Why Read This Book?
Here’s what is necessary: one blow with a club, one scar; one slap on the face, a handful of blood. Your reading of what other people write should be like this. Don’t be lax! —Zhu Xi
When people ask me which Confucian classic to read first, I answer without hesitation: the Mengzi.
The Mengzi is one of the Four Books that are traditionally taken to express the essence of Confucianism: the others are the Analects, the Greater Learning, and the Mean. The Analects contains the sayings of Kongzi (better known to us by the Latinization of his name, “Confucius”). The Greater Learning supposedly consists of a brief statement by Kongzi, followed by an interpretive commentary on it by his immediate disciple, Zengzi. The Mean has been attributed to Zisi, the grandson of Kongzi. Finally, Mengzi (also known as “Mencius”) was a Confucian who studied in the school of Zisi, and whose collected sayings, dialogues, and debates bears his name. The Analects, the Greater Learning and the Mean are very elusive and enigmatic books. The best way to approach them is often through examining the significance they have had for people in the later tradition. Furthermore, the Analects presents numerous problems of textual authenticity that are sometimes hard to ignore. Of the Four Books, the eponymous Mengzi is the most cogent, coherent, and comprehensible. It is also the one most likely to speak to contemporary readers.1
The Mengzi has been translated into English several times already, including especially fine versions by James Legge and D. C. Lau. So why {xiv} do it again? Legge’s translation is invaluable to scholars, but his Victorian writing style often seems quaint today. What are current readers to make of sentences like, “Greatly am I from anything to depend upon from the mouths of men” (7B19)? Lau’s translation is very idiomatic, but I disagree with him about how to render some key passages. To give a small example, in passage 1A7, Mengzi comments on the kindness that King Xuan had shown in sparing an ox that the king had seen being led to slaughter. In Lau’s translation, the account begins, “The King was sitting in the upper part of the hall and someone led an ox through the lower part.” The reader might wonder why someone is leading livestock through a royal hall. What Lau failed to recognize is that, as I explain in my note on that passage, “royal halls were typically raised off the ground, with a stairway leading up to them, so that those in the hall had a view of the courtyard below.” Consequently, the proper translation of the line is “While the king was sitting up in his hall, an ox was led past below.”2
But what is really distinctive about my translation is that it includes a running philosophical commentary. Not everyone will see this as an advantage, though. Contemporary Western readers frequently have a prejudice that, in order to best understand a text, one should read it by itself, ignoring the commentarial tradition that has developed around it. Indeed, it is often a selling point for an interpretation that it gets back to the “real” meaning of the text that has been obscured (perhaps intentionally) by the orthodoxy. (The mania surrounding Dan Brown’s novel The Da Vinci Code is just a special case of this phenomenon.) But even a text like the Mengzi, which often speaks in terms that a person in any era or culture could appreciate, sometimes cries out for philosophical commentary. Consider this sentence, which is central to understanding {xv} Mengzi’s account of courage: “Meng Shishe’s preserving his qi was not as good as Zengzi’s preserving what is crucial” (2A2.8). It is utterly impossible for even the most brilliant and determined English reader to understand this sentence without assistance.
As a result of increased appreciation of the need for commentaries, we have begun to see more translations-with-commentaries. If someone wishes to read the Analects, I would heartily recommend Edward Slingerland’s Analects with Selections from Traditional Commentaries. In addition, Daniel K. Gardner’s The Four Books: The Basic Teachings of the Later Confucian Tradition does an excellent job of presenting the “orthodox” interpretation of selected passages from those texts. But my work is the only complete translation of the Mengzi with a contemporary, philosophical commentary.
Many of my comments are drawn from the Sishu jizhu (“Collected Commentaries on the Four Books”), written by Zhu Xi (1130–1200 C.E.). Zhu Xi was a brilliant philosopher who made the Four Books central to Confucianism. In 1313 his commentary was identified as the “orthodox” interpretation for the civil service examinations and remained so for the next six hundred years. As a result, generations of Chinese scholars literally memorized Zhu Xi’s interpretation. And Zhu Xi’s influence lives on. For example, I have more than once heard a scholar earnestly discuss “Mengzi’s claim that human nature is originally good.” But Mengzi never says this. Mengzi says “Human nature is good” simpliciter. Why has this “originally” crept in? Because Zhu Xi glosses Mengzi’s “Human nature is good” as “Human nature is originally good.” To paraphrase Santayana: Those who do not read the commentaries are doomed to repeat them.3
The great historical influence of Zhu Xi’s commentary is not the only reason that I frequently cite it. Zhu Xi quotes from a well-chosen selection of earlier commentaries. In addition, he himself is a very insightful interpreter. I can pay him the highest compliment we can give any philosopher: even when he is wrong, he is wrong for interesting reasons. At the same time, I have not hesitated to disagree with Zhu Xi. As I explain later in this Introduction, Zhu Xi often sees Mengzi through the distorting lens of concepts inherited from Buddhism. And my primary goal is not to present Zhu Xi’s interpretation, but to empower modern English readers to understand and appreciate the Mengzi for themselves.
{xvi} In the remainder of this Introduction, I shall provide some background to enable the general reader to appreciate the translation and commentary. First, I shall sketch “Mengzi’s Historical Context,” including the historical myths that informed his self-understanding. This section will help the reader to recognize the many individuals and events that Mengzi assumes his audience is familiar with. Next, I shall give an overview of some of the key claims and concepts of “Mengzi’s Philosophy.” This will assist the reader in seeing how the discrete dialogues, stories, and aphorisms of the Mengzi fit together into a systematic whole. I shall then discuss the social and intellectual evolution that occurs “From Mengzi to Zhu Xi.” This section will enable the reader to understand the particular metaphysical lens through which Zhu Xi reads the Four Books. Finally, I shall provide some examples of how “Zhu Xi’s Reinterpretation” of Confucianism was, despite his evident genius, sometimes distorted by this lens.
Mengzi’s Historical Context
People have long lived in the world, sometimes with order, sometimes in chaos. —Mengzi
Mengzi accepted the Confucian view that social order is achieved when a sage comes to power and rules via Virtue rather than coercion. “Virtue” (dé) is a kind of charisma generated by the possession of benevolence, righteousness, and other traits that we would call “virtues.” The masses willingly follow a ruler with Virtue. Kongzi expresses this by saying, “One who rules through the power of Virtue is analogous to the Pole Star: it simply remains in its place and receives the homage of the myriad lesser stars” (Analects 2.1).4 (If this seems naive, think of the extent to which the successful leadership of people like the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Mahatma Gandhi depended upon their perceived virtue.)
The first of the ancient, sagely sovereigns whom Mengzi mentions is Emperor Yao.5 As he approached the end of his life, Yao decided to find {xvii} a virtuous successor. Searching his kingdom, Yao heard about Shun, a simple farmer who was known for his great “filialilty” (xiào, often rendered “filial piety”). Shun had what we would describe today as a dysfunctional family, to say the least. His father, stepmother, and stepbrother repeatedly schemed to murder him in order to steal his wealth. For example, Shun’s family asked him to dig a well for them. They planned to remove the ladder and cover the well while Shun was still inside. Thinking that they had succeeded in their plot, Shun’s brother told his parents that they could have Shun’s livestock and his storehouses of grain. “But his shields and spears—mine. His zither—mine. His bow—mine. And his two wives shall service me in my bed.” However, Shun had survived the murder attempt. (According to one account, he suspected something, so he had already dug an escape tunnel from the well; 5A2.3.) But despite all this, Shun continued to love and care for his family, until eventually they were won over by his devotion. Impressed by his character and achievements, Yao made Shun his Prime Minister. Shun was so successful at this that, when Yao passed away, the people spontaneously made Shun the new emperor (5A5.7).
