The Useless Tree

Tao Poem

      A reader sends in this poem, by Charles Wright, heard on this morning's Writer's Almanac, on NPR:

After Reading T'ao Ch'ing, I wander Untethered Through the Short Grass

Dry spring, no rain for five weeks.
Already the lush green begins to bow its head and sink to its
         knees.

Already the plucked stalks and thyroid weeds like insects
Fly up and trouble my line of sight.

I stand inside the word here
         As that word stands in its sentence,
Unshadowy, half at ease.

Religion's been in a ruin for over a thousand years.
Why shouldn't the sky be tatters,
         lost notes to forgotten songs?

I inhabit who I am, as T'ao Ch'ing says, and walk about
Under the mindless clouds.
         When it ends, it ends. What else?

One morning I'll leave home and never find my way back—
My story and I will disappear together, just like this.

 

Confucians Against The Great Wall

    I saw this story today (hat tip, CDT):

The Great Wall of China, built to withstand raiding hordes from the steppes, is now in peril from a far more insidious threat: sandstorms generated by desertification in the country's north-west.

The wall was built over several dynasties and despite its failure to prevent invasions, it has become a national symbol. Each dynasty favoured different construction methods, and a 40-mile section built during the Han dynasty, which used mostly packed earth bricks, is now being swept away.

The state news agency Xinhua has reported that sections of the wall are being turned into "mounds of dirt" by sandstorms, the after-effects of decades of agricultural malpractice.

 And I immediately thought that Confucius and Mencius would say: "good, let it go." 

      What is the Great Wall, after all, but an enormous military project?   And  Confucians are generally wary of military pursuits.  Remember what  Mencius said about Confucius:

It's clear from this that Confucius deplored anyone enriching a ruler who didn't practice Humane government.  And he deplored  even more people who waged war for such a ruler.  In wars for land, the dead crowd the countryside.  In wars for cities, the dead fill the streets.  This is called helping the land feed on human flesh.  Death is not punishment enough for such acts.

Hence, those who excel at war should receive the highest punishment.  Next come those who form the august lords into alliances.  And finally those who open up wild land hoping to increase profits. (132)

    Now, it might be argued that the Wall was primarily defensive and, as such, may have been acceptable to Confucians.  Perhaps.  It did keep the "bad guys" out, but it also provided a base from which some Chinese empires could extend their reach: its defensive purposes also served offensive ends at times.   Think of the great wall builder Qin Shi Huangdi.  He went to inhumane extremes to wall in his empire.  He was quite happy to sacrifice an untold number of people to defend his political power.  And it is just that sort of military-defensive attitude that runs counter to Confucianism.

     Better to let the wall crumble, to open China up to the world, so that humane practices can move freely across borders.  Confucius was not a nationalist, nor was Mencius.  They were moralists who had a universal outlook.  They were interested in civilization, not ethnic or national interests.  The Wall is all about conserving power for power's sake.   Why not be more confident in the free flowing power of humanity?

       Keep some small reconstructed portions of it as historical reminders.  But, for the rest, let it go - that is what Confucius and Mencius would likely say...

Mencius in a Beijing Courtroom

     There was something about this story, related by Roland (scroll down to "Beijing Courtroom Drama), that stuck with me from yesterday.  It is a sad tale of human pain and desperation:

In April 2005, the 6-year-old son of the Han family was strangled by the 13-year-old son of the Zhang family.  The court sent the murderer to three years of educational reform and also imposed more than 150,000 yuan in compensation from the Zhang family to the Han family. However, the Zhang family never paid a cent.  On November 25 last year, the mother of the dead boy poured acid on the eldest daughter of the Zhang     family.  At the court trial, the mother was sentenced to 13 years in prison and fined more than 360,000 yuan to the victim.

     The first thing that struck me was the differences in the sentences.  The thirteen year old had committed the more serious crime, murder (though we would need to know more about the circumstances to determine if it was, in fact, manslaughter), yet he received  a much lighter sentence (three years of "educational reform" and a fine) than the mother of the initial victim, whose brutal retribution, which, as bad as it was, was not murder, brought her 13 years in prison and a much more substantial fine.

