08 mars 2008
finally
And finally I start writing stuff in Chinese again. Yesterday, having just about torn up the textbook in frustration with its sappy, sentimental, saccharine-laden texts, and having reviewed and then studied a few paragraphs of 《活着》/To Live (yes, I know, I'm taking a long, long time about it), I decided to see how much I could write and how often I needed to reach for a dictionary to remind myself what the characters were supposed to look like.
Well, apart from a few mistakes (including one I seemingly can't stop making: leaving that little pie off the top-left of 知) and one buggered-up sentence (the last one), I seemed to do alright. I only needed the dictionary a few times, and I was impressed with how many characters I could write without checking (mistakes included). So here it is, with corrections by lzh (and as always, constructive criticism is welcome):
我今天学了一个特别有用的单词：闯荡。我看余华写的《活着》的时候，读了这句话：“龙二说话时南腔北调，光听他的口音，就知道这人不简单、是闯荡过很多地方、见过大世面的人。”
那，我不是龙二的那种人。我不赌博，我又不是骗子。可是我年轻的时候离开了家在非常远的地方找工作了。好像是入了一种“江湖”里。
我在长沙，太原，天津闯荡过，现在在北京。我也流荡过香港，深圳，广州，桂林，阳朔，昆明，大连，挪威... 光听我的口音，很少的人能听出来我是哪的人。有的时候我也是差一点忘了我是从哪来的。看一下我的护照，就知道我是新西兰人。
呵，我在新西兰长大好像是前生。
And after looking over my messy characters, lzh tells me that "闯荡" (chuǎngdàng, to work away from one's hometown) is something done by people of some kind of heroic stature, and that all I do is 流浪 (liúlàng, to roam about, to wander). I said, no, I'm 乱七八糟 (luànqībāzāo, messy and chaotic). She said, yes.
Anyway, gotta ditch that textbook and start using these HSK books and practice tests I have sitting on my bookshelf, and if the HSK I sit is the new one, then I've really got to keep writing in Chinese (and remembering to put that little pie on the top-left of 知- sure, my wife understands what I mean, but HSK examiners are going to deduct points for that sort of sloppiness).
Oh, and yesterday morning I finally followed up on a colleague's suggestion and joined him in the BeiGongDa library to study. Now there's one huge problem solved: the tables in the main lobby area around the huge fake tree next to the main service desk are big and wide and comfortable and it was quiet and a long, long way from crowded, and it was generally a good place to study. The only worry I have is that I saw students taking their laptops there: If that's a sign that the library has wifi, then it could still prove to be dangerously distracting. And even if it doesn't, my colleague said that it had broadband-looking sockets in the floor on another storey. Yeah, I know, just don't take the laptop. Anyway, one huge problem solved: I now have a comfortable study spot. And another problem taken care of, provided I can drag my lazy arse out the door on the Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday mornings I don't have class: A lack of distractions.
Now, get into the habit and go those mornings and mix up textbook, novel and writing....
18 février 2008
comfort
One key aspect to studying, and something I've been lacking over this winter holiday, is a comfortable place to study. Even before I decided to all but abandon the university-supplied big box of 麻烦 computer and just plug in the laptop, the computer desk wasn't all that great. Somehow I could never rearrange stuff so that textbook, notebook and dictionary were all within easy reach and view, comfortably useable, and not overlapping each other. I've been trying the coffee table this morning, and apart from the extra posture-destroying leaning forward of it all, I'm still struggling to get those three books arranged properly. I'm looking over at the table the phone is on, and I'm not seeing that much better a possibility. Guess I'm just going to have to grin and bear it.
25 novembre 2007
爹 and 娘
I've been wondering for a while about the origin of the Chinese words 爸 (ba, dad) and 妈 (ma, mum). Why? Well, in films set as late as the sixties the words 爹 (die, dad) and 娘 (niang, mum) are more commonly used. lzh tells me 爹 and 娘 are the older words. But what really got me intrigued is that I have heard 爹 and 娘 used by young people in Yanqing- lzh and her brother tend to use 爹 and 娘 only in specific contexts, and usually use 爸 and 妈, but I've heard some of their younger cousins use them as the default words for dad and mum.