As ruler, Shun was concerned with the problems of flood control and irrigation, which have long been issues in China. He appointed an able minister, Yu, to handle these problems (3B9.3–4, 4B26, 6B11). Yu worked tirelessly, dredging silt out of rivers and building canals. Mengzi states that “Yu spent eight years away from home. Three times he passed the gate of his home but did not enter” (3A4.7). Owing to his success, he became Shun’s Prime Minister, and in a parallel with the previous succession, his abilities led the people to regard him as the new emperor upon Shun’s death.
Yu was a great ruler in his own right, and he followed the pattern set by Yao and Shun of choosing the person he found most worthy as his Prime Minister. However, this time, when the emperor died, the people did not make Yu’s Prime Minister the new emperor. Instead, they treated Yu’s son as the emperor. Because of this event, Yu posthumously became the founder of the first Chinese dynasty, the Xia (5A6).
The traditional Chinese view is that dynasties follow a cyclic pattern. A dynasty is founded by a sagacious ruler who possesses Virtue. He brings order and prosperity to society, but in a way that is noncoercive. As a result of his Virtue, he is given a “Mandate” (mìng) to rule by “Heaven” (tiān), a kind of semipersonal higher power. Because of this intimate relationship between Heaven and the King, he is often referred to as the “Son of Heaven” (tiānz
). The Mandate is transmitted to the founder’s {xviii} descendants, but over the centuries there is a gradual decline in the quality of the rulers, with a corresponding increase in social disorder, dissatisfaction, and disaffection. Eventually a dynasty will reach its nadir, and an evil last king will inspire full-fledged revolt against his atrocities, leading to the revocation of the Mandate in favor of a new sage who founds the next dynasty.6 So Yu was the sage who founded the Xia dynasty, which was brought to an end centuries later due to the actions of the evil tyrant Jie. Jie arrogantly proclaimed, “I have the world, like the Heavens have the Sun. When the Sun perishes, only then shall I perish!” But his rule was so cruel that, according to Mengzi, his subjects said, “When will this Sun expire? We will perish together with you” (1A2.4). So the people gladly followed sagacious King Tang when he overthrew Jie. (On Tang, see 3B5.2–4.)
Tang founded the Shang dynasty, which followed the same pattern as the Xia: beginning with sagacious Virtue but gradually losing the support of the people.7 The evil last king of the Shang dynasty was Zhou. Unfortunately for English speakers, the name of the dynasty that succeeded the Shang is also Romanized as “Zhou.” In Chinese, you would never confuse the two, since they are written with different characters and pronounced with different tones: Zhòu 
is the tyrant and Zhōu 
is the dynasty. But to keep them straight in English, I will always call the last ruler of the Shang dynasty “Tyrant Zhou”; “Zhou” without qualification will mean the dynasty.
The most important of the early Zhou rulers were King Wen, King Wu, King Cheng, and the Duke of Zhou. Wen’s Virtue was so great that his own subjects eagerly served him (1A2), and good and wise people from all over the world came to live in his state (4A13). However, throughout his reign he deferred to the authority of Tyrant Zhou. His son, King Wu, found that leaders of the Central States flocked to follow him, hoping that he would lead them to overthrow Tyrant Zhou. He did so and, around 1040 B.C.E., founded the Zhou dynasty. Unfortunately, Wu died soon after the conquest. His son, King Cheng, succeeded to the throne, but he was only a child. To have a minor on the throne immediately after the founding of a new dynasty, with potentially rebellious subjects to govern, was a precarious situation. King Cheng’s regent was his uncle, the Duke of Zhou. It must have been tempting for the Duke of Zhou to seize the throne for himself. However, the Duke of Zhou supported King Cheng with loyalty and wisdom throughout his life. Because of this, he was regarded as a paragon of Virtue among later Confucians.
{xix} The territory controlled by the Zhou was divided into states, each ruled by one of the “various lords” (zhūhòu), the highest ranking of whom were dukes. These rulers, often blood relatives of the royal family, were expected to provide tribute and military support to the central authority when needed. When one of the various lords died, the succession to his eldest son had to be approved by the king. This system seems to have worked well for a time, but over a few centuries, the states became essentially autonomous entities. The weakness of the Zhou court was demonstrated definitively in 771 B.C.E., when a group of disaffected nobles attacked and murdered the king (6B3.1, commentary). A surviving member of the royal family was installed as king in a new capital to the east, deeper in the Zhou territory, but the Zhou king would be largely a figurehead from then on. This event marks the division between the Western Zhou dynasty (c. 1040–771 B.C.E.) and the Eastern Zhou (770–221 B.C.E.).
The Era of Kongzi
Two important subdivisions within the Eastern Zhou are the Spring and Autumn period and the Warring States period. The former is named after a historical chronicle covering the years 722–481 B.C.E. Mengzi states that Kongzi wrote a work called the Spring and Autumn Annals as a critique of society’s moral decay (3B9.8, 4B21, 7B2). However, the surviving work by that name seems like a bare historical chronicle, so it is unlikely to be the same work Mengzi refers to. Nonetheless, the Zuo Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals gives a fascinating narrative history of this period in which the “various lords” vied for supremacy by waging war, assassinating opponents, and forming and then betraying alliances.8
It was during the Spring and Autumn period that the institution of the “Hegemon” (bà) developed. The Hegemon was a leader of one of the states who was able, through his individual military strength and judicious alliances, to become de facto ruler of China. This position was intrinsically unstable, however, because any ruler who was too successful would incite the fear and envy of the others. The most famous of the Hegemons were Duke Huan of Qi and Duke Wen of Jin (1A7.1–2, 6B7). Duke Huan’s success was due in part to his brilliant minister, Guan Zhong. Many rulers and ministers wished to emulate Duke Huan and Guan Zhong, but Confucians typically condemned them for usurping {xx} the authority of the Zhou King and ruling by force and guile rather than by Virtue.9
Kongzi lived during the later part of the Spring and Autumn period. He was deeply sympathetic to the suffering of the common people caused by the warfare, misrule, and social chaos of his era. One of his disciples asked, “What would you make of someone who bestowed bounty upon the people and rescued the masses? Could he be called ‘humane’?” Kongzi enthusiastically replied, “What difficulty is there in his being humane? Such a person would certainly be a sage!” (6.30) Like everyone in his era, Kongzi took for granted the institutions of hereditary monarchy and dukedoms. However, he accepted anyone as a disciple, regardless of family background or wealth, and emphasized that a true “gentleman” (jūnz
) is not merely someone born into a particular social class but rather a person who has achieved virtues like “humaneness” (rén) and “wisdom” (zhì).10 As a result, Kongzi strongly advocated the meritocratic promotion of government ministers. He believed that such gentlemen could guide hereditary rulers and inspire the people to return society to the Way (dào). By this he meant the right Way to live and to organize society that had already been discovered by the ancient sage Kings.
The Confucian Way
So what was the Way of Kongzi? This has been much disputed over the last two and a half millennia. However, five themes have been central to every form of Confucianism: happiness in the everyday world, tradition, the family, ritual, and ethical cultivation.
Kongzi did not advocate asceticism or transcendence of ordinary life. The best life is characterized by simple, everyday pleasures and rich personal relationships with family, friends, and members of one’s community. Thus, when Kongzi’s disciple Zilu asked about how to serve ghosts and spirits, Kongzi replied, “You are not yet able to serve people—how could you be able to serve ghosts and spirits?” Zilu persisted, asking about death, but Kongzi just answered, “You do not yet understand life—how could you possibly understand death?” (11.12) When asked what his own aspirations were, Kongzi mentions values manifested among humans in {xxi} this world: “To bring comfort to the aged, to inspire trust in my friends, and to be cherished by the youth” (5.26; cf. 11.26).