     Clearly, the message here is that the Chinese legal system (and this is true for other legal systems as well) expects more from adults than from children.  However, the punishment for the 13 year-old might be considered a bit lenient.  After all, he committed the worst kind of crime and may have done so intentionally (that is what "murder" implies).  If it is true that he meant to kill the six year old, then something more than three years, or, at least, a higher fine for his family, might have been more just.  The apparent lightness of that sentence points to an underlying Mencian sympathy on the part of the court.  Think about this passage:

...Human nature is inherently good, just like water flows inherently downhill.  There's no such thing as a person who isn't good, just as there's no water that doesn't flow downhill.

Think about water: if you slap it, you can make it jump over your head; and if you push and shove, you can make it stay on a mountain.  But what does this have to do with the nature of water?  It's only responding to the forces around it.  It's like that for people too: you can make them evil, but that says nothing about human nature." (11.2)

    I imagine the judge was willing to give the 13 year old the benefit of the doubt, to believe that he could be rehabilitated, that the forces around him could be changed through education and he could be set back into the proper moral current, just like water.  His failure was a failure of those around him responsible for his moral education, primarily his parents.  That is why more of a fine, which would have created a continuing social responsibility for his parents to fulfill, might have been appropriate.  Or, perhaps (and I think Mencius might agree with this) some sort of community service for the parents: impel them to help repay the social debt their son had created.  Working in the local schools, perhaps.

      The failure of the murder's father is compounded, however, by his violation of his duty to atone for his son's actions.  In not paying the fine, he was avoiding his duty, not just his legal duty, but also his moral duty in taking responsibility for his son's education and his family's shame.  And in not fulfilling his duty he was destroying his own Humanity.  Mencius, again:

Without the heart of Humanity and Duty alive in us, how can we be human?  When we abandon this noble heart, it's like cutting those forests: a few axe blows each day, and pretty soon there's nothing left.  Then you can rest day and night, take in the clarity of morning's healing ch'i - but the values that make you human keep thinning away.  All day long, you're tangled in your life.  If these tangles keep up day after day, even the clarity of night's healing ch'i is not enough to preserve you.  And if the clarity of night's healing ch'i is not enough to preserve you, you aren't much different from an animal.  When people see you're like an animal, they think that's all the potential you have.  But does that mean this is the human constitution?

With proper sustenance, anything will grow; and without proper sustenance, anything will fade away.  Confucius said: "Embrace it and it endures.  Forsake it and it dies.  It comes and goes without warning, and no one knows its route."  He was speaking of the heart. (11.8)

     Mencius is defending here the innate goodness of human nature, even when considering immoral acts.  But his point about the possibility of losing one's "heart," or moral compass, applies to the Beijing court case.

     This is essentially what the murder's father allowed himself to become: a heartless person, losing his humanity.  As such, the the victim's mother's grief was exacerbated and she struck out against something that was dear to him, unfortunately choosing his innocent daughter.  That was obviously horrible.  She was losing her own heart of humanity in seeking to inflict the greatest pain possible on the father.  This is from the newspaper account:

During the proceedings, the Zhang father was glaring at the Han mother.  Afterwards, he wagged his finger at her and roared: "Do you have any humanity?  Why did you not come after me?  Why did you victimize my daughter?  Are you sorry now?"  She quivered as she said: "If the judge asked me if I am sorry, then I am sorry.  But if you ask me, then I will never be sorry!  I want you to look at your daughter every day and suffer the rest of your life!"

    Clearly, she should not have attacked the daughter.  But, I think Mencius might see mitigating circumstances here.  The Zhang father created, through his dereliction of Duty, the desperation of the Han mother.  His failure to provide sustenance for his heart diminished not only his Humanity, but also hers. 

      Thus, the sentence of 13 years and a hefty fine might be too harsh, from a Mencian point of view (this is not meant as a criticism of the local judge, who obviously had to apply the laws before her).   Better to give everyone a chance to return to the business of cultivating their hearts of humanity.

