"Why Be Moral?" and Other Matters: Reply to Liu, Tiwald, and Yu Yong Huang Philosophy East and West, Volume 69, Number 1, January 2019, pp. 295-310 (Article) Published by University of Hawai'i Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/pew.2019.0013 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/724182 Access provided at 29 May 2019 05:40 GMT from Chinese University of Hong Kong 2 – For a comparative study of this Confucian ethical concept, please see Yu and Göbel forthcoming. References Cheng Hao 程顥 and Cheng Yi 程頤. 1981. Er Cheng ji 二程集 (Collected works of the two Chengs). 4 vols. Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju. Huang, Yong. 2014. Why Be Moral? Learning from the Neo-Confucian Cheng Brothers. Albany: State University of New York Press. Johnston, Ian, and Wang Ping, trans. and annot. 2012. Daxue and Zhongyong. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Lau, D. C. trans. 1984. Mencius. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. ———. 1992. Confucius: The Analects (Lun yü). Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Yu, Kam-por, and Marie Göbel. Forthcoming. “Living up to One’s Share: A Comparison between a ‘Western’ Concept of Human Rights and the Chinese Ethical Concept of Fen.” In Human Dignity in Philosophy and Applied Ethics: China and the West, edited by Gerhard Bos, Dascha Düring, Marcus Düwell, Li Jianhui, and Wang Xiaowei. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Yu, Kam-por, and Julia Tao. 2012. “Confucianism.” In Encyclopedia of Applied Ethics, 2nd ed., 4 vols., vol. 1, edited by Ruth Chadwick, pp. 578–586. San Diego: Academic Press. “WHY BE MORAL?” AND OTHER MATTERS: REPLY TO LIU, TIWALD, AND YU Yong Huang Department of Philosophy, Chinese University of Hong Kong yonghuang@cuhk.edu.hk I would like to start by expressing my gratitude to Chenyang Li for proposing, organizing, and arranging the publication of this symposium discussion of my book, Why Be Moral? Learning from the Neo-Confucian Cheng Brothers. I would also like to thank Jeeloo Liu, Justin Tiwald, and Kam-por Yu for their serious engagements with my work with stimulating and inspiring comments. As they seem to me so persuasive, at the end of the day I would perhaps have to embrace a wholesale acceptance of their Philosophy East & West Volume 69, Number 1 January 2019 295–310 © 2019 by University of Hawai‘i Press 295 constructive criticisms and abandon what I have said to the contrary in the book. In the following, however, I shall try my best to reply to some of the questions raised in their comments. Why Be Moral? All three commentators raise questions about my discussion of the question “why be moral,” and Tiwald’s comment is focused exclusively on this issue. The first question, raised by Yu, is about whether the joy in being moral is enough to motivate a person to be moral. On the one hand, he argues that I cannot claim that “there is joy in being moral.” This is because the joys that come from immorality can be more numerous and diversified, and together they can outweigh the joy that is singularly the greatest. My reply is that, for the Cheng brothers, one ought to seek joy in being moral instead of joy in being immoral not because the former is greater or stronger in degree than the latter, even though it may indeed be the case. Instead, it is because moral joy is the right kind of joy in the sense that it is one characteristic of humans. It is in this context that I highlight the Cheng brothers’ distinctions between superior humans and inferior humans and that between humans and animals (Huang 2014, pp. 25–26). On the other hand, Yu argues that it is not the case that “a moral person can always have a net joy in being moral, even if it is granted that alternatives other than what is moral will only bring greater pain.” Clearly Yu has moral dilemmas in mind here in which one’s action has mixed aspects: while bringing great benefit to some people, it also causes significant harm to others. Seeing the former, one feels joy, while seeing the latter, one feels pain. However, as long as this action is characterized as a moral one and the dilemma is resolvable, as it is in Yu’s case, the answer to his question, “can the joy be greater than the pain?” must be affirmative. Another way of looking at it is that, as a corollary of what we say about joy, one is also motivated to act to avoid pain. In resolving a moral dilemma, a virtuous person in taking either course of action will feel some pain and so eventually will be motivated by the desire to avoid the greater pain. My discussion thus far can also be used to respond to the second question: whether or not the Chengs’ answer to the question is satisfactory after all. Liu claims that the