For Kongzi there is no higher standard of judgment than human civilization at its best. Thus he said of himself, “I transmit rather than innovate. I am faithful to and love the ancients” (7.1). It is possible within a Confucian framework to modify or reject elements of one’s tradition, but this must always be done by appealing to other values, beliefs, and practices within that tradition. For example, when people switched from using ceremonial caps of linen to using cheaper ones made of silk, Kongzi approved of the change, because it was more frugal yet maintained the spirit of the ritual (9.3).
It is not surprising that a philosopher who emphasized the everyday world and tradition should also place great importance on the family. The family is important in Confucianism in two related ways. First, it is in the family that one begins to acquire the virtues. A disciple of Kongzi was making this point when he said that “filiality and respect for elders constitute the root of humaneness” (1.2). To put it in very modern terms, it is by loving and being loved by others in one’s family that one learns to be kind to others, and it is by respecting the boundaries of others in one’s family and having one’s own boundaries respected that one develops integrity.
The crucial role of the family in one’s moral development is one of the reasons that Confucians advocate “differentiated love” (also called “graded love”). Differentiated love is the doctrine that one has stronger moral obligations toward, and should have stronger emotional attachment to, those who are bound to oneself by ties such as community, friendship, and especially kinship. For example, the duke of one state bragged to Kongzi about how “upright” his people were, saying that one son turned in his own father for stealing a sheep. Kongzi replied, “Among my people, those whom we consider ‘upright’ are different from this: fathers cover up for their sons, and sons cover up for their fathers. ‘Uprightness’ is to be found in this” (13.18).
Perhaps the Confucian notion that is the most difficult for many of us to understand and appreciate today is that of rituals or rites. Rituals, in their most fundamental sense, are religious activities such as offering food and wine to the spirits of one’s ancestors or performing a funeral. Some rituals were very lively, involving elaborate dances accompanied by music. But ritual also includes matters involving what we would describe as etiquette, such as how to greet or say farewell to a guest, and what manner is appropriate when addressing a subordinate (“pleasant and affable,” 10.2), a superior (“formal and proper,” 10.2), or a person in mourning (“respectful,” 10.25). Finally, Kongzi sometimes speaks as if ritual encompasses all of ethics (12.1).
{xxii} Some of the most famous (and controversial) of the Confucian rituals have to do with funerals and mourning. A Confucian funeral is often elaborate, with inner and outer coffins, special garments for the corpse, and other goods buried in the grave. After the funeral, there is a long period of ritualized mourning. Opponents of Confucianism like Mozi criticized these practices as wasteful. (For more on Mozi, see “Mengzi’s Philosophy,” later in this Introduction.) It is interesting to note, however, that Kongzi himself emphasized having appropriate feelings over ostentatious display. “When it comes to ritual, it is better to be spare than extravagant. When it comes to mourning, it is better to be excessively sorrowful than fastidious” (3.4). This suggests that the real point of the rituals is expressing and reinforcing emotions that are conducive to communal life.11
Ritual is one tool for cultivating virtue. Education is another. Kongzi pioneered educational techniques for making people not just more skillful or more knowledgeable, but more benevolent, wise, and reverent. Kongzi used the Odes, an already ancient anthology of poems, as his primary educational classic. In addition to the Odes, Mengzi frequently cites the Documents, a collection of primary historical texts.12 Kongzi’s general philosophy of education is summed up in a pithy quotation: “If you learn without reflecting upon what you have learned, you will be lost. If you reflect without learning, however, you will fall into danger” (2.15). Much of the lively debate among later Confucians during the last 2,500 years is over the comparative emphasis one should give to “reflecting” and “learning” in ethical cultivation, and over what human nature must be like to justify this emphasis. Because of his belief in the goodness of human nature, Mengzi tended to emphasize our ability to “reflect” upon what we know innately. But the later Confucian Xunzi stressed “learning” as a tool for overcoming the badness of human nature.13
{xxiii} Kongzi attracted many disciples who were inspired by the preceding five themes: happiness in the everyday world, tradition, the family, ritual, and ethical cultivation. However, within a century of Kongzi’s death, Confucianism was under attack from powerful philosophical alternatives. Part of Mengzi’s historical importance was that he brilliantly defended Confucianism against these competing philosophies.
The Era of Mengzi
Mengzi lived in the fourth century B.C.E., near the beginning of the Warring States period (403–221 B.C.E.). The military and political situation had deteriorated since the Spring and Autumn period: not even a Hegemon could maintain interstate order. The larger states frequently annexed the smaller ones, and some of the more powerful rulers usurped the title of “king,” which was the prerogative of the Zhou monarch. (For example, Mengzi visited “King” Hui of Liang and “King” Xuan of Qi.)14 Because of the deaths and social disruption due to warfare and misrule, farmland frequently lay fallow, resulting in famine. Consequently, China was severely underpopulated during this era, and rulers sought to draw peasants to their own states. Rulers also invited wise people from all over China to come to their courts to offer advice on governing well (which for them meant gaining a strategic advantage over other states). But sometimes the rulers merely wanted the prestige that comes from having a famous “Master” in their state. Mengzi’s dialogues with rulers must be understood in this context. (See 1A3 for a paradigmatic example.)
We have few details about Mengzi’s life, other than those contained in his eponymous text. His full name was Meng Ke (the suffix -zi simply means Master). He was born in Zou, a small state near Kongzi’s home state of Lu, both of which were in what is now Shandong Province. His father died when he was young.15 In Meng’s patriarchal society, this must have left him and his mother in precarious circumstances. However, his mother still managed to send him to study in the Confucian school of Zisi, Kongzi’s grandson.
There are several famous stories about Mengzi’s mother that are charmingly edifying, whether or not they are true.16 One is that “Meng’s mother moved thrice” (Mèng m
sān qiān 
) to find a suitable {xxiv} environment in which to raise her son. After the death of her husband, she first moved with her son next to a cemetery, and the young sage played at performing funerals. Judging this inappropriate for a child, Mengzi’s mother moved to a house near a marketplace. But now Meng Ke took to imitating someone hawking goods. Still dissatisfied, his mother moved to a home beside a school. Meng took to playing at being a teacher, which finally pleased his mother.
After Meng Ke started to actually attend school, his mother would ask him every day what he had learned. But one day he answered with casual indifference toward his studies. In response, “Meng’s mother cut the weft” (Mèng m
duàn jī 
) of the fabric that she had been weaving, thereby ruining it. Her weaving was probably one of their few sources of income, so Meng was startled that she would waste a piece of it. But his mother explained that if he wasted a day of learning it was as bad as her wasting a day of work. Thereafter, Meng always applied himself fully in his schoolwork.
Beyond this, “the first forty years of his life are little more than a blank to us…. How he supported himself in [Zou] we cannot tell. Perhaps he was possessed of some patrimony; but when he first comes forth from his native State, we find him accompanied by his most eminent disciples.”17 Like Kongzi, Mengzi traveled from state to state, hoping to find a ruler who would put the Way into practice. He depended for his support on gifts from students and grants from rulers. Like a contemporary politician, his need placed him in the position of having to defend his decisions about which donations to accept (2B3, 5B4). But it is clear that he would turn down a salary if he felt it would violate his integrity to accept it (2B10). He did eventually accept a position as High Minister in the state of Qi (2B6–14), but he resigned when it became clear that the king was ignoring his advice. Mengzi eventually retired from public service and, with the help of some of his disciples, edited his collected sayings and dialogues.18
The Mengzi gives the impression of someone brilliant and quickwitted who, like Aristotle’s “great-souled” man, expects to be treated with deference, but only because he genuinely deserves it.19 And, like Plato, Mengzi is one of those rare philosophers who is equally adept at precise argumentation and moving rhetoric. He is, in fact, a contemporary of Plato and Aristotle, and “when we place Mencius among them, he can {xxv} look them in the face. He does not need to hide a diminished head.”20 Like Kongzi, Gandhi, or Martin Luther King, Jr., he was actively engaged in the struggle for positive social change. Unfortunately, he never saw the social transformation he worked for. This left him saddened, but he assured his disciples that he was not bitter: he had faith that Heaven would, in its own time, raise up a sage to bring peace to the world (2B13).