The Tao Diet

     Earlier this year, not long after my fiftieth birthday (my summer students seemed shocked when I told them I was born in 1957 - in the middle of the last century!), I went to the doctor for the usual check-up.  He did all of the usual things, and he told me my cholesterol and blood sugar levels were rising.  I had to do something about it.

       So, I imagined what a Taoist approach to this problem might be, and passage 12 of the Tao Te Ching came to mind:

The five colors blind eyes.
The five tones deafen ears.
The five tastes blur tongues.
Fast horses and breathtaking hunts make minds wild and crazy.
Things rare and expensive make people lose their way.

That's why a sage tends to the belly, not the eye,
always ignores that and chooses this.

   I take this as an admonition against excess.  All those flashy colors and sounds and tastes distract us from the natural unfolding of Way and our place in it.  We do not need fancy food, or fast cars, or luxuries to live out our Integrity (te).  "Tending to the belly" suggests providing basic necessities, as opposed to those things that please the "eye," extravagances.  This distinction applies to food as well.  "Belly" food would be just what we need to maintain ourselves; "eye" food would be more calories, more fat, more sugar, more everything than we really need.

     I kept that passage in mind (together with the reproof of "lavish food and drink" in passage 53) and I just stopped eating "eye" foods.  In my case, since diabetes runs in both sides of my family, sugar is especially dangerous.  Sugar - which is in so much of the processed food we eat - was fairly luxurious in the era of the Tao Te Ching (c. 5th-4th centuries BCE).  So, I took a hard line on it.  My mantra became "sugar is poison."  I also just stopped eating bread (bad type of carbohydrates) and butter (fat).  I kept away from other fats, and reduced my intake generally.   I increased whole grains and fish.

      Last week, I went back for a four month re-test.  And my doctor was most happy.  He reported that my cholesterol and blood sugar levels were significantly reduced.  It seems my Tao diet is working.  Of course, the trick is that it is not just a temporary thing.  This will be the way I eat from now on, if I want to keep my blood clean.  But that's all right.  I have lost twenty pounds and feel good.  I generally do not "practice" Taoism in physical ways (I don't meditate or do breathing exercises or the like); so, my new eating habits are the closest I have come to bodily "doing" Taoism.

      And, of course, I am inspired by Li Po, who found Way in wine.  Here's one from him:

Something Said, Waking Drunk, On A Spring Day

It's like boundless dream here in this
world, nothing anywhere to trouble us.

I have, therefore, been drunk all day,
a shambles of sleep on the front porch.

Coming to, I look into the courtyard.
There's a bird among blossoms calling,

and when I ask what season it is,
an oriole's voice drifts on spring winds.

Overcome, verging on sorrow and lament,
I pour another drink.  Soon awaiting

this bright moon, I'm chanting a song.
And now it's over, I've forgotten why.

        I won't be drunk all day, but I will have a gin and tonic and sushi for dinner tonight, in keeping with the Tao diet.

Sun Tzu on the Failure of the Generals

     Fred Kaplan has an article in yesterday's NYT Sunday Magazine, "Challenging the Generals," which follows up on the critique of US military leadership in Iraq put forward by Lt. Col. Paul Yingling. 

     The problem, it seems to me, is a failure of strategic vision.   Or, alternatively, a failure of creativity in linking tactics to strategy.  All of which is exacerbated by a failure of responsibility.  The war in Iraq has obviously gone badly for the US, especially from a strategic point of view.  But virtually no one has been held accountable, no one has been demoted or lost their job for the strategic flaws of US military operations.  In fact, the people who have been punished, and I am thinking especially of General Shinseki, are the ones who had the correct analysis at the outset.

      And this brings me to Sun Tzu.  He has much to say about military leadership, but I offer here a few points that seem especially relevant in light of Kaplan's and Yingling's arguments.