Chengs’ answer, “in a nutshell, is that I should be moral because I can find joy in being moral,” and then she claims that “this answer . . . is not really satisfactory,” as “not everyone will find joy in being moral.” As I have just said, the Chengs’ answer to the question why be moral is not simply that I can find joy in being moral but that only in being moral can I find a uniquely human joy; moreover, while it is true that not everyone does find joy in being moral, everyone can and should find joy in being moral. This is because, to borrow from David Wong, to have 296 Philosophy East & West joy in being moral is internal to human nature, even if it is not always internal to every individual as a matter of fact (Wong 2006, p. 196). Here is a good place to discuss the third question: whether it is more profitable to compare the Chengs’ answer with Aristotle’s or with Hume’s. Tiwald perceptively notices an important difference between Aristotle and Mill. For Aristotle, we should prefer the distinctively human pleasure precisely because it is distinctively human; for Mill, the reason we should prize a distinctively human pleasure is not that it is a distinctively human pleasure but because this pleasure has higher intrinsic value. In terms of this difference, while I think that the Cheng brothers’ approach is more similar to Aristotle’s, Tiwald claims that it is closer to Mill’s. He argues that “just because they [the Chengs] see ‘being human’ as good, it doesn’t entail that it’s good under that description, nor does it follow that we are motivated to be human, rather than, say, to partake of certain relationships that are to be valued for their own sake and just so happen to be human.” Tiwald may be right, but I think there is one thing that needs clarification. It is perhaps more appropriate to say that, for the Chengs, it is better to be a nondefective human being or we should be motivated to be a non-defective human than merely to say that it is good to be human or we ought to be motivated to be human. Whether we are human or not is not something that we can choose. It is a fact that we are human, and since we are human it is good to be non-defective, or genuine, or characteristically human. In order to be so, we need to seek the distinctively human joys, whatever they are. If there is a type of joy that, according to Mill’s standard, is even higher than and yet inconsistent with the uniquely human joys, it does not mean that humans should abandon the uniquely human joys to seek this higher joy, if at all possible (we know that animals cannot abandon their unique joy to seek what Mill regards as the higher level of human joy), as they would no longer be human beings anymore. In this context, it is also appropriate to respond to the fourth and fifth questions. The fourth question is about whether joy is regarded here as an end state or end goal. Liu claims that either way there is a problem, in one case the problem of tautology and in another the problem of self-contradiction. On the one hand, if we regard it as a goal and make an effort to reach it, then we will not reach it, since joy is effortless; on the other hand, if it is a state, then only those who are in this state can be in this state, which is tautological. Liu’s main concern is that people who are not virtuous still have to make an effort to be moral, but when they make an effort to be moral, they will not find joy. This is perhaps what Edward Slingerland calls the paradox of wuwei (Slingerland 2014). However paradoxical it may sound, though, we have to try to not try. When we try, of course, we will not reach the goal of not trying, but if we keep trying, sooner or later we will realize that we will not need to try, as we will act naturally, spontaneously, and, yes, joyfully. Yong Huang 297 The fifth question is about how to factor joy into a moral agent’s motivational set. In Tiwald’s view, for the Chengs, joy cannot be a direct object or goal as if one’s explicit aim is to experience moral joy, which motivates one to act. Instead, Tiwald thinks that, for the Chengs, we should be motivated by being moral, with a joy derived from our being moral as a by-product. I have two doubts about this. First, it makes the Cheng brothers look more like Kantian deontologists than Aristotelian virtue ethicists. What is important is being moral, not joy in being moral. However, I do think that the Cheng brothers are more like virtue ethicists than deontologists, if we have to use such labels in Western philosophy. Moreover, as I have tried to argue in the book, it is more important, not only to the agent but also to the patient, that one find joy in being moral, not merely that one be moral. Second, Tiwald separates having joy from being