Well, I'm online now. I suppose I could see what information I can turn up.
10 octobre 2007
music
Another excellent piece from Danwei, this one on ethnomusicology in China.
Unfortunately, one thing that's been missing from my experience of Yanqing has been music. Well, sure, several times I've been told I can go and 看戏 (watch the show), and once I did go, but that first time:
- It was nighttime, but still, everyone who could see me was watching me, and I was the only one watching the show.
- It was just modern pop music, the kind you can hear anywhere, and which isn't so hugely different from Western pop music, no traditional music of any kind. I'd be much more interested in seeing local folk music or opera. Otherwise, what's the bloody point of living in a foreign country?
Then every time since I've been reluctant to go. And sitting in the courtyard listening to the music echoing through the village has confirmed that it's not worth going, because every time since then it's been the same modern pop music, the kind you can hear anywhere, and which isn't so hugely different from Western pop music.
The last night we were up in the village there was a show. The same modern pop music all over again. You know, the kind you can hear anywhere, and which really is not that hugely different from Western pop music. And what was this show in honour of? The construction of a new temple. Somehow, that just didn't seem all that appropriate to me.
Yes, I know, I should stop being so grumpy. It is, after all, entirely up to the Chinese people to decide what kind of music they're going to listen to. And it's up to the village leadership to decide who they're going to ask to put on shows in the village. But it would be nice to hear some of the traditional music of the Yanqing area.
And that new temple? Ba said it was a "老爷庙". It seems the "老爷" is in reference to a landlord, according to lzh, or perhaps a master, bureaucrat or lord judging by the little I can find in the dictionary. Odd kind of temple to be building in modern China, but there you go.
I do remember seeing an old temple in a very, very dilapidated, long-unused state, on past wanderings through the village on the way to visiting relatives at Spring Festival. I have no idea what kind of temple that was, or even if it was once a temple. It looked like it had been a temple sometime in the past. I have no idea where this new temple is, but I think I might ask to be shown it next time we're up in the village.
09 octobre 2007
Dazhai Spiritual
Danwei has a great post up about religion at Dazhai. It includes a translation of an article by Li Xiangping called Dazhai Builds a Temple. It's well worth reading, but there was one aspect of that article that grabbed my attention:
There is a pervasive belief in Mao Zedong among the people of Dazhai. A "poor fellow" who had fought with Chen Yonggui against the Langwozhang Gulley told me that he didn't believe in any other gods. He only believed in Mao Zedong. Every year when he venerates his ancestors, he will bow before a statue of Chairman Mao and offer incense. A middle-aged man who looked like a village cadre was even more direct: "Without Chairman Mao, there'd be no Dazhai today. Chairman Mao is the God of Wealth for the people of Dazhai." A woman who ran a hotel in Dazhai said, "Chairman Mao is our account-book." When I asked whether the construction of Pule Temple would influence the faith of the people of Dazhai in Chairman Mao, practically everyone shook their heads. They believe that there is no conflict between worshiping Guanyin and belief in Chairman Mao.
It's not uncommon to see Chairman Mao lucky charms hanging from car
mirrors, and there's still no shortage of posters, busts, statues,
badges and other Mao memorabilia, iconography and stuff in general
floating around. In many people's minds Mao has already been elevated
from Liberation hero and great chairman to Boddhisatva or God.
That's hardly surprising- a lot of the Cultural Revolution looked,
smelt, felt, and tasted like religious worship. But it seems that the
continued worship of Mao isn't just the leftovers of Mao-era
brainwashing- I've met plenty of Chinese people younger than me who at
least revere Mao- but a continuation of what seems to be quite a strong
tradition in China.
I'm no export, and corrections would be most welcome, but it seems
to me that a lot of the gods and boddhisatvas worshipped in China were
ancient heros who became legends and were then mythologised and then
became worshipped as gods. Mazu springs to mind. This seems to tie in
perfectly with the veneration of ancestors. And it seems like Mao is
the latest hero to suffer this fate.
And maybe I'm reading it wrong, but Li Xiangping seems to think this is a uniquely Chinese phenomenon. I don't see much difference between Chinese worship of Mao and the veneration or worship of Mary and the saints in the Christian tradition. Really: What's the difference between hanging a Mao lucky charm or a St Christopher from the rear-view mirror of your Santana?
