On 礼

From Easter to Bastille Day, I will practice and write about the five Confucian virtues: 仁,,礼,智, . I am conducting this project alongside Patrick Laudon, Frenchman based in Tokyo. We will spend three weeks with each virtue, following the same protocol: first explore its meaning and relevance, then articulate and adopt a daily practice to cultivate that virtue, finally reflect on the practice and share this in two parallel blog posts. This is not a solid introduction to the Confucian framework of virtues – but rather, a prototype attempt at connecting classical philology to practice.

‘Li’, variously translated as ‘ritual’ or ‘propriety’ – written 禮 in the traditional form, and礼 in the simplified form – represents the third of the five Confucian virtues, and the one most often typically associated to some ‘Chinese’ spirit. Before delving into the Confucian texts, and basing myself on pure generalisation, I considered this relationship to ritual as the condition of possibility for a certain eccentricity that I noted among my Chinese friends. If external behaviour is not about expressing an authentic inner truth but performing a ritual, then in areas that are not strictly determined by ritual, it is possible to be radically free.

However, when I started reading Confucius more closely, I realised that this interpretation was somewhat superficial. “When Confucius entered the Grand Temple, he asked about everything. Someone said, “Who said Confucius is a master of ritual? He enters the Grand Temple and asks about everything!” Confucius, hearing this, said, “This is [precisely] ritual.” [3-15] (子入大庙、每事问。或曰。孰谓邹人之子知礼乎。入大庙、每事问。子闻之、曰。是礼也。). The linguistic form of 礼is not imperative, but interrogative. 礼 is also, therefore, present and relational: it emerges in the course of an interaction between two people. There is a certain naïve, post-romantic way of understanding ritual as a pure act of mindless repetition. This may be ritual in the 19th century, but it is certainly not 礼.

I practiced the virtue while on a work trip in Stockholm. I was living in a friend’s home with four other people, and working with a multicultural team on a major global forum. Questions of protocol needed to be resolved in both settings, and I had little immediate cultural understanding to guide me. I embraced 礼, and asked. This I realised: at first, I imagined that the purpose of this questioning was for the other to share their predetermined understanding of what was expected – allowing me, then, to comply. But instead, often, the question elicited a new form of shared understanding on matters that had not been properly thought through. This was the case at home, but also during the forum. There was no mastermind holding every detail of what should happen and how. Rather, knowledge of rules and rituals required by the event were distributed in the team. There was no proper way to behave that existed as a preconceived idea to follow: proper behaviour – 礼 – emerged as a shared conscious decision through the act of questioning.

There is a measure of collective magic to ritual. “If you govern the people legalistically and control them by punishment, they will avoid crime, but have no personal sense of shame. If you govern them by means of virtue and control them with propriety, they will gain their own sense of shame, and thus correct themselves.” [2.3] (子曰。道之以政、齐之以刑、民免而无耻。道之以德、齐之以礼、有耻且格。) If we know that our behaviour is exposed to questioning, self-regulation emerges naturally – and both parties eschew selfishness for mutual benefit. This understanding of ritual, in turn, opens a new way to understand justice. ”The Master said: “The noble man takes justice as essential. He actualizes it through propriety, demonstrates it in humility, develops it by truthfulness. This is the noble man!” [15.18]  (子曰。君子义以为质、礼以行之、孙以出之、信以成之。君子哉。。 ) Justice actualized is precisely the collective construction of a shared world.  Eliciting assumptions as to the right action in a certain circumstance, and making assumptions as to the right behaviour conscious, is a way to surface underlying patterns and reveal the underlying order of this shared world.

礼 does more: it allows us to stand firm. “Structure yourself with propriety” [8.8] (立于礼) encourages Confucius. We all run the danger of becoming trapped in our own nature. “Studying liberal arts broadly, and disciplining yourself with propriety, it is easy to stay on the narrow path.” [12-15] ( 子曰。博学于文、约之以礼、亦可以弗畔矣夫。) )“The noble man who studies culture extensively, and disciplines himself with propriety can keep from error.” [6:27] (君子博学于文、约之以礼、亦可以弗畔矣夫 。) 礼 frees us from tyrannical self-attachment, and the associated risk of drifting off into self-delusion. Ritual reveals the structures of the world -– the bones of social relationships – and thus makes flexible practice possible. “In the actual practice of propriety, flexibility is important. This is what the ancient kings did so well— both the greater and the lesser used flexibility. Yet there are occasions when this does not apply: If you understand flexibility and use it, but don’t structure yourself with propriety, things won’t go well.”[1:12] (有子曰。礼之用、和为贵。先王之道、斯为美、小大由之。有所不行。知和而和、不以礼节之、亦不可行也。)