Mengzi’s Philosophy
The doctrines of Yang Zhu and Mozi fill the world. —Mengzi
The centerpiece of Mengzi’s political philosophy was “benevolent government,” by which he meant rule by virtuous “gentlemen” who would aim at the well-being of the people as a whole. Mengzi stressed that most people will engage in crime if they are poor and hungry:
Only a noble is capable of having a constant heart while lacking a constant livelihood. As for the people, if they lack a constant livelihood, it follows that they will lack a constant heart. No one who lacks a constant heart will avoid dissipation and evil. When they thereupon sink into crime, to go and punish the people is to trap them. When there are benevolent persons in positions of authority, how is it possible for them to trap the people? (1A7.20)
Consequently, it is the obligation of government to ensure that the basic needs of the people are met. Mengzi offered much more specific advice than had Kongzi about how to secure the livelihood of the people, including recommendations about everything from tax rates to farm management to the pay scale for government employees (e.g., 3A3). However, as the reference to “nobles” with “constant hearts” suggests, Mengzi agreed with Kongzi that ethical cultivation is crucial for both individual and social well-being. Thus, Mengzi advocated an educational system that instructs people in how to live up to the “human roles,” such as being a good parent, child, ruler, minister, spouse, and friend (3A4.8).
We find in Mengzi an emphasis on the themes that we saw are characteristic of all Confucians: achieving happiness in the everyday world, tradition, familial relations (as the basis of other ethical obligations and {xxvi} “differentiated love”), ritual and ethical cultivation. In addition, Mengzi agreed with Kongzi in regarding war as, at best, a regrettable last resort. In what has become a Chinese proverb, he stated that to try to rule via brute force is as ineffectual as “climbing a tree in search of a fish.”21
However, Mengzi could not simply repeat what Kongzi had said. Confucianism was now under attack by a variety of alternative philosophies. Mengzi saw two positions as the primary competitors to the Way: “If a doctrine does not lean toward Yang Zhu, then it leans toward Mozi. Yang Zhu is ‘for oneself.’ This is to not have a ruler. Mozi is ‘impartial caring.’ This is to not have a father. To not have a father and to not have a ruler is to be an animal” (3B9.9).
Against the Mohists and Yang Zhu
Mozi (fifth century B.C.E.) was the first systematic critic of Confucianism. In place of cultivating Virtue in individuals, he advocated a kind of consequentialism: policies and institutions were to be judged by how much “benefit” (or “profit,” li) they produced. These judgments were to be totally impartial, granting no favoritism to one’s family, friends, or community. The Mohists thus rejected the differentiated love that was central to Confucianism in favor of “impartial caring.” Mozi had great optimism that human motivations are highly malleable. He claimed that, through proper rewards and punishments, previous rulers had gotten their soldiers to march onto burning ships to their certain deaths, or induced their subjects to eat so little food that they could barely walk. How much easier, he claimed, to turn the people to something as beneficial as impartial caring.22 The Mohists, therefore, had no patience for ethical cultivation, and also rejected most Confucian ritual (including elaborate funerals and musical performances) as a pointless waste of resources.
The opening passage of the Mengzi is probably an implicit criticism of Mohism. King Hui politely asks Mengzi what teachings he has that would bring “profit” (li) to his state (1A1). But Mengzi immediately rebukes the king, asking “Why must Your Majesty speak of ‘profit’?” Mengzi goes on to argue that if people aim at profit, whether it is the profit of their state, their family, or themselves, the ultimate result will be for “superiors and subordinates to seize profit from each other” so that “the state will be endangered.” Instead, the ruler should encourage his subjects to emphasize benevolence and righteousness: “Never have the benevolent left their parents behind. Never have the righteous put their ruler last.” Mengzi might seem to be objecting to profit itself. But on {xxvii} what grounds does Mengzi instruct King Hui to avoid emphasizing profit? It turns out that emphasizing profit is itself unprofitable. So when the Mohists claim that “the business of a benevolent person is to promote what is beneficial (li) to the world and eliminate what is harmful,” Mengzi replies that emphasizing profit or benefit is self-undermining.23
But Mengzi’s most fundamental objection to Mohism is that the impartiality it demands is impractical and perverse because it is contrary to human nature. In order to fully understand Mengzi’s view on human nature, we must see how it is a reaction to the position of Yang Zhu. Yang Zhu (fourth century B.C.E.) made the phrase “human nature” central to philosophical debate in China, and used it in a way that presented a challenge to both Confucians and Mohists. The latter two movements agreed that Heaven is on the side of the Way. (They just disagreed over what the Heaven-sanctioned Way was.) But if there is such a thing as human nature, it must be implanted in us by Heaven. Now, Kongzi’s own pronouncements on the rarity of Virtue as he understood it suggest that it is something very difficult and artificial for humans to obtain. And the Mohist claim that people can be converted to impartial caring “as easily as” soldiers can be taught to march onto burning ships seems to simply ignore the existence and resilience of innate human motivations. In contrast to both the Confucian and Mohist Ways, what could be more “natural” for a human than to be self-interested? So why not follow the nature that Heaven has given us by simply acting in a purely self-interested manner? Thus, in Western terms, Yang Zhu’s position was a kind of ethical egoism based on a conception of humans as naturally self-interested.24
As you can see, “nature,” xìng 
, is etymologically related to the word shēng 
, whose senses include “to be born,” “to grow,” and “to live.” Some thinkers emphasize the first sense. So for Mengzi’s later Confucian critic Xunzi, “that which is so by birth is called ‘human nature.’”25 However, Mengzi thinks of the nature of something as the manner in which it will live, grow, and develop if given a healthy environment for the kind of thing it is. For example, it is the nature of a pear tree to bear fruit, but the sprout of a pear tree will not yet be able to do so. Indeed, most pear tree sprouts never mature into full-grown trees, because they get insufficient soil, water, and light. But it is still their “nature” to produce pears. Similarly, a Chinese Juniper tree will, if given a healthy environment, grow to be as much as sixty feet tall. However, a bonsai artist {xxviii} can warp the growth of the tree to produce one eight inches tall. So Yang Zhu’s claim is that a human who acts in a supposedly benevolent or righteous manner is analogous to a warped bonsai version of a Chinese Juniper.
Mengzi responded to both Yang Zhu and the Mohists with his doctrine that humans have innate tendencies toward virtue. The existence of these tendencies falsifies Yang Zhu’s claim that human nature is purely self-interested. In addition, Mengzi argues that the way in which these tendencies naturally develop invalidates Mohist impartiality. It is via loving others in the family that humans learn to have compassion for others, and it is by respecting others in the family that humans develop a sense of ethical shame (7A15). Because of this psychological mechanism, it is natural for humans to care more for their family than for strangers (5A3). So it would require extensive warping of human nature to achieve Mohist impartial caring.26
This objection comes out particularly clearly in Mengzi’s debate with the Mohist Yi Zhi (3A5). Mengzi begins by pointing out that Yi Zhi had himself given his parents elaborate funerals. Yi Zhi’s natural attachment to his parents was thus so strong that it led him to ignore his abstract commitment to the Mohist principle of frugal burials.