04 octobre 2007
discovering Mozi
First up, a quick note: Unless otherwise stated, all quotations and page and chapter references in this post are from Selected Philosophical Writings of Fung Yu-Lan (Foreign Languages Press, Beijing, 1991). All references to classical Chinese texts, unless otherwise stated, are as recorded in that same book.
So yesterday it was Kongzi, today it's Mozi.
Actually, I'm supposed to be out picking corn, but something weird happened to me this morning, and I was told to stay home, rest, and 看门, so here I am. It kinda sucks, because this is the first time it was assumed I would join the others picking corn. This time last year I had to insist that I was going with them for one afternoon. But this morning my lungs feel heavy and clogged, and I got all light-headed at breakfast, so I was told to stay home. It seems the cold I caught the day before we came up here decided last night to migrate down into my lungs. Don't know what the light-headedness is about, though.
Anyway, Mozi. Until I picked up Fung Yu-Lan's Selected Philosophical Writings the other day, I'd heard the name Mozi and I'd read some vague stuff about some of the principles he taught, but I really had no idea what he was about. I have no idea about the quality or credibility of Fung Yu-Lan's scholarship or his qualifications to be writing on ancient Chinese philosophers, but for better or worse, this book has been my introduction to Mozi and the Mohists.
Fung attributes the origin of the ancient schools of thought to different social classes. Confucius and his followers emerged from the ru 儒- the literati or scholars (p 224). Mozi and his followers emerged from a class Fung calls the hsieh or yu hsieh, or "knights-errant"- military specialists who had lost their official positions and been scattered with the collapse of the feudal system in the latter part of the Zhou Dynasty (p 246). Trouble is, Fung's use of Wade-Giles and lack of characters are making it hard to check the dictionary. Could hsieh be xia 侠? I can't find anything that would match yu hsieh, though. Still, if I am right about xia 侠, then "knights-errant" doesn't strike me as being an adequate translation. Anyway, we have this class of former professional soldiers now out in the big wide world on their own. And apparently they had quite a strong code of ethics. On page 246, Fung quotes the Shi Ji as saying of these "knights-errant":
Their words were always sincere and trustworthy, and their actions always quick and decisive. The were always true to waht they promised, and without regard to their own persons, they would rush into dangers threatening others. (Shi Ji, Ch. 124)
And on the same page, Fung says: "A large part of Mo Tzu's teaching was an extension of these ethics".
But we're jumping the gun a little here, because Fung has more to say on the origins of these people he calls hsieh, particularly in comparison to the origins of the ru, and the importance of the difference in origin for the development of Mohist philosophy:
In Chinese history both the ju or literati and the hsieh or knights-errant originated as specialists atttached to the houses of the aristocrats, and were themselves members of the upper classes. In later times the ju continued to come mainly form the upper or middle classes, but the hsieh, on the contrary, more frequently were recruited from the lower classes. In ancient times, such social amenities as rituals and music were all exclusively for the aristocrats; from the point of view of the common man, therefore, they were luxuries that had no practical utility. It was from this point of view that Mo Tzu and the Mohists criticized the traditional institutions and their rationalizers, Confucius and the Confucianists. This criticism, together with the elaboration and rationalization of the professional ethics of their own social class, that of the hsieh, constituted the central core of the Mohist philosophy. (p 246)
Alright, so far so good: We have this picture of a class of highly principled warriors coming primarily from the common folk who are more concerned with practical realities than luxuries. It's a pity, though, that the Mohists have to be framed in opposition to the Confucianists, but that's how Fung presents Mozi. Indeed, Chapter V of A Short History of Chinese Philosophy is entitled Mo Tzu, the First Opponent of Confucius. Oh dear.