      At the very start of The Art of War, Sun Tzu identifies "command" as one of the five "fundamental factors:"

By command I mean the general's qualities of wisdom, sincerity, humanity, courage, and strictness. (1.7)

      Which is then explicated by the commentator Tu Mu:

...If wise, a commander is able to recognize changing circumstances and to act expediently.  If sincere, his men will have no doubt of the certainty of rewards and punishments.  If humane, he loves mankind, sympathizes with others, and appreciates their industry and toil.  If courageous, he gains victory by seizing opportunity without hesitation.  If strict, his troops are disciplined because they are in awe of him and afraid of punishment.

     The American inability to adapt flexibly to the changing battlefield of Iraq suggests failures of, in Sun Tzu's terms, wisdom and courage.  The latter might seem a bit harsh - there are certainly many acts of individual courage performed everyday by American military people in Iraq.  But Sun Tzu here seems to be invoking another sort of courage, the courage to act quickly in the face of changing circumstances, something that the bureaucratic behemoth that is the US military seems unable to do.  As Kaplan suggest, perhaps more courage could also be demonstrated by general officers in telling political leaders the truth, especially about the real numbers of troops it would take to occupy Iraq or the real effects the war is having on US military power more generally.

      Also, Kaplan's reporting, which suggests a growing lack of trust on the part of junior officers toward senior officers, points to a failure of what Sun Tzu calls sincerity.  Because they cannot be assured of their futures in the military, talented junior officers, Kaplan says, are opting out:

West Point cadets are obligated to stay in the Army for five years after graduating. In a typical year, about a quarter to a third of them decide not to sign on for another term. In 2003, when the class of 1998 faced that decision, only 18 percent quit the force: memories of 9/11 were still vivid; the war in Afghanistan seemed a success; and war in Iraq was under way. Duty called, and it seemed a good time to be an Army officer. But last year, when the 905 officers from the class of 2001 had to make their choice to stay or leave, 44 percent quit the Army. It was the service’s highest loss rate in three decades.

       This situation might reflect the failure of senior officers, the generals, to listen to and learn from the experiences of the junior officers.  Instead of adapting themselves to evolving circumstances, they are forcing the juniors to conform to their wishes, which pushes against this advice from Sun Tzu:

Therefore, a skilled commander seeks victory from the situation and does not demand it of his subordinates. (5.21)

     To which the commentator Ch'en Hao adds:

Experts in war depend especially on opportunity and expediency.  They do not place the burden of accomplishment on their men alone.

         And just in case we have missed this important point, Sun Tzu reminds us again:

He [the general] changes his methods and alters his plans so that people have no knowledge of what he is doing. (11.45)

     That seems to be the underlying problem: the generals are just out of touch and too slow to change.  Maybe they should get back to reading their copies of Sun Tzu!

Green Confucius

     A few weeks ago I posted a response to a piece from the blog Western Confucian which quoted Pan Yue, a Chinese environmental protection administrator, arguing that ancient Chinese philosophy is especially good in respecting the natural environment.  I expressed some skepticism at the basic assertion.  It was a hasty effort on my part and, in light of comments from readers, I need to develop the point further.   I am moved to do this today, finally, after being in and out of town over the past couple of weeks, by the big multimedia spread in the NYT today on China's environmental crisis.

     In my earlier post, I suggested that Confucianism would accept man's dominance of nature, based on the subordination of animals to social interests in the Analects.   I further stated that, if there were a contradiction between maintaining one's social duties and the environment, the former would win out over the latter.  If some trees had to be cleared to allow for farming, for example, to feed the family, the family would, by Confucian logic, win out over the trees.

     One of my commenters, JustSomeGuy, pushed back , reminding me that  Confucius had a strong personal  sense of environmental responsibility, as suggested in these two passages from the Analects:

"The Master fished with a line but not with a net; when shooting he did not aim at a resting bird."

"The Master said: 'To conduct the government of a state of a thousand chariots there must be religious attention to business and good faith, economy in expenditure and love of the people, and their employment on public works at the proper seasons.'"

 I think it is right to make these points, particularly in light of the horrendous air and water pollution that now plagues China.

