 153–5, 161 moral education  17–18, 55–7, 66, 68, 70, 77–8, 90–2, 134–6, 138, 144, 146–7, 158 morality  21–2, 71–2, 99–100, 120–8, 144, 147–8 moral norms  21–2, 35, 81–2, 94–5, 113–14, 119, 123–4, 127–8, 139–40, 146–7, 149 moral psychology  1–3, 12, 70–1, 134, 139, 144, 151, 256–7 moral values  35, 66–7, 82, 126, 198 motivation  1, 20, 62, 70–3, 81–3, 135, 151–2, 156–7, 199–200, 213–15 Mòzı ̌  2–3, 6–7, 10–11, 27–8, 30, 112–13, 140, 183–4 Mòzı ̌  2, 6–12, 16, 27–8, 123–4, 176–7, 220, 256 music  7, 24, 32, 67, 94–5, 102, 104–5, 110–11, 139–40, 154–5, 158, 161, 206–7 names  8–9, 11–12, 20, 33–4, 44, 48, 51, 57–8, 132, 159–60, 172, 174–81, 184, 186–7, 204–30, 234–6, 256–7, see also correcting names, correct names naming  36–7, 174–5, 180–2, 214–17, 220–1, 224, 226–7, 235–6 natural order  29–32, 216–17 natural world  26–36, 39–41, 46, 48–9, 52, 101–2, 126, 143–5, 156, 169–70, 217 Nature  27–36, 47, 51–3, 55, 96, 109–10, 112–15, 135, 150–3, 155–6, 222, 224 norms of conduct  18, 50, 56–7, 66–8, 74, 98, 100, 105–8, 132 norms of duty  66–7, 108, 138, 215 norms of propriety  46, 49, 60–1, 65–9, 87, 89, 99–105, 107, 154–5, 186–7 nurturing life  98, 109–16, 120, 123–4, 129–30, 157, 192

Index  265 Páo Dīng  53–4, 129–31, 161–3 parents  21, 47–8, 59, 101–2, 106–7, 116, 122–3, 142–4, 207–8 patterns  8–9, 21, 25, 28–31, 33–4, 36, 38–42, 46–9, 53–4, 57–8, 74, 96, 101–2, 118, 126–31, 141–5, 156, 160–1, 165–6, 171, 182–8, 195–7, 216–17, 224–5, 231, 235 of action  126–7, 131–2 of activity  23–4, 125–6 of causal influence  188–9 of changng situations  140 of conduct  99–100, 144, 206–7 of dào  38–9, 216 of duty  147 of growth  141 of names  228 of nature  17, 21–2, 31, 34, 216 of objects  228 of propriety  147, 155 of sameness  224 of similarity  183–4, 188–9, 217 of states  24 of the cosmos  40 of the world  19, 33, 36, 190, 216–17 of things  22, 32–3, 132, 141–2, 194–5, 207 people’s nature  17, 60, 93–6, 110, 123–7, 134–5, 144–52, 155–6, 160 performance  19–20, 22–4, 26, 42, 48, 52–5, 62–3, 79–80, 84, 87, 100, 127–32, 134, 138–9, 159–63, 165, 169–72, 179–80, 182, 184–7, 192, 194, 215 piān (books, scrolls)  12–14, 253–4, 256–8 Pines, Yuri  256 Plato 27–8 pluralism  17, 23–4, 50–4, 162 plurality of conceptions  56 of dào  26, 50–1, 195–7, 199 of norms  198–9 of openings  133 of paths  93, 131 of ways  197 political authority  1–2, 5–6, 17–18, 55–61, 66, 69, 95–8, 103, 137, 167 leaders/leadership  45–6, 48–9, 56–8, 60–1, 86, 96, 143–4 life  21–2, 83–4, 257 norms  17, 30

order  5–6, 213, 216, 218–19 power  5–6, 31–2, 111–12 relations  21–2, 50, 168 theories  1–2, 98, 236 thought  3, 18, 25, 55–7, 63, 70, 89–91, 97, 111–12, 188 positional power  70–1, 79–80, 86 poverty  59, 67, 99, 102, 189 primal simplicity  139–40, 142–3, 155–6 primitivism  19, 94, 134, 155–6 primitivist approach 156 essays 139–40 ideals 142–3 stance 146–7 texts  35, 95–6, 114, 126–7, 146–8 thought 139 uncultivation 139–41 views  141, 147–8 writings  35, 95, 115, 134–5, 147–8 primitivists  134–5, 139, 144, 146–8, 155–6 propriety  42, 45–6, 48, 60, 62, 65–9, 77–8, 83, 98–108, 129, 136, 138, 140, 145–7, 150–1, 153–5, 204, 235, see also ceremonial propriety, norms of propriety prosperity  27, 33, 42–3, 45, 47, 49, 97–8, 143–4, 216–17 psychological agility 128–9 attitudes  99, 169–70 composure 165 contents 223 factors 184 make-up 81–2 states 181 stillness 157–8 psychology  1, 82, 97, 138–9, 161–70, see also moral psychology psycho-physiological constitution 41 cultivation  15, 254–5 functioning 110 health 109 hygiene 110–11 punishment  17–18, 31–2, 43–4, 55–8, 62–3, 65, 67–73, 76–83, 89–90, 93, 97, 100–1, 106, 124, 126, 135–7, 159–60, 206–7, 212–13, 254