Now, an implausible aspect of early Mohism was that it regarded human motivations as almost infinitely malleable. It turns out that Yi Zhi holds what seems to be a modified version of Mohism, designed to make it more psychologically plausible. He suggests that “love is without differentiations, but it is bestowed beginning with one’s parents.” Yi Zhi thus seems to be agreeing with the Confucian claim that children first learn to love and have compassion for others in the family (1.2), but arguing that this natural compassion should be redirected until it reaches everyone equally, thereby achieving the Mohist goal of “impartial caring.”
Mengzi suggests that Yi Zhi’s revisionist Mohism still ends up with a position that is psychologically impractical: “Does Yi Zhi truly hold that one’s affection for one’s own nephew is like one’s affection for a neighbor’s baby?” Mengzi sums up his objection with the aphorism, “Heaven, in giving birth to things, causes them to have one source, but Yi Zhi gives them two sources.” The first source is our innate love for our family members (which is naturally greater for them than for strangers), while {xxix} the second source is the Mohist doctrine of impartiality. The problem is that, for the Mohists as much as for the Confucians, the will of Heaven and the Way coincide. So once the Mohists acknowledge that our greater love for family members is part of the nature implanted in us by Heaven, they cannot consistently claim that it is part of the Way to override these motivations in order to achieve impartiality.27
The Goodness of Human Nature
Mengzi describes his position with the slogan, “human nature is good,” by which he means that humans have innate but incipient tendencies toward virtue that will develop given a healthy environment and ethical cultivation.28 He argues for this in several ways. First, individuals can experience these incipient tendencies themselves, as Yi Zhi did when he is moved to give his parents elaborate funerals (3A5), or King Xuan did when he spontaneously spared an ox being led to slaughter (1A7). In addition, Mengzi appeals to thought experiments, the most famous of which is the following:
The reason why I say that all humans have hearts that are not unfeeling toward others is this. Suppose someone suddenly saw a child about to fall into a well: anyone in such a situation would have a feeling of alarm and compassion—not because one sought to get in good with the child’s parents, not because one wanted fame among their neighbors and friends, and not because one would dislike the sound of the child’s cries. From this we can see that if one is without the feeling of compassion, one is not human. (2A6.3–4)
Mengzi hopes we will share his intuition that any human would have this feeling (literally, “heart”) of compassion and that “if one is without the feeling of compassion, one is not human.”
{xxx} Mengzi uses an analogous thought experiment to illustrate the virtue of righteousness:
Life is something I desire; righteousness is also something I desire. If I cannot have both, I will forsake life and select righteousness…. It is not the case that only the worthy person has this heart. All humans have it. The worthy person simply never loses it.
A basket of food and a bowl of soup—if one gets them, then one will live; if one doesn’t get them, then one will die. But if they’re given with contempt, then even a homeless person will not accept them. If they’re trampled upon, then even a beggar won’t take them. (6A10)
The previous passage argued for an innate “heart of compassion,” which is the basis of benevolence; this second passage argues that all humans disdain to do certain shameful things that would otherwise benefit them, and this “heart” is the basis of righteousness. So whereas Yang Zhu claimed that human nature consists only of self-interested desires for food, sex, physical comfort, and survival, Mengzi uses these thought experiments to argue that human nature also includes distinctively ethical motivations.
But aren’t Mengzi’s claims falsified by the simple fact of human wrongdoing? If we are all innately benevolent and righteous, why does anyone ever hurt another person or compromise his integrity? This objection misinterprets Mengzi’s position, though. Mengzi does not claim that humans are innately good; he claims that human nature is innately good. Recall our earlier discussion of the concept of the “nature” of a thing. It is the nature of a pear tree to bear fruit, but it will fail to realize this nature if denied a healthy environment (with water, sunlight, etc.). Mengzi uses a carefully chosen agricultural metaphor to explain how this applies to human nature. He says that the “heart of compassion” (manifested when one sees the child about to fall into a well) is “the sprout of benevolence,” while the “heart of disdain” (illustrated by the starving beggar who refuses a handout given with contempt) is the “sprout of righteousness” (2A6, 6A10). Just as the sprout of a pear tree is not yet a tree, but does have an active potential to develop into a mature tree, so are our “sprout of benevolence” and “sprout of righteousness” potentials for full benevolence and righteousness. But we must develop this potential in order to become fully virtuous. As Mengzi explains when asked to clarify his position, “As for what they are inherently, they can become good. This is what I mean by calling their natures good. As for their becoming not good, this is not the fault of their potential” (6A6.5–6). Until our potential for virtue is fully developed, the reactions of the sprouts will be haphazard {xxxi} and inconsistent. This is why humans can show great kindness and even self-sacrifice in one situation but stunning indifference to the suffering of others in a slightly different situation.
So Mengzi’s doctrine that human nature is good is perfectly consistent with the fact that humans often (perhaps usually) fail to do good. But is Mengzi even right in claiming that all humans have at least the sprouts of benevolence and righteousness? We are all too familiar with the chilling example of the psychopath: a “human” (such as a serial killer) who lacks anything like ordinary compassion or sympathy. Although he would not phrase it in our terms, Mengzi’s metaphor of Ox Mountain is his explanation for the rare cases of people who seem to lack the sprouts of virtue:
The trees of Ox Mountain were once beautiful. But because it bordered on a large state, hatchets and axes besieged it. Could it remain verdant? Due to the respite it got during the day or night, and the moisture of rain and dew, there were sprouts and shoots growing there. But oxen and sheep came and grazed on them. Hence, it was as if it were barren. Seeing it barren, people believed that there had never been any timber there. But could this be the nature of the mountain?
When we consider what is present in people, could they truly lack the hearts of benevolence and righteousness? The way that they discard their genuine hearts is like the hatchets and axes in relation to the trees. With them besieging it day by day, can it remain beautiful? … Others see that he is an animal, and think that there was never any capacity there. But is this what a human is like inherently? (6A8.1–2)
So Mengzi acknowledges that some people seem to lack the sprouts of virtue. However, this is not what a human is “inherently” (6A6.5, 6A8.2). “Humans” who fail to manifest the sprouts have been destroyed by a bad environment (such as physical deprivation, lack of ethical guidance, or even abusive parenting).29
{xxxii} The Virtues
Mengzi identifies four cardinal virtues, each of which is grounded in our innate emotional reactions:
Humans all have the feeling of compassion. Humans all have the feeling of disdain. Humans all have the feeling of respect. Humans all have the feeling of approval and disapproval. The feeling of compassion is benevolence. The feeling of disdain is righteousness. The feeling of respect is propriety. The feeling of approval and disapproval is wisdom. Benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom are not welded to us externally. We inherently have them. It is simply that we do not reflect upon them. Hence, it is said, “Seek it and you will get it. Abandon it and you will lose it.” (6A6.7)
Benevolence (rén) is compassion or sympathy for others. The benevolent person is pained by the suffering of others and takes joy in their happiness. The Mohists also emphasized this term, but for them it is ideally a purely impartial concern for others. For a Confucian like Mengzi, though, compassion should extend to everyone but be stronger for those tied to one by bonds such as kinship and friendship. Confucian benevolence acts like the ripples emanating from a stone dropped into a pond, proceeding out from the center but gradually decreasing in strength as they move out. This is related to the Confucian hypothesis that it is loving and being loved in the family that first germinates our capacity for compassion.
Righteousness (yì) is the integrity of a person who disdains to demean himself by doing what is base or shameful, even if doing so would reap benefits. So, for example, a righteous person will not accept a gift given with contempt (6A10), beg in order to obtain luxuries (4B33), or cheat at a game (3B1). As with benevolence, the capacity for righteousness is innate, but its growth is first stimulated in the family, where respect for the opinions of one’s elders is internalized as an ethical sense of shame. To simplify, benevolence is a virtue involving our obligations to help others, while righteousness emphasizes prohibitions against our performance of certain actions.