     Indeed, I think it is true that Confucianism assumes a certain limitation on human dominance of the environment.  While the defense of social duties might be primary to environmental protection at the level of the family, the key problem these days, not just in China but every modern society, is a loss of proportion and balance.  A Confucian might focus criticism on the pursuit of profit.  The problem in China is not families doing what they must to enact duty and ritual; rather the problem is hyper-growth, fueled by coal, and aimed at high profits for Chinese and foreign businesses.  Profit has infected the relationship of man and environment and, ultimately, has undermined the ability of many Chinese people to protect their social relationships (think of all of the health problems that have harmed families as a result of pollution).

    I think my initial skepticism of the assertion that ancient Chinese philosophy is basically green was driven by two impulses: first, it seems too easy a claim.  Of course, in earlier times, before industrial pollution, Chinese and other ancient world-views, assumed that clean water and air would not be threatened.  The trade-offs between human activity and environmental degradation were not as stark, the costs not as high, as they are now. 

        But, secondly, I was also repelled by the source of the argument.  Although I respect Pan Yue and believe that he has done good work in warning about China's environmental degradation, I am always wary of nationalist uses of Chinese philosophy.  Few things are more harmful to the modern application of ancient Chinese thought than facile nationalist claims of the superiority of Chinese traditions.  Such efforts are often designed to bolster the legitimacy of current power holders and, thus, distort philosophy in the interest of political authority.  Confucianism and Taoism both hold within them strong critiques of authoritarian abuses of power, topics that defenders of the political status quo do not want to recognize.  But, even though we have to be on the lookout for such distortions, I was too quick in rejecting Pan's main point.

     In sum, then, I agree that there is a basic greenness at the heart of Confucianism.  If current leaders in China took Confucianism seriously (i.e. as something more than a legitimating device for their continued hold on power) they would recognize that the drive for profit is ruining their country, and the allure of vanity (all those Chinese consumers buying all those cars and things) and fetishism of commodities (a good, old Marxist idea!), are impelling the destruction of their environment.

    For more on this issue, see this piece by Mary Evelyn Tucker, as suggested by JustSomeGuy.

This Just In: Chuang Tzu Is Right!

     Today's NYT: Studies Report Inducing Out-of-Body Experience:

The research reveals that “the sense of having a body, of being in a bodily self,” is actually constructed from multiple sensory streams, said one expert on body and mind, Dr. Matthew M. Botvinick, an assistant professor of neuroscience at Princeton University.

 Chuang Tzu (32-33):

You might dream that you're drinking fine wine, then the next morning you're weeping and sobbing.  You might dream that you're weeping and sobbing, then the next morning you're out on a rollicking hunt. In the midst of a dream, we might even interpret the dream.  After we're awake, we know it was a dream - but only after a great awakening can we understand that all of this is a great dream [i.e. "constructed from multiple sensory streams"?].  Meanwhile, fools everywhere think they're wide awake.  They steal around as if they understood things, calling this a king and that a cowherd.  It's incredible!

Confucius is a dream, and you are a dream.  And when I say you're both dreams, I too am a dream.  People might call such talk a sad and cryptic ruse.  But ten thousand generations from now, we'll meet a great sage who understands these things.  And when that happens, it will seem like tomorrow.

Oh, And By The Way...Bush Lost The War

     I have read a bit of the commentary on Bush's bizarre Iraq-Vietnam comparison speech.  It strikes me as bizarre because opening up this line of comparison can only work against Bush's desire to stay in Iraq.  He is equating Iraq with defeat - since, after all, Vietnam was a defeat for the US (I know, we never lost a military battle, etc.  But, just as in Iraq, that is irrelevant to the all important Clausewitzian political context).  He brought Japan (a win) and Korea (a draw) into the conversation, but in all cases the differences just overwhelm the similarities.  Iraq is not Japan, which had an intact and functioning government and bureaucracy - indeed, an extraordinarily effective bureaucracy - in 1945.  Iraq is not Korea, which, like Japan, was not riven by ethnic differences in 1953.  Yes, it was quite literally divided ideologically, but that was a political-military outcome; it was not rooted in culture and religion.  Iraq is not Vietnam, which had a famously strong and unified national identity, something Iraq obviously lacks.  It might even be true that there is no more Iraq.

