at fifty I understood my place in the vast scheme of things; at sixty I learned to give up arguing; and now at seventy I can do whatever I like without disrupting my life.’ How much of this is genuine spiritual autobiography, and how much is Confucius’s variant on traditional wisdom concerning the ‘ages of man’, it’s difficult to say. Either way, it contains little of personal particularity – or what the modern reader would consider a ‘life’.
Apart from Confucius’s self-proclaimed love of learning, little is known of his early years. Little, that is, apart from the usual collection of unlikely stories that accumulate around any such transcendent figure (birds charmed from the trees, an uncle’s favourite dog brought back to life, comets, etc.). By now the six-hundred-year-old Chou dynasty, which had brought civilisation to China, was beginning to fall apart. This was a feudal period, with vassal city states switching allegiances and going to war almost at will. The warlords lived as warlords have always lived (massacre, famine, orgy), and the rest of the population merely made up the numbers so that their masters would not be reduced to less populous activities (murder, starvation, depravity).
Human misery was rife, on the traditional oriental scale – not witnessed since the Communist revolution, which nonetheless managed to retain a few of the traditional miseries. This grounding in everyday horrors had a profound effect upon young Confucius. It was to give a toughness and practicality to his thinking, which it seldom lost. Confucius quickly saw that if such untold suffering was to cease, the whole notion of society would have to change. A society ought to work for the benefit of all its members rather than be used merely as a pretext for the excesses of its rulers. Confucius was the first to formulate this oft-ignored cliché. Not until two hundred years later did the ancient Greeks start discussing this point. But because they discussed it, they quickly developed a sophisticated abstract notion of justice. Confucius didn’t have the opportunity to discuss such matters during his formative years, so his thoughts remained practical. He decided that the notion of society would have to change, but not society itself. The ruler must rule and the administrator carry out his duties, as surely as the father must be a father to his son. The revolution he eventually taught was one of attitude and behaviour. We must each strive to fulfil our role as virtuously as possible.
But Confucius did make pronouncements on this and related subjects which allowed his followers much room for interpretation. For example: ‘If a theory spreads, it is because heaven wills it.’ ‘It is difficult to be a ruler, yet it is not easy to be a subject either.’ ‘Men of integrity do things differently.’ ‘Not to act when justice commands, is cowardice.’
This wide, quasi-cohesive lack of logic that characterised Confucius’s teaching was to prove Confucianism’s great strength. In the end you could never prove it entirely wrong, and if you looked hard enough you could find something in it to prove almost anything right. Confucianism was to share this strength with the Bible as well as the sacred texts of most lasting creeds.
At eighteen Confucius married and had a son called Lieu, which means ‘large carp’. (Lieu was to prove a disappointment to his illustrious father, and never became the big fish Confucius had hoped for.) Confucius was poor, and to make ends meet he took on a number of jobs, including clerk in a granary store and zookeeper to a menagerie of sacred animals. In his spare time he studied history, music, and liturgy, quickly gaining a reputation as the most learned man in Lu. Confucius was ambitious. He hoped to achieve a high position in the administration so that he could put his ideas into practice. Not surprisingly, the fun-loving rulers had no wish to employ such a spoilsport to run their domains, and Confucius’s applications never got beyond the interview stage. (Confucius was an earnest young man who believed in sharing his vast learning with the world: not a great technique for job interviews.) Then, as now, people who couldn’t get a job in their chosen field often ended up teaching it. The state of Lu boasted a number of schools teaching court etiquette and ritual to prospective courtiers. These schools were usually staffed by former courtiers who had an expert knowledge of intricate court observances but had lost their job owing to some inadvertent gaffe – which may also have caused them to lose some intimate possessions even more valued than their salary. Confucius decided to set up a school with a difference: he would instruct political administrators on how to rule.
Fortunately Confucius had an engaging and inspiring personality: no questions were asked about his qualifications, and he soon began attracting pupils. His school appears to have been very similar to those developed by the ancient Greek philosophers during the following centuries. The atmosphere was informal. The master conversed with his pupils, sometimes on foot, sometimes sitting under the shade of a tree. Occasionally the master would deliver a set-piece lecture, but mostly lessons consisted of question-and-answer sessions.
The master’s replies were often in the form of homilies. ‘If you lead an untrained army into battle, you throw it away.’ ‘The superior man is sparing in words, but not in deeds.’ ‘If you don’t change your faults, you become even more faulty.’ These remarks must have appeared almost as banal 2,500 years ago as they do today. Yet we are told that Confucius didn’t suffer fools gladly. ‘If I indicate one corner of a subject, and the pupil cannot work out the other three for himself, I send him away.’ There was no room for poltroons or polygons in Confucius’s school. He usually had about two dozen pupils, ranging from princes to paupers. The sayings of Confucius that have come down to us are not all banal – some are contentious, others opaque or enigmatic, and a number are profound. (‘Anyone who does not know the value of words will never understand men.’ ‘The full life seeks what is in itself, the empty life seeks what appears in others.’) His remarks are said to contain the occasional bit of quiet oriental humour, but this remains beyond the sonic range of most occidental ears.
Confucius was essentially a moral teacher. He was always sincere and distrusted eloquence. His aim was to teach his pupils how to behave properly. If they wished to rule people, they must first learn how to rule themselves. But the very core of his teaching has a familiar ring: virtue means to love one another. This, humanity’s most profound moral sentiment, was articulated by Confucius more than five hundred years before the birth of Christ. Yet it was not intended as a religious principle. Confucius may have founded a religion (Confucianism), but his teachings were not religious per se. Nor, in fact, was his religion – and this Chinese puzzle has certainly contributed to its longevity.
There is yet another twist to this paradox. Confucius’s teachings may not have been religious, but he himself was. Or appeared to be. Mostly. On other occasions he was evasive. His sayings on this matter range from the fulsome to the enigmatic. How much either of these attitudes was dictated by expediency or political necessity we will never know.
Confucius appears to have believed that the universe contains a power for the good – which some may regard as faith of the highest order, there being no observed evidence whatsoever to support such optimism. Confucius praised the virtuous man who lived in awe of heaven, but he considered most religious practices of his age to be superstitious nonsense. On the other hand, he delighted in ritual and saw its effects as highly beneficial.
In this, as in much else, Confucius bears a striking resemblance to Socrates. Indeed, more than one great orientalist has likened Confucius to a Socratic Christ. (As well as vilifying three of history’s greatest figures, this flabby calumny contains the usual irritating pearl of truth.)
The key element of Confucius’s teachings was symbolised by the Chinese character jen. This stood for a conceptual blend of magnanimity, virtue, and love of humanity. It bears a close proximity to the Christian notion of compassion and loving-kindness. (Jen is also said to have put the Zen into Zen Buddhism, though this took place several centuries after the death of Confucius.) Along with jen, Confucius’s teachings stress the complementary qualities of te (virtue) and yi (righteousness). In everyday life he stressed the need for li (decorum) and observance of traditional rites. But observance had to be a meaningful participation; when it became mere formality this reflected a spiritual malaise, both in the individual