266 Index Qí  2–3, 5–8, 10–11, 16, 189, 192, 211, 253, 256 Qín  2–3, 6, 8, 15–16, 79–80, 82–3, 254, 256 Qín dynasty  5–6, 254 Quǎnróng 5–6 realism  28, 70–1, 222 realist account  19–20 realist stance  29–30, 222 reality  1, 27–8, 36–7, 178–82, 185–6, 190, 197, 200–1, 213 regulations  55, 63, 68, 71, 74, 77–8, 88–9, 208, 214–15, 218–19, 236 relation ranking  121–3 rewards  17–18, 31, 56–8, 62–3, 65, 67–71, 73, 75–6, 78–83, 89–90, 93, 97, 100, 135–7, 159–60, 165 Rickett, Allyn  253 ritual  6–7, 11–12, 32, 50, 53, 99–100, 104–5, 206–7, 235 Roth, Harold  258 Rú  6–7, 9 movement 256 scholars  16, 255 tradition  15–16, 253, 255–6 Ruism (Confucianism)  2–3, 15, 30, 122–3 Ruist dào 131–2 education 55 ethical thought  98 gentleman 117–18 laws/standards 17–18 literary format  257 thinkers 68 thought 253–5 Ruists  7, 195–6, 258 rule  6, 23, 29–30, 34, 56, 63, 65–6, 73, 97, 105–6, 111–12, 188, 254 by moral education  55 by regulations  55 by standards  82 by virtue  82 consequentialism 102 methods  17–18, 56–7, 61–70, 78 of law  64, 77, 83–4, 88–9 theories 17–18

rulers  1–2, 5–7, 11–12, 29–32, 42–4, 56–8, 60–75, 77–84, 86, 89–96, 100, 106–7, 110–12, 116, 119, 122, 136–8, 141–2, 152, 157–60, 181, 188–90, 193, 206, 208–12, 214, 216–19, 221, 225, 235, 254 rulership  34, 43 rules  1, 23, 25, 48, 68, 99–100, 107, 133, 161, 204, 213 sage-kings  42, 46–50, 98, 101–2, 104–7, 117, 153, 192, 194, 214–16, 235–6, see also emperor-kings sages  16, 37, 43, 46–7, 60–1, 78, 84, 91–2, 98–9, 101–2, 109–11, 118–19, 131, 141–2, 150, 153, 156–7, 161, 180, 189, 194, 196–7, 214–16, 235–6, 255 sameness  20, 205, 219–25, 228, 235–6 sceptical critique 199 questions  197, 199 responses 218 stance 198–201 scepticism  19–20, 78, 89, 96, 172, 181, 185–6, 194–203 scholar-gentry  1–2, 8, 254–5 scholar-officers  207–8, 211–12 scholars  1–2, 4, 6, 8, 11, 16, 146–8, 214–15, 236, 253–6, 258, see also Jìxià assembly of scholars School of Standards  70–1 scrolls, see piān security  28–9, 63–5, 69, 81, 101–6, 116, 119, 142–4, 153–4 self-so activity 17–18 community 89–97 way 93 semantics  117, 208, 220–3, 227–8, 234 flexibility 209 norms 227–8 range 110 theories  3, 20, 215, 219–27, 256 see also language Shāng dynasty  29–30 Shāng Yāng (Gōngsūn Yāng, Lord Shāng)  16, 79–80, 256