Anyway, Fung spends several pages and considerable energy in placing Mozi's and the Mohist's origins firmly in this class of "knights-errant", despite the lack of hard evidence. He does present a pretty solid case, though. But he also explains how Mozi and his followers differed from others of their class:
In the first place, the latter [regular hsieh] were men ready to engage in any fighting watever, only provided that they were paid for their efforts or favoured by the feudal lords. Mo Tzu and his followers, on the contrary, were strongly opposed to aggressive war; hence they agreed to fight only in wars that were stricty for self-defence. Secondly, the ordinary hsieh confined themselves wholly to their code of professional ethics. Mo Tzu, however, elaborated this professional ethics and gave it a rationalistic justification. Thus though Mo Tzu's background was that of a hsieh, he at the same time became the founder of a new philosophic school. (p 248)
Presumably, agreeing "to fight only in wars that were stricty for self-defence" means that the Mohists always took the side of the victim of aggression and always opposed the aggressor.
Fung then moves on to discuss Mozi's teachings, and here's where it gets interesting.
See, I had heard that the Shang Dynasty came very close to establishing a monotheistic theology with a personal God, but that the Zhou Dynasty replaced that with the rather more vague and impersonal "Heaven", but I've never read or heard anything more on that subject. Now take a look at four criticisms of the Confucianists that Fung takes from Mozi chapter 48:
- The Confucianists do not believe in the existence of God or of spirits, "with the result that God and the spirits are displeased."
- The Confucianists insist on elaborate funerals and the pratice of three years of mourning on the death of a parent, so that the wealth and energy of the people are thereby wasted.
- The Confucianists lay stress on the practice of music, leading to an identical result.
- The Confucianists believe in a predetermined fate, causing the people to be lazy and to resign themselves to this fate.
(pp 248 - 249)
Interesting. Two criticisms stress the waste of energy and wealth caused by Confucian teachings, and two stress wrong Confucian beliefs. And the first criticism is an attack on Confucian atheism. Fung tells us that "Already, before Confucius, persons who were better educated and more sophisticated had been abandoning the belief in the existence of a personal God and of divine spirits. People of the lower classes, however, had, as always in such matters, lagged behind in this rise of scepticism, and Mo Tzu held the point of view of the lower classes." (p 249) I had no idea that such beliefs had held on so long after the fall of the Shang Dynasty.
Fung then goes on to discuss Mozi's understanding of ren 仁 and yi 义, again in opposition to the Confucianists, and how this leads to what Fung terms "All-embracing Love". Mozi opposed "discrimination"- loving different people to different degrees based on their relationship to you- and supported "all-embracingness"- loving all people equally.
But first Fung takes us on a slight diversion, quoting from Chapter 35 of Mozi and explaining the three tests Mozi used to determine whether a principle was right or wrong:
According to him [Mozi], every principle must be examined by three tests, namely: "Its basis, its verifiability, and its applicability." A sound and right principle "should be based on the Will of Heaven and of the spirits and and on the deeds of the ancient sage-kings." Then "it is to be verified by the sense of hearing and sight of the common people." And finally, "it is to be applied by adopting it in government and observing whether it is beneficial to the country and the people." (p 250)
Maybe I'm reading this wrong, but that looks like four tests to me. Anyway, Fung tells us that the key test is "observing whether it is beneficial to the country and the people", and it is this test which he uses "to prove the desirability of all-embracing love." (p 251)
But what is this all-embracing love? If I'm interpreting this rightly, it is 兼爱 jian'ai, which is discussed in chapter 42 of Zhang Dainian's Key Concepts in Chinese Philosophy (Foreign Languages Press, Beijing, 2002; translated by Edmund Ryden), a chapter which is entitled Nondiscrimination. Ryden, the translator, provides this interesting little note at the start of the chapter:
Nineteenth-century translators seized on the Mohist jian ai as a Chinese equivalent of Christian love for all men. This resulted in a certain bias. The Mohists had a highly developed military-style organisation in which complete obedience was demanded. They sought to defend small states and preached against war while also building machines to defend besieged cities. Hence the term jian ai is more properly translated as 'loving without discrimination'- the emphasis being on the lack of discrimination rather than on the love. (Zhang, p 326)
Zhang provides us with this neat little definition:
The expression "loving without discrimination" is associated with Mozi. In detail, the expression is as follows:
To show no discrimination and mutually love; to have dealings with others and mutually benefit. (Mozi 15, Loving without Discrimination B, lines 10 -11)
Expressed in brief, it is "no discrimination."