Wisdom (zhì) has many aspects, each of which is illustrated by the story of the sage Boli Xi (5A9). When the ruler of Yu made foolish concessions to the state of Jin, Boli Xi knew that these policies would result in the destruction of Yu. Recognizing that this ruler was too stubborn to listen to his advice, Boli Xi fled to the state of Qin, whose ruler showed great promise. Boli Xi waited until he was approached respectfully by the ruler of Qin (refusing to violate righteousness or propriety in order {xxxiii} to obtain an audience), but then served so ably as his minister that the ruler became illustrious. So Boli Xi showed great wisdom in judging the characters of the rulers of Yu and Qin. He manifested great skill at “instrumental reasoning” (i.e., finding the best means to achieve a given end), in the fine advice he gave when he was minister to the ruler of Qin. He revealed his commitment to righteousness by insisting that the ruler of Qin show him respect in requesting an audience. And he demonstrated prudence in fleeing Yu when the situation was hopeless.30 Boli Xi thus manifests four aspects of wisdom: being a good judge of the character of others, skill at means-end reasoning, an understanding of and commitment to the other virtues, and prudence.
The word rendered “propriety” (l
) is the same as the word for “rites” or “rituals.” This is appropriate since propriety is the virtue that consists in performing the rites with the proper motivations. In comparison with some other Confucians, Mengzi has relatively little to say about the rites (hence little to say about propriety as a virtue). But one way of conceptualizing propriety is that it is manifested when we express deference or respect to others through ritualized actions (such as bowing, letting someone else walk first through a door, etc.).
Ethical Cultivation
Why do the sprouts develop into the full virtues in some people but not in others? In addition to a bad environment (hunger, cold, homelessness, violence), Mengzi emphasizes two other impediments to the growth of virtue: pernicious doctrines and lack of individual ethical effort.
In Mengzi’s era as in our own, many people either denied that they were capable of virtue or opposed virtue as naive. Mengzi categorizes “those who say, ‘I myself am unable to dwell in benevolence and follow righteousness’” as “throwing themselves away” and “those whose words slander propriety and righteousness” as “destroying themselves” (4A10.1). Both attitudes are roadblocks to moral growth. So a significant part of Mengzian moral self-cultivation is simply being aware of and delighting in the manifestations of the sprouts when we do have them. In other words, we reinforce and strengthen our benevolent and righteous motivations when we act out of them with awareness and approval. As Mengzi puts it, “If one delights in them, then they grow. If they grow, then how can they be stopped? If they cannot be stopped, then one does not notice one’s feet dancing to them, one’s hands swaying to them” (4A27).
{xxxiv} Mengzi more than once says that people fail to develop morally simply because they do not engage in “reflection” (sī). The Chinese term can also mean “to concentrate upon” or “to long for,” as when someone longs for an absent loved one (19.6). As Arthur Waley explained, “reflection” refers to
a process that is only at a short remove from concrete observation. Never is there any suggestion of a long interior process of cogitation or ratiocination, in which a whole series of thoughts are evolved one out of another, producing on the physical plane a headache and on the intellectual, an abstract theory. We must think of [reflection] rather as a fixing of the attention … on an impression recently imbibed from without and destined to be immediately re-exteriorized in action.31
Reflection is thus a mental activity whose focus is both internal and external. One reflects upon one’s own virtuous feelings, but one also reflects upon the aspects of situations that call forth those feelings.
The stages of moral development are illustrated by a much-discussed dialogue between Mengzi and King Xuan of Qi. Mengzi asks the king about how he had spared an ox being led to slaughter because, as the king put it, “I cannot bear its frightened appearance, like an innocent going to the execution ground” (1A7.4). Mengzi explains to the king that the kindness he showed to the ox is the same feeling he needs to exercise to be a great king. King Xuan is pleased and replies, “I examined myself and sought to find my heart but failed to understand it. But when you discussed it, my heart was moved” (1A7.9). So Mengzi has helped the king to “reflect upon” and appreciate his own innate kindness. This is an important first step in stimulating the growth of the king’s sprouts of virtue. But then Mengzi challenges the king:
In the present case your kindness is sufficient to reach animals, but the effects do not reach the commoners…. Hence, one fails to lift a feather only because one does not use one’s strength. One fails to see a wagon of firewood only because one does not use one’s eyesight. The commoners fail to receive care only because one does not use one’s kindness. Hence, Your Majesty fails to become King because you do not act, not because you are unable to act. (1A7.10)
{xxxv} This dialogue raises many intriguing and complicated questions. Is Mengzi presenting some sort of argument to the king about why he ought to care for the commoners? Perhaps Mengzi is effectively saying to the king: you agree that it is right to show compassion for the suffering ox (Case A), but your people are also suffering due to your exorbitant taxes, wars of conquest, corrupt government, etc. (Case B). Case B is similar to Case A in all relevant respects. Therefore, in order to be consistent, you ought to show compassion for your people. Alternatively, perhaps Mengzi merely wishes to convince the king that he is capable of ruling with benevolence: you can show compassion for a simple animal, so certainly you can also show compassion for a suffering human.
My own view is that neither of these analyses is completely correct. I think Mengzi is leading the king to “reflect upon” relevant similarities between the suffering of the ox and the suffering of his subjects. But this is not an argument for simple consistency. (After all, Mengzi also makes clear in the passage that slaughtering animals is ethically permissible, even if a “gentleman” is too kind-hearted to do it himself. So Mengzi is asking the king to treat his subjects better than he normally treats animals, not the same.) And Mengzi does want the king to recognize his own demonstrated capacity for compassion. But it is not merely the capacity that Mengzi is getting at. He wants to frame the comparison between the ox and the commoners in a way that encourages the king’s compassion to flow from one case to the other. For example, Mengzi reminds the king that he spared the ox because of its “frightened appearance, like an innocent going to the execution ground.” He hopes the king will be led from this to reflect upon, and sympathize with, the suffering of his own innocent subjects. In other words, Mengzi is helping the king to achieve cognitive ethical growth as a means to achieving affective ethical growth.
Mengzi describes this process of ethical growth as “extending” or “filling out” the manifestations of the sprouts. In other words, all of us will have righteous or benevolent reactions to certain paradigmatic situations. We feel love for our parents, which is a manifestation of benevolence, or we disdain to allow ourselves to be addressed disrespectfully, which is a manifestation of righteousness. However, there are other situations where we do not have these reactions, even though they are in the same “category” (3B3.5, 3B10.6, 5B4.5, 7B31.4). For example, a person who would find it shameful to have an illicit affair might think nothing of lying to his ruler to achieve some political benefit. However, these are both in the category of base, unrighteous actions, so we ought to disdain to do either. “Reflection” is the process by which we identify the relevant similarities between those cases where we already have the appropriate reactions and other cases where we do not yet react appropriately. {xxxvi} This guides our emotions so that we come to feel similarly about the cases. Or, as Mengzi succinctly put it: “People all have things that they will not bear. To extend this reaction to that which they will bear is benevolence. People all have things that they will not do. To extend this reaction to that which they will do is righteousness” (7B31.1).