moral, which seems to me problematic. If being moral is intrinsically joyful, and genuine human joy consists of being moral, then joy in being moral is one single thing, and it is inappropriate to say that being moral should be the direct motivational power while seeking joy is an indirect motivational power or a by-product. Suppose that one feels thirsty and would like to drink water. Can we say that one’s direct motivational power is to drink the water, with the thirst being quenched, and thus some kind of joy being derived therefrom, as an indirect motivational power or by-product? I don’t think so. One’s motivational power is to quench one’s thirst in drinking water. Similarly, a virtuous person’s motivational power is to have joy in being moral. Just as a thirsty person can quench the thirst only in drinking water, a virtuous person can seek [the uniquely human] joy only in being moral. While this fifth question is about motivating reasons to be moral, the final question that I want to answer is about whether the Chengs’ answer at least also concerns justifying reasons for being moral. Tiwald complains that I dismiss this aspect of the question too quickly. One may of course regard the question “why be moral” as about justifying reasons for being moral. However, on the one hand, the question “why be moral” that I’m specifically tackling in the book is the question raised by such egoists as people with Gyges’ rings in Plato, irresponsible fools in Hobbes, and insensible knaves in Hume. Such egoists don’t lack justifying reasons. On the other hand, as a moral reason internalist in the sense that Bernard Williams defines it (Williams 1982, chap. 8), I even wonder whether the very concept of justifying reason makes any sense. According to moral reason externalism, there can be a reason for a person to act even if the reason does not motivate the person to act or, in other words, does not serve any element in the person’s subjective motivational set. Such a reason is regarded as justifying reason in contrast to motivating reason. However, according to moral reason internalism, the only reason that a person can have for action is the reason that motivates the person to act, that is, the motivating reason. The person who asks the question why be moral is a person who 298 Philosophy East & West lacks reasons to be moral, and the reasons he or she lacks are motivating reasons. Now it might be said that if we adopt the internalist account of reasons for action, then if people lack motivating reason to act, there is not much that we can do with them in terms of reasoning. This is indeed true. When people are not motivated to be moral, it is futile, at least from the internalist point of view, to try to motivate them to be moral through reasoning. However, this does not mean that, as Liu thinks, the only option left for us is “to stoop down to their level to find out what makes them ‘tick.’” What we need here is some non-reasoning mechanisms to help them acquire some new members in their subjective motivational set, which can only be served by their being moral. Williams mentions one example of such a mechanism: the moving rhetoric (Williams 1982, p. 108). Stephen Darwall uses the example of watching a movie, which, in my (though not in Darwall’s own) view, is a case of sentimental education, instead of moral reasoning (Darwall 1983, pp. 39–40). In the Confucian tradition, moral reasoning per se is hardly used as a way of moral education. Instead, it also values sentimentalist moral education, which is crystallized in the famous nine-character saying in the Analects, to the effect that one’s becoming moral is stimulated by poetry, established by ritual, and completed by music (Analects 8.8). In addition, Confucianism also puts great emphasis on moral exemplars in moral education. If this is the case, however, it might be further asked: what have I been doing after all, in the long chapter on “why be moral,” since obviously I am not using any of the above-mentioned non-reasoning mechanisms to try to inculcate any desires to be moral into the brains of people who are not motivated to be moral? Here I would like to follow Williams in claiming that the internalist account of reasons for action is not merely about the descriptive explanation of people’s (motivation for) actions but also about the normative rationality of such actions. If it is merely about explanation, then there is indeed not much that an internalist can do with reasoning. If a person acts, we just need to explain why he or she acts, that is, what motivates the person to act; if a person does not act, then obviously the person lacks the relevant motivating reasons. However, in Williams’ view, a person may act without a motivating reason