The rule of showing no discrimination in one's love for others and of dealing with others so that each party benefits is set out as follows:To look on the State of others as one's own State; to look on the family of others as one's own family; to look on the person of others as one's own person. (Ibid., lines 11 - 12)
(Zhang, pp 326 - 327)
Sounds really good, right? Everybody loving everybody equally. But Zhang provides this little warning:
Even in this ideal the divisions between rich and poor, noble and base persist. Hence the love between human beings that the Mohists proclaim is still not truly equal love for all. (Zhang p 328)
So even Mozi opposed 'making distinctions' (Zhang p 327), because the Mohists preserved class distinctions and therefore the inequality inherent in a class-based society, the "all-embracing love" or "nondiscrimination" they preached did not lead to actual equality among people and between classes. Yes, I'm confused, too.
Fung shows us that Mozi had several arguments to support his teaching of "all-embracing love": It is the only way to benefit the whole world, for starters, and if everybody practices "all-embracing love", everybody benefits, but because "most people are too short-sighted to see the value of a long-term investment of this sort", other arguments and inducements were needed (pp 252 - 253):
Thus in the Mo-tzu there are chapters on "The Will of Heaven," and also ones titled "Proof of the Existence of Spirits." In these we read that God exists; the he loves mankind; and that His Will is that all men should love one another. He punishes with calamities persons who disobey His Will, and rewards with good fortune those who obey. Besides God there are also numerous lesser spirits who likewise reward men who practise all-embracing love, and punish those who practise "discrimination." (p 253)
Of course, it is impossible to not notice the simple fact that bad things happen to even the very best people, and Fung takes a story from chapter 48 of the Mozi to show that "Mo Tzu would say that punishment by the spirits is a sufficient cause for the disease of a man, but not its necessary cause." (p 253)
But there is, of course, a dark side to Mozi, and that is his insistence on a totalitarian state headed by a dictator with absolute authority, and that the authority of the ruler comes not only from the will of the people, but also from the Will of God. Not only that, but he insists that people accept such a state "not because they prefer it, but because they have no alternative." Indeed, the only alternative is anarchy. Of course, he insists that the purpose of this totalitarian state and its ruler is to enforce one standard of right and wrong for the good of the people. But a key part of this state and its standardisation of right and wrong is an insistence on absolute discipline, with those of inferior ranks unquestioningly obeying the exact words of their superiors. (pp 255 - 257) It would seem that the Mohists held true to this aspect of their philosophy. Fung informs us on pages 246 and 247 that "the Mohists constituted a strictly disciplined organization capable of military action", something which the translator's note introducing the chapter on nondiscrimination on page 326 of Zhang's Key Concepts confirms.
So I found this brief introduction ot Mozi and his philosophy fascinating. There is so much in Mozi's teaching that seems so incredibly good, and yet there's that really strong dark side of authoritarianism lurking behind it all. Sure, it's nice to believe that in an ideal Mohist state the ruler really would practice "all-embracing love" or "nondiscrimination", but practical experience tells us that such a state will most likely never exist and that the ruler of a Mohist state would very quickly become corrupted by his power.
03 octobre 2007
Rediscovering Kongzi
First up, a quick note: Unless otherwise stated, all
quotations and page and chapter references in this post are from Selected Philosophical Writings of Fung
Yu-Lan (Foreign Languages Press, Beijing,
1991). All references to classical Chinese texts, unless otherwise stated, are
as recorded in that same book.
Changsha
. It seems this section of my book was originally a book in its own right. So I flipped through to the first page of this section and started reading. Chapters 1, 2 and 3 are The Spirit of Chinese Philosophy, The Background of Chinese Philosophy, and The Origin of the Schools. These chapters had some interesting ideas, some of which I didn’t entirely agree with, but still, fair points, but on the whole I wasn’t particularly taken with these chapters. Then Fung moved on to Confucius and Confucianism. This I found a little odd- doesn’t Taoism predate Confucianism? I was under the impression that if there was an historical Laozi, he was older than Confucius, which explains why Confucius consulted him, and that in any case, the Dao De Jing draws on ideas, beliefs and theories that had already been circulating in China, while Confucius took the Six Classics as scripture and constructed a set of ethics that would preserve what he thought the old order of the early Zhou Dynasty was.