Ritual does more: it not only makes practice possible, but provides a sense of historical continuity,whereby practice gains meaning. “Zi Zhang asked whether the state of affairs ten generations hence could be known. Confucius said, “The Shang based its propriety on that of the Yin, and what it added and subtracted is knowable. The Zhou has based its propriety on that of the Shang and what it added and subtracted is knowable. In this way, what continues from the Zhou, even if 100 generations hence, is knowable.” [2:23] (子张问:十世可知也 子曰。殷因于夏礼、所损益、可知也。 周因于殷礼、所损益、可知也。其或继周者、虽百世、可知也。) Here again, however, careful reading is required, and yields a surprising interpretation. Rituals do not evolve over time in a Darwinian fashion, shedding elements least adapted to the circumstances through the pure passage of time. Rather, ritual past and present is an act of ongoing questioning and emergence: so it was with the Yin, so it was with the Shang, so it was with the Zhou, and so it is with us. We are at great risk of projecting perfection on the past. There is no reason to believe that the past was any less chaotic than the present, nor that our ancestors – and with them, any people we think of as representative of an ‘old culture’ – simply repeated an inherited script, while we moderns are living in an age of free collective decision, where the sense of ritual got lost. No, what 礼 reveals is that all human societies – past and present – are at equal risk of chaos ,unless we make the concerted effort to build a common world through the questioning act of ritual. And by keeping this in mind, we are protected from the dangerous myth of a golden age.

All translations of the Chinese in this text are from Charles Muller

 

 

 

On 义

From Easter to Bastille Day, I will practice and write about the five Confucian virtues: 仁,,礼,智, . I am conducting this project alongside Patrick Laudon, Frenchman based in Tokyo. We will spend three weeks with each virtue, following the same protocol: first explore its meaning and relevance, then articulate and adopt a daily practice to cultivate that virtue, finally reflect on the practice and share this in two parallel blog posts. This is not a solid introduction to the Confucian framework of virtues – but rather, a prototype attempt at connecting classical philology to practice.

‘Yi’ , with a falling tone, variously translated as justice, righteousness or fairness, is written义 in simplified Chinese. The traditional form of the character, 義, represents a lamb – 羊 – over the character 我, ‘I’ – which itself represents a hand holding a spear, image of the self fighting for its own survival. Justice, according to certain etymological interpretations, could therefore be understood as a form of behavior where the self adopts the role of a sacrificial lamb – ready to forego life itself in the interests of truth and harmony.

In the dialogues of Confucius, 义 is consistently defined as opposed to 利, a character typically translated as ‘advantage’, and interpreted etymologically as representing a knife cutting down a stalk of wheat. At 4:16, I read ‘君子喩于义、小人喩于利。’ (The noble man is aware of fairness, the inferior man is aware of advantage). Justice, then, as a defining attribute of nobility, is about keeping self-interest at bay: the just are those who relinquish the never-ending fight for individual survival. On reading this, I am reminded of a passage from Journal of Felicity by Romanian philosopher Nicolae Steinhardt, defining the cornerstone of the entire legal system as the willingness of constitutional judges in the higher courts to put their own lives on the line in order to uphold the law.

Through the Analects, 义– and its contrasting opposite 利 – is consistently associated to the same verb, 见, ‘to see’, in two distinct constructions. At 2-24, I read ‘见义不为、无勇也.’ (If you see what is right and fail to act on it, you lack courage) – echoing my reflections of last year on justice and fortitude, and the complementary need for both virtues. But more interestingly, I find another contrast at 14-12 (见利思义) (When you see an opportunity for advantage, think of what would be the right thing to do.), and again in the same structure at 15 :18 (见得思义), and 19:1 (见得思义). Justice, here, is a form of resistance – a cognitive cog in the wheel of self-interest, guiding us towards the right action when we’re exposed to the lure of advantage. I grew up in a family context where ‘cunning’ was praised consistently (with a few life-saving exceptions), and those who were reluctant to press their own advantage on ideal grounds were mocked. I was able to observe that this attitude often came with a certain narrow mindedness, and – if one was to be harsh – a level of stupidity. I found a potential explanation for this at 16-11, where I read ‘行义以达其道’ (I act with fairness to penetrate the Way). Following the call of justice – resisting the sole path of self-interest – is how we perceive the complexities of the world, understand patterns of interwoven causality – and therefore, hope to exert a deeper systemic influence.