due to certain forms of irrationality. To illustrate, he uses an example of a person who desires to drink alcohol, which motivates him to drink the liquid in a bottle labeled “alcohol,” without knowing that the liquid is gasoline (Williams 1982, p. 102). In this case, an internalist can and indeed should say that this person does not have the motivating reason to drink the liquid even if he did drink it, as his desire to drink alcohol is not, and cannot be, satisfied by drinking the liquid, which he mistakes to be alcohol. What I’m trying to do in the chapter on why be moral is basically the opposite: a person may fail to act even if the person has sufficient motivating Yong Huang 299 reasons to act. To reverse Williams’ example as an analogy, we may say a person desires to drink water, which, however, does not motivate the person to drink the liquid in front of him, water put in a (let’s assume, cleaned) gasoline container. In this case, we can say that the person has the motivating reason to drink the liquid even if he does not do so because he is misled to think that it is gasoline. Here, what is needed is to show the person that the liquid is indeed water and not gasoline, despite the fact that it is in a gasoline container, and drinking it will serve one of his existing desires: to drink water. Part of what I try to accomplish in the chapter is similar. At least some of those who ask the question of why be moral actually do have motivating reasons to be moral. In other words, they do have desires in their subjective motivational set that can be served by being moral, although they don’t know that being moral can serve the desires they have or that they may not be clearly aware that they have such desires that can be served by being moral. Of course, I don’t have the fancy that every egoist who has read the chapter, if they care to read it in the first place, will become moral, because many of them indeed don’t have motivating reasons to be moral. Other Philosophical Matters Is Virtue Ethics Self-Centered? In her comment, Liu also raises a number of other questions of a philosophical nature. Here I shall address two that she develops more fully. In the third chapter of my book, I discuss the self-centeredness objection to virtue ethics on three distinct levels. While Liu touches all three, it is clear that her main doubt is cast on my construing the Chengs’ answer to the selfcenteredness objection on the third or the fundamental level, the objection raised by Thomas Hurka: a virtuous person’s concern with others for their sake is ultimately for his or her own sake. Liu’s complaint about my discussion in this part is that I tried to respond to an objection wrongly posed to virtue ethics; since this objection itself is wrongly posed, my response to the objection actually proves instead of refuting what the objection says about virtue ethics: it is self-centered. In any case, Liu believes that what is really involved here is the issue of action guidance, and she considers two possible answers that a virtue ethicist might proffer: VE 1. In encountering a moral dilemma, among various options available to one, one ought to choose the option that would enhance one’s moral virtue or build one’s moral character. VE 2. In encountering a moral dilemma, among various options available to one, one ought to act in the way that a virtuous agent would have acted. 300 Philosophy East & West I would like to quickly dismiss two misunderstandings in Liu’s formulations: the issue we are dealing with here is neither about moral dilemmas nor about action guidance. It is rather about reasons for action; it is not about what to do but about why one should do it. One way to see the real issue here more clearly is to make a simple contrast among deontology, consequentialism, and virtue ethics. Although they are very different normative theories, in most cases they provide the same action guidance. For example, all three will generally ask you to help people in need when you can. However, the reasons they provide for such an action are typically different. Deontology would say that this is your duty; a utilitarian would say that to do so will maximize the happiness in the universe; and a virtue ethicist would say that it will make you a virtuous person. For those who raise the objection to virtue ethics, this third answer, especially in comparison with the first two, clearly betrays its self-centeredness. Even so, Liu may still think that I have misrepresented virtue ethics in providing the response to this objection, as it is essentially what she calls the VE 1 answer, which in her view cannot but be self-centered. Instead, she claims that the correct answer is what she calls VE 2, which essentially says that