     If the actual historical comparisons are so weak, why is Bush bothering to invoke them?  I found this comment by a reader of Andrew Sullivan's to be helpful:

That's what Bush was doing yesterday. Building an alibi. Blame the detractors for the negative externalities of my war and then get off the hook for blowing it.

     This is not about effective strategy or tactics.  It is not about what is really going on in Iraq.  It is all about trying to salvage some shred of political dignity for those responsible for starting and failing at an unnecessary war.  I don't have my Sun Tzu here with me just now but I am sure he would be appalled.  Just like Confucius he would expect, at the very least, that a leader be truthful to himself and to those he rules.  Neither has been the case, ever, with Bush.

      Bush lost the war.

Chinese Solutions to the Religion Problem

     Mark Lilla's article in last Sunday's NYT Magazine has been circling through my mind all week.  While he does a great job explicating the ways in which modernization does not fully eradicate our tendency toward religion, which he refers to as "theotropism," the overall analysis of what I will call here the problem of religion would be stronger if it included some reference to ancient Chinese philosophical perspectives.

     First, let me say what I mean by the "problem of religion."  I do not mean to suggest that religion is only or always simply a problem.  Obviously, many, many people find meaning and solace in one or another form of religion.  The problem comes when religious ideas, especially the notion of an omniscient and singular God figure as an ultimate source of truth and meaning, inspire absolutist and fundamentalist ideologies, just as Lilla suggests.  He describes the problem right at the start of his piece:

The twilight of the idols has been postponed. For more than two centuries, from the American and French Revolutions to the collapse of Soviet Communism, world politics revolved around eminently political problems. War and revolution, class and social justice, race and national identity — these were the questions that divided us. Today, we have progressed to the point where our problems again resemble those of the 16th century, as we find ourselves entangled in conflicts over competing revelations, dogmatic purity and divine duty. We in the West are disturbed and confused. Though we have our own fundamentalists, we find it incomprehensible that theological ideas still stir up messianic passions, leaving societies in ruin. We had assumed this was no longer possible, that human beings had learned to separate religious questions from political ones, that fanaticism was dead. We were wrong.

     The big problem arises when fundamentalist religious thinking impels people to kill one another - and we have seen too much of that historically.  It should be said that religion is not the only instigator of mass violence; rather, Lilla focuses only on the problem as it relates to religion.

       Perhaps the best part of the article is his point that, counter to the expectations of "Modernization Theory" (which I was force fed in graduate school), religion does not simply disappear as industrialization and social mobilization and urbanization and scientific rationalization proceed.  Yes, religion may become more constrained in its intellectuals claims but it continues to fill a significant portion of the human imagination.  In this regard, the highly religious US is not an exception to some historical rule, but, rather, less religious Europe may be.

     In any event, the problem becomes one of managing the absolutist claims of religious thinking with the diversity and need for compromise in open, modern, liberal societies.  The threat comes from both without, in the form of Islamic and other fundamentalisms, and from within, in the form of rigid, anti-science, religion-inspired extremism in US society.  Again, I am not saying all believers are extremists, but that that forms of religious extremism do pose problems for liberal society.

      So what is the answer?  Lilla doesn't really have one.  He knows what won't work: continued blind faith(!) in the ultimate power of modernization to undermine religious belief.  Ignoring the problem, and hoping for some grand historical transformation, just doesn't get the job done.  He hopes for reformation from within religious communities in the direction of greater openness; and for a greater tolerance among secularists toward their religious brethren.  And all of this is nested in a well informed explication of Western political theory. 

      But where are the Chinese?  When we introduce ancient Chinese thought into this conversation, things start to take on a different look.   Consider Lilla's brief paragraph on the origins of religion:

Imagine human beings who first become aware of themselves in a world not of their own making. Their world has unknown origins and behaves in a regular fashion, so they wonder why that is. They know that the things they themselves fashion behave in a predictable manner because they conceive and construct them with some end in mind. They stretch the bow, the arrow flies; that is why they were made. So, by analogy, it is not difficult for them to assume that the cosmic order was constructed for a purpose, reflecting its maker’s will. By following this analogy, they begin to have ideas about that maker, about his intentions and therefore about his personality.