Extension is not a matter of learning to apply a set of explicit rules. Mengzi is similar to Kongzi in having a comparatively particularistic conception of wisdom.32 For example, a rival philosopher once attempted to trap Mengzi with an ethical dilemma. He began by asking, “Does ritual require that men and women not touch when handing something to one another?” When Mengzi acknowledged that it does, his opponent asked, “If your sister-in-law were drowning, would you pull her out with your hand?” His opponent thinks that he has Mengzi trapped, but Mengzi easily replies,
Only a beast would not pull out his sister-in-law if she were drowning. It is the ritual that men and women should not touch when handing something to one another, but if your sister-in-law is drowning, to pull her out with your hand is a matter of discretion. (4A17.1)
But this particularism is not relativism. Mengzi thinks that there is a best way to respond in any given situation, and it is not a matter of personal or cultural opinion. So after describing how differently sages of the past have acted, Mengzi insists that if they “had exchanged places, they all would have done as the others did” (4B29.5; cf. 4B1, 4B31). In addition, Mengzi does recognize some absolute ethical prohibitions. When asked if there is anything that all sages have in common, he explains that there is: “if any could obtain the world by performing one unrighteous deed, or killing one innocent person, he would not do it” (2A2.24). However, there is much more to the Confucian Way than can be captured in any set of rules.33
Mengzi thinks that we generally have the capacity to “extend” to what is ethically required of us. So once when someone gave him excuses for not immediately doing what is right, Mengzi replied,
{xxxvii} Suppose there is a person who every day appropriates one of his neighbor’s chickens. Someone tells him, “This is not the Way of a gentleman.” He says, “May I reduce it to appropriating one chicken every month and wait until next year to stop?” If one knows that it is not righteous, then one should quickly stop. (3B8)
However, Mengzi stresses the importance of acting with appropriate feelings and motivations. Thus, Mengzi praises the sagely sovereign Shun by saying that “he acted out of benevolence and righteousness; he did not act out benevolence and righteousness” (4B19). To force oneself to do what one abstractly believes is right is to treat virtue as “external” (6A4–5). This not only fails to be genuinely virtuous, it is ethically damaging. Mengzi illustrates this using another agricultural metaphor: the story of the farmer from Song.
One must work at it, but do not assume success. One should not forget the heart, but neither should one “help” it grow. Do not be like the man from Song. Among the people of the state of Song there was a farmer who, concerned lest his sprouts not grow, pulled on them. Obliviously, he returned home and said to his family, “Today I am worn out. I helped the sprouts to grow.” His son rushed out and looked at them. The sprouts were withered. Those in the world who do not ‘help’ the sprouts to grow are few. Those who abandon them, thinking it will not help, are those who do not weed their sprouts. Those who ‘help’ them grow are those who pull on the sprouts. Not only does this not help, but it even harms them. (2A2.16a)
To use a modern illustration, I cannot simply decide today that I will be the next Mother Teresa, and expect to suddenly have the unwavering compassion to save the world. If I tried to do so, I would fail, and probably end up being a bitter cynic. Instead, I should begin by showing more consistent kindness to my family and friends, and gradually grow into a better person.
Cosmology
Mengzi situates his philosophical anthropology in a broader worldview: “To fully fathom one’s heart is to understand one’s nature. To understand one’s nature is to understand Heaven” (7A1.1). For Mengzi, Heaven (tiān) is not as anthropomorphic as it was for the Mohists (whose Heaven is as personal as the God of the Jewish, Christian, and Islamic traditions), but neither is it as naturalized as it would be for some later Confucians {xxxviii} (such as Xunzi).34 On the one hand, Mengzi sometimes treats Heaven as almost identical with the natural (and amoral) course of events (2B1, 4A7). But, on the other hand, Heaven provides a moral standard. Thus, Mengzi approvingly quotes one of the Odes, which says:
Heaven gives birth to the teeming people.
If there is a thing, there is a norm (6A6.8).
Mengzi illustrates both the naturalistic and the moral aspects of Heaven in his discussion of the problem of diplomacy between powerful and weak states: “Those who serve the small with the big delight in Heaven; those who serve the big with the small are in awe of Heaven” (1B3.2). In other words, it should be the case (normatively) that the powerful are generous enough to serve the weak. But it is the case (descriptively) that antagonizing powerful states has dangerous consequences. The complexity of Mengzi’s view is also evident in his comments about political justification. He stresses that Heaven is the ultimate source of political legitimacy (5A5.2). However, Heaven primarily manifests itself in the reactions of the common people, rather than in any supernatural agency: “Hence, I say that Heaven does not speak but simply reveals the Mandate through actions and affairs” (5A5.5). Heaven is a causal agent that affects the course of human history: “When no one does it, yet it is done—this is due to Heaven. When no one extends to it yet it is reached—this is fate” (5A6.2). Nonetheless, when “gentlemen” find themselves unable to restore order to the world, they must not be “bitter toward Heaven” (2B13.1). Rather, they must accept Heaven’s will while still striving to make the world a better place (7A1).
In order to persevere in the face of adversity without becoming bitter, one must cultivate one’s qi. This is one of the most intriguing yet difficult-to-understand aspects of Mengzi’s thought. Qi has been rendered various ways, including “ether,” “material force,” and “psychophysical stuff.” But there is really no adequate translation, since this is a concept that we do not have a precise analogue for. For Mengzi and his contemporaries, qi is a kind of fluid, found in the atmosphere and in the human body, closely connected to the kind and intensity of one’s emotional reactions. Qi therefore straddles the dualism between “mind” and “body” that has become a fixture of post-Cartesian philosophy in the West: qi is physically embodied emotion. Here are two examples to give an intuitive understanding of it.
(1) You are with a group of people in someone’s living room, having a pleasant, casual conversation. Someone tries to make {xxxix} an offhand joke, but it ends up sounding like a cutting personal criticism of another guest. It suddenly seems as if the atmosphere in the room has literally changed. It feels like there is something palpably heavy in the air, making further conversation difficult and awkward. That “something” is a kind of negative qi, which is both an expression and reinforcement of the feelings of those present. (Compare this to Mengzi’s example in 7A36 of the effect of an august person’s qi on how one feels in his presence.)
These examples should not lead us to assume that we are purely passive to the influence of qi. Our hearts can resist the effects of negative qi, as when I refuse to allow my fear to dissuade me from doing what I know is right. (Mengzi describes this as “maintaining one’s will.”) But for success in the long run I cannot continue to force myself to act against the promptings of my qi. To do so would be to “injure one’s qi,” eventually producing a person who is dispirited—whose qi is “starved.” Instead, one must cultivate an ethically informed qi (“a qi that harmonizes with righteousness and the Way”). This qi gives one the moral stamina to persevere in the face of dangers, challenges, and setbacks. Among the highly cultivated, this reservoir of fortitude is so deep that it is essentially inexhaustible (or “floodlike,” as Mengzi puts it). The way to develop this qi is simply through the gradual cultivation of the sprouts of virtue.35
From Mengzi to Zhu Xi
In my opinion, after the immediate disciples of Kongzi passed away, the only one who really venerated the sages was Mengzi. —Han Yu
Centuries after Mengzi’s death, China achieved long-term unity and stability during the Han dynasty (202 B.C.E.–220 C.E.). In this era, {xl} Confucianism became the orthodox philosophy of government. However, it was a form of Confucianism mixed together with elements from other systems of thought that were alien to the worldviews of Mengzi and Kongzi.36 In addition, after Buddhism arrived from India (bringing novel and subtle metaphysical views), it gradually became intellectually dominant, even among many who were nominally Confucian. By the middle of the Tang dynasty (618–906 C.E.), Empress Wu was routinely hosting and honoring leading Buddhists, especially of the Huayan and Chan (Zen) schools. But toward the end of the same dynasty, Han Yu spearheaded a movement that traced China’s social and political problems to the supposedly pernicious influence of the “barbarian” Buddhist teaching. Han Yu sought to reawaken China to the lost Confucian Way and stated that Mengzi had an especially pure understanding of it. This “School of the Way” (Dào xué, also called “Neo-Confucianism”) came to philosophical maturity during the Song dynasty (960–1279 C.E.), with the brilliant theorizing of Zhou Dunyi, Zhang Zai, Cheng Yi, Cheng Hao, and Zhu Xi.37 Although these thinkers conceived of themselves as simply explicating the same Way as the ancient sages, they could not help but interpret the texts they read in terms of the concepts they had at their disposal. In particular, their two primary metaphysical concepts—qì and l
—meant something very different for them than they had for Kongzi or Mengzi.