the reason one ought to help people in need when one can is that this is what a virtuous person would do, and one ought to do what a virtuous person does. This, however, simply postpones the question. One may further ask why one ought to do what a virtuous person would do, with the answer being simply that one ought to be a virtuous person. So there is really not much difference between VE 1 and VE 2 as an explanation of why one ought to perform a moral action. What I have been trying to say is that we have to face the selfcenteredness objection to virtue ethics directly, as it threatens the very plausibility, or, rather, desirability, of virtue ethics. If it is wrongly posed, as Liu thinks, then we need to show what is wrong; if it is not, as I think, then we need to show why virtue ethics is not self-centered, although neither is it self-effacing, as Hurka alternatively claims, which is precisely what I tried to show in that chapter of my book. To regard the answer (that I do such and such a thing because I want to be a virtuous person) as self-centered is missing the point of what “a virtuous person” means. To be a virtuous person essentially means to be a person who is concerned with the interest of others for their sake, or to be an altruistic person. This is particularly the case with Confucianism, as virtues promoted by Confucianism are mostly otherregarding ones. So if I set a goal for my life and do everything for the sake of reaching this goal, I may be regarded as self-centered. However, if the goal that I set for my life is to become an altruist, is it still a reason to regard me as a self-centered person when I do nothing in my life but to reach this goal of mine about myself, which is to be an altruist? Obviously not. It is also in this context that we can understand Harry Frankfurt’s example that I use in my book and with which Liu disagrees in her Yong Huang 301 comment. Suppose a man tells a woman that his love for her is what gives meaning and value to his life. Frankfurt claims, correctly I think, that the woman is “unlikely to feel that the man cares about her only because it makes him feel good.” Liu, however, thinks that the woman “would actually doubt whether the man truly loves her.” I can see the way Liu thinks: the man does not love the woman for her sake but simply to realize the value and meaning of his own life. However, if we also see that he regards the value and meaning of his life as consisting of nothing but his love for the woman for her sake and not for his own sake, then how can we say it is self-centered? Should the man tell the woman instead “that l love you just for your sake, although this is not the goal of my life or does not make my life more valuable and meaningful but painful and miserable” (something that a Kantian might say)? Weakness of the Will Liu also has a concern about my discussion of the Chengs’ view of knowledge and action as relevant to the issue of weakness of will, complaining that it is too simplistic. One reason for this complaint is that “The reason why a weakwilled person fails to take what she herself considers to be a better course of action is exactly that she has another desire, which has led her to take the current action. If one could easily ‘remove one’s private desires,’ then of course there is no more conflict.” One thing that I can say is that the reason the so-called weak-willed person fails to take what he or she considers to be a better course of action is not that she has another desire, at least not according to Davidson, whose definition of weakness of the will does not involve desire at all; indeed if the reason is that she has an overwhelming desire or passion that she cannot do what she knows is the best thing to do, it will not be a case of weakness of will but a compulsion, according to Michael Smith, as I discussed in the beginning of the chapter. The second thing that I would like to say is that for the Chengs, knowledge of hearing and seeing (wenjian zhi zhi 聞見之知) and knowledge of/as virtue (dexing zhi zhi 德性之知) are not knowledge about different things, especially when they intend to make a contrast between them; rather they are about the same content. For example, my knowledge that I ought to love my parents can be either knowledge of hearing and seeing or knowledge of/as virtue. In the latter case, it is knowledge that I experienced from my inner heart and thus inclines me to act; in the former case, however, it is merely something that I heard from someone or read from some Confucian classics but not something that I experienced from my heart and thus does not incline me to act. So knowledge of hearing and seeing is primarily not “knowledge from perception . . . a posteriori knowledge about the