         In the Shang dynasty something like a singular God figure, Shangdi, was worshiped and understood as a creator or sorts.  But this image was abandoned during the Zhou (Chou) dynasty, largely for political reasons: a new regime could not claim descent from the father-god of the previous regime and needed a new basis of legitimation; and so was born a more diffuse and fatalistic notion of tian, "heaven."  This was a long and complex process but it ultimately yielded a cosmology that did not rely upon a centralized, absolute, singular source of truth and meaning in the form of a monotheistic God.   Here is Mote's description (which I tend to call upon too much, I know):

The basic point which outsiders have found so hard to detect is that the Chinese, among all peoples ancient and recent, primitive and modern, are apparently unique in having no creation myth, that is, they have regarded the world and humans as uncreated, as constituting the central features of a spontaneously self-generating cosmos having no creator, god, ultimate cause or will external to itself. (13)

     I cannot vouch for the historical uniqueness of this orientation, but its significance to Lilla's discussion is obvious: the Chinese, or at least some Chinese, did not seize upon religion, as conventionally defined, as the answer to the big existential questions they faced.

       Pre-Qin Confucians just did not go there. The famous "silences" of Confucius included the afterlife and metaphysics.  He did not want to engage in such issues because he obviously felt that there was enough in the human realm that needed fixing.  For him, patterns in nature and questions of origins were best understood as they were mediated by immediate social networks and relationships.  Our place in the world, and by extension the cosmos, was determined by our more direct connections to families and friends and communities.  Improving ourselves in those contexts demanded a great deal of effort, and that is where our attention should be focused.

Adept Kung said: "When the Master talks about civility and cultivation, you can hear what he says.  But when he talks about the nature of things and the Way of Heaven, you can't hear a word." (5.12)      

     If early Confucians (and I say "early" because later neo-Confucian variations might change things) wanted to get all cosmological, they could always talk with the Taoists.

      In a way, Taoists are the precise opposite of Confucians on cosmology: instead of narrowing things down to immediate and tangible human concern, they broaden things out to a vast and incomprehensible Way.  Chaung Tzu tells us that Way is beyond us, yet right in front of us:

The Tao [Way] has its own nature and its own reliability: it does nothing and it has no form. It can be passed on, but never received and held. You can master it, but you can’t see it. Its own source, its own root – it was there before heaven and earth, firm and constant from ancient times. It makes gods and demons sacred, gives birth to heaven and earth. It’s above the absolute pole, but is not high. It’s below the six directions, but is not deep. It predates the birth of heaven and earth, but is not ancient. It precedes high antiquity, but is not old. (87)

     Instead of the certainty of a singular source of truth, Taoism asks us to open ourselves to the multiplicity and vastness of Way.   There may be a kind of "order" to Way, but it is not an order that we can define concretely or apprehend completely.  Instead of searching for neat answers, we just have to accept our inability to comprehend Way.  Surrender as opposed to mastery is called for.

      Now, a couple of things might follow from this Chinese difference.  I offer these ideas as suggestions, and look forward to responses:

   1) Ancient Chinese cosmology (and I do not mean to suggest that this has carried over without change into modern Chinese thinking) might inspire more human humility than hubris.  There are big, cosmic forces beyond our control and understanding, so we should always understand ourselves as small and weak elements in a larger Way (I think this is still consonant with Confucian sensibilities).  And, if that is true, then, perhaps, this orientation  offers a unique solution to the problem Lilla outlines.  The point is not to give up religion, but, rather, to expand our religious horizons beyond absolutist monotheism.   Maybe there is room for a God-like figure in ancient Chinese cosmology: but he would not take up all the room at the top.  He, too, is surrounded by the vastness of Way and his powers might not rise to the level of omnipotent: only Way, which cannot be reduced to a God figure, is that.   Our spiritualism, in other words, could be more open-ended and less anthropomorphic.