On the basis of this interpretation, over the second week of my engagement with justice, I decided to deliberately pay attention to the consequences of my actions every day. In a radical phrasing, I chose to ask myself who needed to die so that I could occupy a certain plot of land? And who suffered so that I could enjoy this particular moment, product, service, or space?

The practice led to mixed feelings of guilt and boredom, but mainly revealed how little I understand about the rippling consequences of my everyday actions. My daily life is apparently benign – I spend a lot of time in front of a screen or a notebook, reading, watching, writing – sometimes speaking with people – from home, at cafes, or in a nearby studio. I eat, mostly vegetarian food. I drink, mainly water, tea and coffee. I throw my waste in the bin and let my partner take it down the building. I understand and vaguely know that every element in this benign existence is part of a complex network rippling across time and space. That I can occupy a certain area of land in Melbourne, as do the shops and businesses I engage with, because indigenous people were displaced and massacred two centuries ago, and their descendants never properly compensated or even acknowledged. That the computer systems I use and the endless amounts of images, videos, music and text I stream on the Internet are not simply ‘there’, that people made them, maintain servers, and protocols, and browser codes, and long networks of cables – which, in turn, entails pollution in remote parts of the globe and exploitation of many workers. That my whole existence depends on access to cheap electricity, locally provided by brown coal, with unmitigated consequences on the global climate. That people had to grow, process and package the food that I eat, and most of them probably received a comparatively low level of payment for it – leaving me with greater disposable income. That the milk and eggs I consume came from cows and chickens who do not enjoy comfortable circumstances. That the waste I put in the bin – paper, plastic, scraps of food – does not simply disappear, but will somehow float off into the oceans, or fill in a plot of land that could have found better uses. But all this is vague, and quickly disappears into some sort of grey mist: if I look too long too far, all I experience is a vague form of seasickness – and so, I try not to think about it too much, and rather, encouraged by the culture I live in, focus on my advantage, convenience, price, quality, which offer a much nicer and clearer picture.

And thus I reflected – the distinction between justice and advantage may not be purely one of appeal, but rather, of complexity. The world of advantage deceptively simplifies things: here is a stalk of wheat, I shall cut it, I will eat the grain, and let nature deal with it. Isn’t it simply the way things are and should be? The world of justice, by contrast, entails extreme levels of complexity: it requires that we consider chains of cause and consequence extending into further and further into the depths of time and space, until the vision blurs, and nothing is clear anymore. And thus, the paradox unfolds – whereas advantage can be seen clearly, justice cannot – it is a certain shapeless feeling in our heads that interferes with the fascination of advantage. Led by that vague feeling, in the absence of perfect clarity, justice is a thing we do, an action, a statement, a withholding often, that in turn, has power to change the course of things – and in that movement, reveals the deep hidden patterns of our common world.

All translations of the Chinese in this text are from Charles Muller

 

On 仁

From Easter to Bastille Day, I will practice and write about the five Confucian virtues: 仁,义,礼,智, . I am conducting this project alongside Patrick Laudon, Frenchman based in Tokyo. We will spend three weeks with each virtue, following the same protocol: first explore its meaning and relevance, then articulate and adopt a daily practice to cultivate that virtue, finally reflect on the practice and share this in two parallel blog posts. This is not a solid introduction to the Confucian framework of virtues – but rather, a prototype attempt at connecting classical philology to practice.