His primary function as a teacher, he felt, was to interpret to his disciples the ancient cultural heritage.
In the same section, Fung goes on to say that despite his own insistence that he was “a transmitter and not an originator” (Analects VII, 1), Confucius was very much an originator in that, “Confucius gave them interpretations derived from his own moral concepts” (p 235), which confirms half of what I originally thought of him- the half about him inventing a system of ethics that would preserve what he saw as the traditional order handed down from Zhou.
Righteousness (yi) means the “oughtness” of a situation. It is a categorical imperative. Everyone in society has certain things which he ought to do, and which must be done for their own sake, because they are the morally right things to do. If, however, he does them only because of other non-moral considerations, then even though he does what he ought to do, his action is no longer a righteous one. (p 236)
Pretty clear, but “oughtness”? Fung also explains yi in opposition to li, which he defines as ‘profit’.
“To use a word often disparaged by Confucius and later Confucianists, he [one who does what he ought to do “because of other, non-moral considerations] is then acting for “profit.” Yi (righteousness) and li (profit) are in Confucianism diametrically opposed terms. Confucius himself says: “The superior man comprehends yi; the small man comprehends li.” (Analects IV, 16) Herein lies what the later Confucianists called the “distinction between yi and li,” a distinction which they considered to be of the utmost importance in moral teaching.
In Zhang Dainian’s Key Concepts in Chinese Philosophy (Foreign Languages Press,
Beijing
, 2002, translated by Edmund Ryden), on page 291, we have this definition of Confucius’ yi:
As Confucius valued benevolence, he also promoted justice. Benevolence is the highest moral norm, whereas yi 義, what is right, refers generally to the existence of moral norms.
Yes, this edition of Zhang’s Key Concepts uses traditional
characters. I don’t know if that’s because the original was written in
traditional characters or if it’s due to the translator’s personal preferences,
or some editorial decision in the hallowed halls of Yale University Press
(which seems to have been the original publisher) or the Foreign Languages
Press. Likewise, I don’t know the reasons behind the translation of yi as either “righteousness” or “justice”,
but both translations seem equally accurate. Zhang makes no mention of li, although I presume it is 利.
The idea of yi is rather formal, but that of jen [he uses Wade-Giles throughout the text; jen=ren] (human-heartedness) is much more concrete. (p 237)
Alright, I have to admit I don’t get what Fung means by “formal” and “concrete”, and I don’t understand why he renders ren as “human-heartedness). The Xinhua Zidian bilingual edition gives “同情，友爱 benevolence, kindheartedness”. In the translators introduction to the section of Zhang’s Key Concepts entitled “Benevolence and Justice, Ren-yi, 仁義”, page285, says of ren:
It is expressive of the relations that should pertain among human beings. Hence it has been translated as ‘humanity,’ benevolence,’ ‘love,’ and, to bring out the sense of relationship, ‘co-humanity.’ It is also the supreme virtue that encompasses all others and so is rendered ‘goodness,’ ‘perfect virtue.’
I guess I should note that that comes with a reference to Wing Tsit-Chan, A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy (Pinceton: Princeton University Press, 1963), pp. 788 – 789, but I have no access to that book, so I don’t particularly care about it right now.
But the material essence of these duties is “loving others”, i.e. jen or human-heartedness. The father acts according to the way a father should act who loves his son; the son acts according to the way a son should act who loves his father. Confucius says: “Human-heartedness consists in loving others.” [Analects, IV, 16] The man who really loves others is one able to perform his duties in society. (p 237)
Well, then I managed to get myself all confused by missing where Fung explains the meanings of Chung and Shu.