   2)  It must be noted that, even if it is true that ancient Chinese cosmology  encourages more humility than hubris (and maybe that is why we do not find many modern Chinese terrorists today!), this did not prevent mass violence from happening in ancient China.  It was, after all, the Warring States period.  And this reminds us that the problems of brutality and intolerance  are not peculiar to religion.   These phenomena may take certain religious forms, but religion is not their only source or avenue.

Arthur Miller's Irresponsibility

     It seems (hat tip John and Laura) and that the famous US playwright,  Arthur Miller, produced and passed on the sperm (I will not use the verb "fathered") that helped to create a son, Daniel, who had Down Syndrome.  This was back in 1966.  Miller did the wrong thing - he immediately rejected the boy, had him separated from his family and institutionalized, and basically denied his existence for most of his life.  This was not one wrong decision, but a life time of fundamental inhumanity.  Miller was no father to his son.

     In thinking about how to judge these actions, Confucianism comes immediately to my mind.  From that perspective the error is clear.  We forge our personal humanity by committing ourselves to and cultivating our closest loving relationships, especially those involving our family.  When we fail in those duties we diminish ourselves.  Miller, then, is unworthy of our respect, even if he created some of the greatest works of dramatic art in 20th century America.  His artistic accomplishments, however much they might contribute to the moral uplift of society at large, cannot be used to justify his failure in his primary duty to Daniel.  Indeed, his morally blind pursuit of personal artistic achievement ultimately destroyed his humanity.  He stands now as an exemplar of inhumanity.

       That, in any case, is the Confucian critique.  But let's push back a bit.  Might there have been acceptable mitigating circumstances that may soften this condemnation?

      What of the counterargument that he had to institutionalize Daniel in order to keep the family together, to better provide for his daughter and his wife?  Perhaps.  But this claim only goes so far.  It would have some force if Miller's socio-economic circumstances were such that the time and money needed to care for Daniel were unavailable.  Of course, this was most likely not the case for Miller in 1966.  He was famous and, I suppose, fairly well off.  He had medical insurance.  He could have used his fame to advance the cause of gaining access to public education for disabled people.  He could have hired therapists and social workers to provide for Daniel and offer respite for the family.  In short, he had the resources to care for Daniel at home without undermining the rest of the family.  It may have been an emotional strain, but that is not sufficient reason to completely deny and exclude Daniel. 

       Indeed, the case is worse for Miller when we keep in mind that his wife wanted to raise the child at home.  Thus, added to his rejection of his son, we have his obstruction of his wife's impulse toward humanity. 

      Also, Daniel's presence in the home would have had beneficial effects on his sister.  Although there are various studies that tell us how difficult it is to be a sibling of a disabled brother or sister, those effects, it seems to me, are often the result of parents not finding a workable balance between time spent with the disabled child and time spent with the typical child.  This is a manageable situation.  It may have been scary to contemplate in 1966 (it seems to me we know much better now the positive effects of disabled people in home and society), but fear, to my mind, is also insufficient as a justification for what Miller did to Daniel.

      What is most striking and depressing about all of this is the absolute quality of Miller's rejection of Daniel.  He had almost no contact with him for years and years; he never acknowledged publicly Daniel's existence.  The denial ran very, very deep.  It did not have to.  Let's say that Miller, for some emotional reason, was truly unable to face the fact of Daniel's presence in his life. Institutionalizing the boy might then have been justifiable, if, and I want to emphasize this "if," Miller had participated in his care.  If Daniel lived at some nearby "home" for disabled children and if Miller and his wife (and his daughter) went there regularly to be a part of Daniel's life, then, no doubt, Miller would have come to learn that his own fears and prejudices toward Down Syndrome were misplaced.  Daniel may have received better education and therapy, he may then have been able to communicate more effectively and Miller then would have discovered the intellect and wit and humanity that Daniel possesses.  In other words, if he had tried to do something significant with his son, if he had opened himself to learn from the circumstances, he would have grown in his own humanity.   But he chose not to.  He didn't even try.

      I will not speculate further on why Miller failed as he did.  But it will be hard to watch Willy Loman again and not wonder to whom attention must be paid...