仁 – pronounced rén with a rising tone – is  variously translated as benevolence, kindness, or humaneness. Popular etymology describes the character as composed of the key for ‘man’ (亻) and the number two (二) – therefore identifying 仁  as the virtue that manifests when two people come together. This first arrested my attention. 仁is not about guidance from a higher being or a set of rules that the self should follow: it is anchored in concrete human relations. From the very start of the Analects, this relationship is presented as defined on the basis of seniority: “孝弟也者、其为仁之本与” (are not filial piety and obedience to elders fundamental to the actualization of fundamental human goodness? Analects 1:2). In a later commentary, 仁 is said to manifest itself in the person who rescues a child playing on the margin of a well. 仁 informs each relationship not on the pure basis of our joint humanity, but also based on each parties’ lifespan – and therefore, the same virtue will manifest as a different behaviour in each situation. This, I thought, addresses a point which I often hit upon when thinking about morals and ethics: when exactly should a child be considered ethically mature? 仁 offers a lateral way to think of the answer: when the child finds themselves in a situation where the relational duty demands that they be the adult, on the basis of their seniority to the person they interact with.

The word仁has another unrelated meaning: it refers the kernel of an apricot pit or the flesh of a shrimp. Is it therefore, I wondered, the warm rich human core that lies inside the social shell, and acts as the principle of movement? 仁 cannot be deducted from external behaviour, as this long passage indicates:  “孟武伯问子路仁乎。子曰。不知也。又问。子曰。由也、千乘之国、可使治其赋也、不知其仁也。求也何如 子曰。求也、千室之邑、百乘之家、可使为之宰也、不知其仁也。赤也何如 子曰。赤也、束带立于朝、可使与宾客言也、不知其仁也。(Meng Wu Bo asked Confucius whether Zi Lu was a ren man. Confucius said, “I don’t know.” He asked again. Confucius said, “You could direct the public works forces in a state of 1, 000 chariots, but I don’t know if I would call him a ren man.” Meng again asked: “What about Qiu?” Confucius said, “Qiu could be the governor of a city of 1, 000 families, or of a clan of 100 chariots, but I don’t know if he is a ren man.” Meng asked: “What about Chi?” The Master said, “Dressed up with his sash, placed in the middle of the court, he could make conversation with the guests, but I don’t know if he is a ren man. Analects 5:8). Instead, it can be captured through patterns of subtle harmony that are experienced aesthetically: “里仁为美。” (As for a neighborhood, it is its ren that makes it beautiful. Analects 4:1) “人而不仁、如乐何” (If a man has no ren what can his music be like? Analects 3:3). In turn, the collective enjoyment of a world infused by 仁 can trigger a positive spiral where aesthetic refinement nurtured by 仁brings together people who, through their relationship, strengthen each other’s 仁: “君子以文会友。以友辅仁。” (The noble man uses his refinement to meet his friends, and through his friends develops his ren. Analects 12:24)

What mainly struck me when I read through the words Confucius was a seeming paradox inherent to the virtue. On the one hand, 仁 is presented as an always available option “仁远乎哉。我欲仁、斯仁至矣。”(Is ren far away? If I aspire for ren it is right here! Analects 7:30). And yet, we consistently fall short of it, and few can maintain it for any period of time: “囘也、其心三月不违仁、其余则日月至焉而已矣。” (Hui could keep his mind on ren for three months without lapse. Others are lucky if they can do it for one day out of a month. Analects 6:7).

In line with this observation, when I developed a practice that would help me cultivate 仁, I decided to focus on deliberate attention: at least once a day, when I found myself in a public setting, I would pause and think about my relationship with every person present. I would do this in two stages: first establish common humanity, then consider our respective status based on age, and how this should inform my behavior to each person around, should I interact with them.

The practice revealed a few things about myself. As a gay man, I noticed how skewed my attention is to people of different gender – and how little attention I spontaneously pay to women in public places: another confirmation of unconscious bias, and its rippling effects. As a 40 year-old, I noticed how time has passed, how most people are now slightly younger than me, and how I should therefore start adapting my default behaviour. I also noticed how solitary my professional life can be – how much of my time is spent ‘alone in company’ or even entirely on my own.

The practice was strangely transformative. When I was looking at people sitting or standing in a group – friends, families, co-workers – through this deliberate relational attention, I entirely stopped thinking of them as ‘another group’, a ‘them vs me’, but rather, each of them became part of a consistent human web that I also belonged in. Through the practice of仁, I feel that I was able to expand my circle of empathy: most likely by offering a simple framework that allowed me to think of my relationship with every other human as concretely defined by age – the length of time we spent alive, and how this determines a certain type of duty. This also made it more possible for me to see the world from the perspective of others, and in their company, feel a sense of calm and beauty.

All translations of the Chinese in this text are from Charles Muller