In other words, “Do to others what you wish yourself.” This is the positive aspect of the practice, which was called by Confucius chung or “conscientiousness to others”. And the negative aspect, which was called by Confucius shu or “altruism”, is: “Do not do to others what you do not wish yourself.” The practice as a whole is called the principle of chung and shu, which is “the way to practice jen.” (p 238)
And then:
The principle of chung and shu is at the same time the principle of jen, so that the practice of chung and shu means the practice of jen. And this practice leads to the carrying out of one’s responsibilities and duties in society, in which is comprised the quality of yi or righteousness. Hence the principle of chung and shu becomes the alpha and omega of one’s moral life. (p 239)
Right. But now that I’ve (belatedly) found that definition, I’m still confused. What are chung and shu? Apart from the use of Wade-Giles, one big disadvantage of Fung is the absence of characters, making it difficult to check words in the dictionary. So I guess I’m going to have to go back to Zhang Dainian. On page 291 of Key Concepts, Zhang provides this short note:
Not doing to others what you would not want done to yourself is also called ‘empathy’ (shu 恕). Confucius singled it out as one word worth practicing:
Zi Gong asked, “Is there one word which can be practiced throughout one’s life?” The Master said, “It is empathy. What you yourself do not want do not impose on others.” (Analects 15, Duke Ling of Wei #23, p. 301)
Benevolence would seem to contain empathy within it. Empathy is the same virtue taken from a narrow perspective; ‘benevolence’ also expresses the need to establish others and make them outstanding.
Xinhua
Zidian defines 恕 as “forgive; pardon”. My big dictionary, A Chinese-English Dictionary (Revised Edition) (Foreign Languages
Teaching and Research Press,
Beijing
, 2002) gives “1: consideration for others; forbearance 2: forgive; pardon; excuse” and a third definition which is not relevant in this context.
Yao
and Shun fell short of it.” (Zhang, p. 287), and then moving into what seems to be the same passage that Fung uses, although the translation is quite different.
As we shall see, the Taoists taught the theory of “doing nothing,” whereas the Confucianists taught that of “doing for nothing.” A man cannot do nothing, according to Confucianism, because for every man there is something which he ought to do. Nevertheless what he does is “for nothing”, because the value of doing what he ought to do lies in the doing itself, and not in the external result. (pp 239 – 240)
This is important to the introduction of Ming 命 “because Confucius was ridiculed by a certain recluse as “one who knows that he cannot succeed, yet keeps on trying to do it.”” (p 239) So why did Confucius persevere?
He traveled everywhere and, like Socrates, talked to everybody. Although his efforts were in vain, he was never disappointed. He knew that he could not succeed, but kept on trying.
About himself, Confucius said: “If my principles are to prevail in the world, it is Ming. If they are to fall to the ground, it is also Ming” [Analects XIV, 38] (p 240)
So for Confucius, fate or Ming 命 is that huge collective of things beyond our control, but there is still plenty that we can do, and that which we can do, providing it accords with yi (righteousness or justice), we should do. Therefore, because he knew he was fulfilling his social and familial obligations, he was never disappointed despite his lack of success.
Zhang says of Ming 命:
In the early period the term ming referred to the command of God. The divine element decreased, and by the time of the Mencius, ming referred to all that was outside the power of human influence to alter. (Zhang p 125)
So is Fung jumping the gun here? His definition of Confucius’ ming sounds similar to that which Zhang ascribes to Mencius. All that Zhang has to say about Confucius’ ming is:
Confucius claimed that at fifty he knew heaven’s decree [Analects 2, On Administration 4] This decree determined whether the Way was operative or not:
The master said, “Whether the Way is going to be operative is a matter of decree; whether the Was is not going to be operative is a matter of decree.” (Analects 14.38)
A later section of the Analects defines a gentleman in terms of knowing heaven’s decree:
The master said, “One who does not know the decree cannot be a gentleman.” (Analects 20.3)
The Way is an ideal to be sought. Whether it is attained depends on the decree. Although the term ‘decree’ is thus used in the Analects, it is not elaborated on. (Zhang pp. 127 – 128)
Again we have an apparent disagreement,
although it is hard to tell whether the disagreement is only apparent because
where Fung goes into detail explaining Confucius’ view, Zhang gives a quick
definition and moves on. Although, the view Zhang ascribes to Mencius is
suspiciously close to the view Fung ascribes to Confucius. Still, Fung does
supply a lot more support from his view from the Analects. Also, again both Zhang and Fung quote the same passage
from the Analects, but in entirely
different translations. It seems to me that in both translations, the general
principle is the same and is reasonably clear, but the different translations
would seem to have quite different meanings on the surface. Fung’s quotation
comes across as Confucius defending himself against “a certain recluse”, while
Zhang’s reads as a general statement of principle.