world derived from experience,” as Liu believes. That is why, for the Chengs, while what the sage writes in the classics is their knowledge of/as 302 Philosophy East & West virtue, when we read the classics, what we get, at least initially, is only knowledge of hearing and seeing, even though we can say exactly the same thing that the sage says in the classics. The third thing I want to say is with regard to Liu’s complaint about my conflating what she sees as three types of knowledge: “(1) knowledge as a particular piece of knowledge about the ‘better course of action’ in a given context (this is also the judgment condition in Davidson’s definition of weakness of the will); (2) knowledge of virtue as innate knowledge of good and evil or right and wrong, which one is given at birth; and (3) knowledge as virtue. . . . ” However, in Cheng Yi, they are indeed one single knowledge, the knowledge of/as virtue (dexing zhi zhi), at least for a virtuous person. It is due to this knowledge that one knows what the better course of action is, and the reason is that this is knowledge of what is right and wrong. Because it is knowledge of/as virtue, that is, knowledge that inclines one to act, one will not take any course of action other than the one he or she considers to be better, and thus there cannot be weakness of the will. The last point I want to make is about the relationship between knowledge and action. Liu quotes my statement that “Cheng Yi does not think it possible to have moral knowledge without moral cultivation” (Huang 2014, p. 127); and then she says that “the claim ‘knowledge necessitates action’ becomes a circular claim or even a tautology: ‘knowledge derived from action necessarily leads to action’ or simply ‘repeated action necessitates action.’” There are two things that can be said about Liu’s claim. First, moral cultivation that is necessary for moral knowledge, for the Chengs, while including action, is much broader, but the most important thing is to have inner experience. Indeed, in contrast to Wang Yangming, the Chengs, particularly Cheng Yi, as well as Zhu Xi after him, claim that knowledge precedes action. Second, even if the Chengs agree that action itself is also a source of knowledge, it is not a tautology that “knowledge derived from action necessarily leads to action” or that repeated action necessitates action. Knowledge derived from action does not necessarily lead to action, nor do repeated actions necessitate action. For example, my knowledge about the hardship of rice planting on a hot summer day from my rice-planting practice does not incline me to go rice planting, nor does my repeated practice of rice planting. Only the knowledge of the inner goodness of a particular action that one internally experiences through performing the action, the knowledge of/as virtue, will incline one to act. Two Interpretive Issues Li yi fen shu In the preceding, I have replied to questions that are mostly of a philosophical nature. There are also two issues that are more of an interpretive nature. Yu (and Liu, to a lesser extent) raised the issue about how to understand Cheng Yong Huang 303 Yi’s li yi fen shu 理一分殊. We don’t disagree that Cheng Yi is using this term to show that Zhang Zai in his Western Inscription upholds the Confucian idea of love with distinction, as a response to a suspicion by one of his students that Zhang Zai may be guilty of the Mohist view of love without distinction. Thus, our disagreement does not affect my philosophical argument involving this term in my book. Still the issue raised by Yu is intriguing and deserves some discussion. In my interpretation, in this four-character phrase, yi 一 and fen shu 分殊 are both predicates of li 理, and so it means that li by itself or in general is one, while its separate manifestations in things are different. In Yu’s view, however, “Li yi and fen shu are a pair of contrasting terms. Just as shu (different) is the opposite of yi (same), fen is to be contrasted with li. And just as li is a noun and yi is an adjective, fen is a noun and shu is an adjective.” What is crucial here is the understanding of the character fen. In Yu’s interpretation, pronounced in the fourth instead of the first tone, “Fen refers to a person’s moral share, one’s part, role, station, or duty—for example, one’s moral share as a father, brother, minister, husband, and son.” I don’t deny that li yi fen shu can be understood this way, and even, in some contexts, that it should be understood this way.1 However, most of the evidence that Yu cites to support his interpretation comes from outside the main passages in which Cheng Yi uses the term li yi fen shu, especially from passages in which the character fen is used in combination with some other