Index  267 Shēn Bùhài  79–80 Shèn Dào  8, 16, 38–41, 79–80, 83–4, 256 Shènzı ̌  8–10, 16, 57–8, 69, 74–6, 78–80, 256 silk manuscripts, see Mǎwángduī silk manuscripts Sīmǎ Qiān  254, 257 Sīmǎ Tán  8–9 Son of Heaven  5–6, 32–3, 60–1, 109–10 Sòng 257 Sòng Xíng  7–8, 98, 115–18, 120, 191, 215–16, 225–6 source-dào  36–8, 40–1, 52–3 sovereigns  28, 42, 55–8, 60–2, 64–6, 68, 73–4, 76, 83, 94–5, 110–11, 116, 121–2, 135–7, 157–60, 208, 210, 254–5 speech  10–12, 20, 25, 38, 44, 71–2, 91, 99–100, 167, 176, 180–1, 192, 204–9, 212–13, 215–22, 224, 228–30 spirits, see ghosts/spirits Spring and Autumn  5–6 stability  33, 43–4, 47, 63–4, 69, 74–5, 81, 97, 210–11 standards  17–18, 25–6, 35–6, 44, 48, 53–5, 57–8, 61–77, 79–89, 91–2, 94–6, 113, 119–20, 124, 127–9, 137, 139–40, 145, 153–5, 159–60, 171–2, 177–9, 185, 193–7, 199, 201–3, 209–10, 213–14, 217–19, 221–2, 224, 229, 236, 256, see also measures, models stillness  19, 135, 155–61, 165–6 Tāng 65 Táng dynasty  255 the knowing  172–5, 180–2 the way  1, 3, 8–9, 17, 21–54 Tiān 28–30 Tián clan  5–6 Tián Pián  8 traditions  1, 3, 8–9, 15–16, 26–7, 30, 50, 56, 83–4, 104–5, 123–4, 138, 174, 176, 178–9, 186–8, 195, 198, 200, 253–6 training  11–12, 103, 135, 138–9, 149, 153–5, 161–6, 168, 186–7, 213 transformation  18–19, 37, 40, 44–6, 68–9, 90–1, 127, 136–7, 143–56, 189, 200–1 two handles  77–81

uncultivation  134, 139–41 unity  17–18, 28, 35–8, 45, 56–7, 59, 63–4, 68, 71–5, 82–3, 89, 94, 97, 104, 137, 140, 177, 214, 218–19 unity in Virtue  61–2, 94–6 utilitarian ideal  183–4 utilitarians 121 various masters anthologies  7, 10, 257 Virtue  24–5, 30, 33, 35–6, 40, 42, 57, 61–2, 89–91, 93–6, 110–12, 125–33, 136–7, 139–57, 167–70, 188–94, 208 Virtue of Heaven  39–41, 156–8 Warring States  1–6, 10–11, 13, 16–17, 20–1, 28, 30, 55, 255 Wèi  5–6, 166–8, 206, 254 Wēi, King  8 Wú  6, 189 Wǔ, King  65 Xī’ān 5–6 Xiàochéng, King  256 xing (nature)  17, 26, 34–6, 45–6, 60, 70–1, 93–6, 109–13, 115, 117, 120, 123–4, 134–6, 139–42, 144, 146–7, 150–1, 156–7, 163, 206–7 Xuān, King  7–8 Xún Kuàng  10–11, 13, 16, 50, 82, 256–7 Xúnzı ̌  2–3, 7–8, 13, 16–17, 19–20, 27, 45–53, 55, 58–61, 66–70, 82–9, 98–106, 115–18, 134–9, 141, 143–56, 160–3, 169–72, 175, 180–8, 191–2, 194–7, 202, 213–16, 219, 223–7, 235–6, 254–7 Xúnzı ̌  4, 8–11, 13–20, 45–6, 60–1, 82, 86, 89–91, 97–100, 108, 115, 118–19, 123–4, 134, 147–8, 171, 203–5, 207, 227–8, 256–7 ‘Correct Names’  12, 213–14, 219–20, 256–7 ‘Debate on Military Matters’  11–12 ‘Resolving Obscuration’  182 Xǔ Xíng  7 Yàn 6–8 Yáng Zhū  112–13, 140

268 Index Yán Huí  158, 164, 166–8 Yellow Emperor  255 Yíng Zhèng, King  254 Yı ̌n Wén  7, 115–18, 211 yīn-yáng  8–9, 11–12, 15–16, 253–5 Zhāng Yǔ 253 Zhào  5–6, 255–6 Zhào Qí  255 Zhōu dynasty  5–6, 28–30, 49–50, 99, 104–5, 186–7, 195 Zhuāng Zhōu  200–1, 257 Zhuāngzı ̌  2, 10–11, 130, 183 Zhuāngzı ̌  1–4, 8–12, 16–20, 22, 27, 35, 39–41, 53, 89–90, 93–8, 112–13, 115–18, 123–4, 127–8, 130–3, 135, 144, 155–6, 158, 160–72, 187–8, 194–203, 256–8

‘Wandering About Freely’  128–30 ‘Webbed Toes’  114, 140, 146–7 ‘All Under Heaven’  38–9 ‘Discourse on Evening Things Out’  50–3, 195, 203, 218–19, 257–8 ‘Horses’ Hooves’  94–5, 114, 126–7, 139–40, 146–7 ‘Know-Little’ 38 ‘Responding to Emperor-Kings’  90–1 ‘The Dào of Heaven’  157, 159–60 ‘The Great Source-Master’  37–8 ‘Vast Impartial Accord’  38 Zı ̌gāo 167–8 Zı ̌gòng 190 Zı ̌yáng 189 Zōu Yǎn 8