Confucius, however, was already recognized in his own day as a man of very extensive learning. (p 244)
Until I read the section entitled Confucius’ Position in Chinese History
(pp 242 – 244), I had this image of Confucius as a lonely and professionally
frustrated old man terrified of the instability and constant change of his time
wandering around crankily ranting that the world should return to the
stability, propriety and good order that existed (or so he believed) in the
early Zhou. I guess on that point I was completely wrong. In fact, Fung seems
to place Confucius very firmly in the class of ru (儒?) (p 233),
or literati or scholars (Fung’s definition) the “teachers of ancient classics
and thus the inheritors of the ancient cultural legacy.” (pp 224 – 225)
23 mars 2007
Beijing or Peking?
Well, I don’t actually want to pose the question. I tell my students Beijing is Beijing; Peking is only used in an historic context. But I always wondered how Beijing got to be called Peking. I always put it down to some ridiculous old system of romanisation, like Wade-Giles or Yale, but now, via this post at Pinyin Info, I have an article which explains it all. Haven’t read it yet, I just downloaded it (bloody pdf files never cooperate with Firefox), but according to the summary at Pinyin Info, we got Peking through a combination of three factors:
- A plethora of romanisations
- A welter of local pronunciations, and
- Phonological change over time
Apparently that’s quoted from the original article. Anyway, follow the link to Pinyin Info to download the article, if you’re interested.
20 mars 2007
nom chinois
For seven years living in China I've managed to get away with not having a Chinese name. I never saw why I'd need one. Still don't. But some Chinese people seem to think it a necessity for us laowai to have a Chinese name. I'm quite happy for Chinese people to mangle the pronunciation of my English name. Anyway, having only once heard my father in law say my name, I realised that maybe a Chinese name would be useful. So I consulted my wife. But I had certain rules about a Chinese name:
1: No dorky foreigners' Chinese names. I mean, 大山 is simply ridiculous. What would you think of a Chinese person introducing himself to you, saying "My English name is Big Mountain." No offence intended to Mr Rowswell himself, I just find this kind of Chinese name to be stupid and absurd.
2: No ripping off famous people's names. Some foreigners do this. I met one guy who stole Lu Xun's real name (which I can't remember). I once had a student who said, "My English name is Jackie Chan." I said, "Let's just stick with Jackie. You can't go stealing somebody else's name, that ain't right."
3: It has to look like a real Chinese name, so that nobody reading it without any prior knowledge of me will say, "Hey, look at this dumbarse laowai's stupid Chinese name! What an idiot!"
Anyway, the process went like this: Many Chinese people see my surname and say "Wang!", so 王 is the obvious choice for surname, although 吴,武, and similar characters could also be used, their pronunciation being closer to my real surname. In the end, though, we stuck with 王. That left a given name: It needed to be something good, suited to me, and generally suitable for use as a name. lzh's suggestion was 博, as in 博士, because she's convinced I know everything and really should just hurry up and get myself a PhD. At first I wasn't so sure. It sounds similar (but a different tone) to my old Chinese teacher's name. We tried a few others, but nothing really stuck. Anyway, her preference was definitely for 王博.
Well, then yesterday when I was setting up this blog, I needed a name for it to go in the address. Canalblog informed me that my chosen name was taken (because I used it for a blog I have since deleted?), and I needed to come up with a different one in a hurry. I briefly thought of "Wang Long" in reference to the character "Tang Long" in the Bruce Lee movie (the one set in Rome where he fights Chuck Norris... Damn, what's it called?), but that's just silly, so I went with 王博, or at least, wangbo.
There you go, thanks to the internet, my Chinese name problem was solved.
I've since discovered there was a poet in the early Tang Dynasty called 王勃, so I guess I'm cutting it a little close to the "No ripping off famous people's names" rule, but I only learnt that today, so too late now.
Right, I'll get into the study later this afternoon or this evening. I'm running short of notebook space, and lzh forbade me from going out and buying more. Apparently we have some more hidden here somewhere. Which means that actual studying Chinese posts will appear this evening or tomorrow morning.