characters. Yet, within the main passage in two versions with some slight differences, one in the Wenji 文集 (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Wenji 9, p. 609) and one in the Cuiyan 粹言 (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Cuiyan 1 on Books, pp. 1202–1203), there are some places that pose difficulties for Yu’s interpretation but support my interpretation. The first and also the most important difficulty for Yu’s interpretation lies with the contrast that Cheng Yi makes between Zhang Zai’s Confucian view and the Mohist view at the very beginning of both versions of the passage mentioned above. In both versions, since the Confucian fen shu 分殊 is given in contrast with the Mohist wu fen 無分, these two fen, the fen in fen shu, in which Confucians affirm the fen, and the fen in wu fen, in which the Mohists deny the fen, must have the same pronunciation and thus the same meaning. Either both are read in the first tone, meaning “separate,” or both are read in the fourth tone, meaning “share,” et cetera, as otherwise the intended contrast between the Confucian view and the Mohist view cannot properly be made.2 If the fen in fen shu means a person’s moral share, part, role, station, or duty, then the problem with Mohism should not be wu fen (without share, part, role, station, or duty), but its fen being equal, that is, fen tong 分同 or fen yi 分一 (the same share), which, of course, is not the case. In the Cuiyan version, instead of saying Mohists having two roots and wu fen, as in the Wenji version, we find “Mohists love to unify (ai he 愛合) and wu fen 無分.” Here wu fen 無分 is in connection with “unify” (he 合). 304 Philosophy East & West So wu fen is closely related to, if not identical with, “unify” (he), and, by implication, fen is to not unify or to separate. This gets confirmed later in the same passage, in both versions, when the Mohist wu fen is also made equivalent to wu bie 無別. Clearly, bie does not have the meaning of share, role, station, or duty. Since the Mohist wu fen is equivalent to its ai he (love to unify) and wu bie (without distinction), the fen in wu fen must also mean the lack of distinction,3 and since this Mohist lack of distinction (wu fen) is put in contrast to Zhang Zai’s Confucian fen shu, the fen in fen shu must also mean distinction or separation.4 The second difficulty with Yu’s interpretation arises at the end of the version of the passage in the Wenji. Here Cheng Yi complains that the Mohists are talking about substance (ti 體) without talking about function (yong 用). What he means by ti is clearly the oneness of li, and what he means by yong is the manyness (fen shu) of its function. As ti and yong are both about li, it thus confirms our view above that both yi (of ti) and fen shu (of yong) are about li. The third difficulty with Yu’s interpretation is that the relationship between li yi and fen shu would thus become ambiguous. According to Yu’s interpretation, since yi is about li and shu is about fen, the relationship between li and fen and thus the relationship between li yi and fen shu are not clear. What we have is merely that the principle is the same and that people’s roles, stations, or duties are different. However, according to the interpretation that I follow, since yi and fen shu are both about li, where li itself is one but becomes many when manifested in different things, then the connection between the two parts of the phrase is clear.5 Moreover, there are some places outside this passage that also constitute difficulties for Yu’s interpretation. First, in addition to fen shu, Cheng Yi also uses li yi in connection with wan shu 萬殊 (ten thousand differences), which shows that for Cheng Yi, fen shu means the same thing as wan shu.6 For example, in one place, Cheng Yi says that “There are ten thousand differences (wan shu) among yin and yang, five elements, and the strong and the soft. What sages rely on is one principle (yi li)” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 遺書 6, p. 83). In his Commentary on the Book of Changes, he also says that “there is one principle under heaven. . . . Although there are ten thousand differences (wan shu) among things and ten thousand changes among events, unified into one, there cannot be any exception” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Zhouyi Cheng Shi zhuan 周易程氏传 3, p. 858). The point that Cheng Yi tries to make here is the same idea as li yi fen shu, the only difference being that fen shu is replaced by wan shu, where you cannot find the meaning of share, role, part, duty, et cetera at all.7 Second, Cheng Yi’s li yi fen shu should also be understood in the context of his view of one li and ten thousand li. It is generally agreed that Cheng Yi’s li yi fen shu was