Originally, in the Warring States period, qi was conceived of as just one entity among others in the world. This is suggested by the expressions “clouds and qi” and “blood and qi”—pairings in which neither term is metaphysically fundamental.38 Within a few centuries, however, Chinese philosophers began to think of qi as the underlying “stuff” out of which everything else condenses, analogous to the manner in which water condenses as dew or crystallizes into ice.39 Entities are distinguished by the degree to which their qi is “turbid” or “clear.”
{xli} Li originally referred to any “pattern” that distinguishes one thing from another. It was a term of only peripheral importance to early Confucians, occurring precisely zero times in all of the Analects. (But Zhu Xi first mentions it in his commentary on the second passage of the Analects and countless times thereafter.) In the Mengzi, li describes the “harmonious patterns” with which an orchestral performance begins and ends (5B1.6), the “order” that is pleasing to one’s mind (6A7.8), and whether or not someone’s speech is “articulate” (7B19). Furthermore, the contemporaneous Daoist work, Zhuangzi, refers to the “Heavenly pattern” (tiān l
) of the bones, muscles, and joints that a skilled butcher intuitively follows as he carves up an ox carcass. None of these uses entails any elaborate metaphysical commitments.40
Now, a key claim in some kinds of Chinese Buddhism is that, because of the causal interrelatedness of all entities, “one is all and all is one.” For example, this book would not exist without the tree pulp used in its paper, which would not exist without the sunlight and soil that helped the trees to grow, which would not exist without the Sun and the Earth, which would not exist without the Big Bang (and so on). This concept is symbolized by the metaphor of Indra’s Net, a web with a jewel at the intersection of every two strands that is so brilliant it reflects every other jewel. Huayan and Chan (Zen) Buddhists adopted the earlier term “li” (“Pattern” or “Principle”) to refer to this cosmic web of interrelations. The metaphysical consequence of this view is that things lack individual natures but share a transpersonal “Buddha nature.” The ethical implication is that wrongdoing is fundamentally due to “selfishness,” a failure to recognize how we are connected with and dependent upon everything else. “Enlightenment” about the true nature of reality produces universal compassion (a virtue reminiscent of the “impartial caring” of the Mohists).
Although the School of the Way opposed Buddhism, it saw Confucianism through Buddhist lenses. Thus, Song dynasty Confucians adopted the term “Pattern” to refer to the structure of the universe, fully present in everything that exists, from a mote of dust, to a cat, to Tyrant Jie, to Kongzi himself. This Pattern is simultaneously descriptive and prescriptive. Because of the Pattern, it is the case that everyone will feel alarm and compassion at the sight of a child about to fall into a well. But the Pattern also dictates that we ought to extend this compassion to everyone. Although the Pattern is the same in everything, entities are individuated {xlii} and speciated by having distinct allotments of qi. Thus, rocks differ from plants because the qi of the latter is more “clear” than the “turbid” qi of the former, resulting in a more full manifestation of the Pattern (as shown in the greater responsiveness of plants to their environments). Furthermore, I am different from Kongzi because our qi is spatially and temporally distinct, but also (and more importantly) because his clear qi manifests the Pattern fully, while my turbid qi does not. This view is moderately monistic, in that everything is part of a potentially harmonious whole. However, unlike the Buddhist position, there genuinely are distinct individuals, such as this son who owes filial piety to his father, and this mother who loves her children more than those of her neighbor. This justifies the differentiated love so central to Confucianism.
Zhu Xi’s Reinterpretation
Generally, in reading a text, you should examine most closely those passages for which there are differing explanations. Supposing explanation A puts it one way; take firm hold of it, and probe its words through and through. Supposing explanation B puts it another way; take firm hold of it, and probe its words through and through. Once you have probed each of the explanations fully, compare them critically, analyzing them inside and out. Invariably, the truth will become clear. —Zhu Xi
One of Zhu Xi’s greatest achievements was to show how the metaphysical framework he inherited could be used to give a unified, systematic interpretation of the Four Books and their technical vocabulary.
On his view, human nature in itself (“originally”) is simply the Pattern. However, the Pattern has to be embodied in particular “endowments” of qi. The Pattern is “obscured” in people whose qi is turbid, leading them to act out of “human desires” that are “selfish.” In contrast, sages have clear qi, so they are “enlightened.” They clearly understand the “Heavenly Pattern” and therefore act in accordance with it. Although each of us is born with a particular allotment of qi, which determines our initial level of understanding and virtue, education and individual moral effort can clarify the qi, while succumbing to selfish desires can further obscure it.
We can learn a great deal from Zhu Xi’s interpretations of the Four Books, but his Buddhist-influenced metaphysics sometimes leads him astray. For example, Mengzi describes our compassion for a child about to fall into a well as the “sprout” (duān) of benevolence. But Zhu Xi glosses the passage as follows: “‘Tip’ (duan) is an endpoint. By following {xliii} the expression of the feelings, one can see what the nature is like originally (běn). It is like when there is a thing inside a box and the endpoint of it is visible outside” (Sishu jizhu, Commentary on 2A6.5). Zhu Xi would thus have us envision our innate virtuous reactions as the “tips” (the manifestations) of a completely formed virtuous nature that is obscured by selfish desires. But for Mengzi, we innately have only incipient virtues that must be gradually cultivated, like the sprouts of plants, until they grow to maturity. In other words, Zhu Xi has substituted a spatial metaphor for Mengzi’s agricultural metaphor. For Zhu Xi, becoming virtuous is a process of stripping away selfishness to discover one’s true nature; for Mengzi, becoming virtuous is a process of developing an incipient potential for virtue.41
Consider also Analects 17.2, in which Kongzi states, “Natures are close to one another. It is by practice that they become far apart.” The claim that our natures are merely “close to one another” seems to be in tension with Mengzi’s claim that human nature is the same in everyone. But Zhu Xi is committed to the view that the Four Books express an identical Confucian Way. Consequently, he approvingly cites Cheng Yi’s view that 17.2
is discussing natures as embodied in qi. It is not discussing the origin (ben) of the nature. If one discusses its origin, then the nature is simply the Pattern. The Pattern never fails to be good. This is what Mengzi meant by “the nature is good.” How could they be (merely) “close to one another”?42
We see here why Zhu Xi feels compelled to gloss Mengzi’s teaching as “Human nature is originally (ben) good.”43 I will try to identify in my commentary other places where Zhu Xi’s metaphysics derails his otherwise keen textual insight.
In this Introduction I have stressed how textual commentary, properly used, enables and encourages independent thinking rather than frustrating it. Thus, it seems appropriate to end with a quotation in which {xliv} Zhu Xi, supposed defender of narrow orthodoxy, shows us the complexity of his own thinking on this topic:
There’s a kind of talk going around these days that makes the younger students lax. People say things like, “I wouldn’t dare criticize my elders,” or “I wouldn’t dare engage in pointless speculation”—all of which suits the fancy of those who are lazy. To be sure, we wouldn’t dare criticize our elders recklessly, but what harm is there in discussing the rights and wrongs of what they did? And to be sure, we mustn’t engage in idle speculation, but some parts of our reading pose problems while some others are clear, so we have to discuss it. Those who don’t discuss it are reading without dealing with the problems.44
So turn the page and let the discussion continue.
o rén).