inspired by the Hua Yan Buddhist view of li 理 (principle) and shi 事 (events). When one of his students asks him about the Yong Huang 305 Hua Yan view of non-mutual obstruction between li and shi, Cheng Yi responds that this is nothing but the view that ten thousand li can be attributed to one li (wan li gui yu yi li 萬理歸於一理) (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 195). In the version of the same passage in the Cuiyan, we see Cheng Yi saying that “ten thousand things share one li” (wan wu yi li er 萬 物一理耳) (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Cuiyan 1, p. 1180). Third, as we know, Cheng Yi identifies li with xing 性 (nature), saying that “xing is nothing but li and what is so-called li is nothing but nature” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 22a, p. 292). Thus, what he says about xing may also shed light on his view of li. On Gaozi’s view of nature as what is inborn, it is said that “it is fine to say that they are all called xing. However, among them one ought to distinguish (fen 分) between the xing of cows and the xing of horses” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 2a, p. 29). So there is only one xing, but its manifestations in different things have to be distinguished (fen 分) from each other. This is essentially what li yi fen shu means. Indeed it is also how later Zhu Xi understands it. He says that there is one li for all people. However, there is a Zhang San 張三 and there is a Li Si 李四. Here Zhang San cannot be identified with Li Si and Li Si cannot be identified with Zhang San; and then he says that “this is precisely what li yi fen shu means in the Western Inscription” (Zhu 1986, Zhuzi yulei 6, p. 102). Li as Life-Giving Activity (Sheng) The second interpretive question was raised by Liu, which concerns my translation or, rather, interpretation of the term li, obviously the most important concept, in the Cheng brothers, as life-giving activity (sheng 生). My intention to emphasize li as life-giving activity is to show that li for the Cheng brothers is the activity of things and not merely a reified thing itself as its essence, with or without activity, as Mou Zongsan claims. I assume that Liu does not have much problem with this emphasis of mine. Liu’s objections lie elsewhere. One is that li and sheng “have different connotations and should be translated differently” and “we should not render the two words synonymous or co-referring.” If we are talking about these two terms in general, I agree with Liu. However, in the case of the Cheng brothers, it is not that we render the two words synonymous or co-referring; it is rather that they render the two words synonymous or co-referring. For example, after quoting the sentence from the Book of Changes that “the unceasing lifegiving activity is called change,” Cheng Hao states that “it is right in this life-giving activity that li is complete” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 2a, p. 33). Cheng Yi also states that “li as life-giving activity” is natural and ceaseless (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 15, p. 167). Indeed, as I have tried to show in my book, not only do the Chengs render li and sheng 306 Philosophy East & West synonymous and co-referring, but they have also made li synonymous and co-referring with many other terms, such as dao 道, tian 天, xin 心, and xing 性, and they do so precisely because all these terms are also synonymous and co-referring with sheng. For example, about Dao, Cheng Yi claims that “Dao is the unceasing life-giving activity” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 15, p. 149); about tian, Cheng Hao states that “tian is dao only because it is life-giving activity” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 2a, p. 29); about xin, Cheng Yi states that “the heart-mind (xin) is nothing but the dao of lifegiving activity” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 21b, p. 274); and about xing, Cheng Hao interprets Gaozi’s sheng zhi wei xing 生之謂性 as “the lifegiving activity is called human nature” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 11, p. 120). Another objection of Liu’s is that when li is understood as life-giving activity, we will not be able to understand Cheng Yi’s ideas of “One li with different manifestations” (li yi fen shu) and “investigating things and exhaustively learn li” (ge wu qiong li 格物窮理). I don’t see any problem in either case. In terms of li yi fen shu, although li as life-giving activity in general is one unified thing, the life-giving activity of each individual thing is different. In the very context in which Cheng Yi uses the term li yi fen shu, love is regarded as a life-giving activity. While one loves everyone, love in each particular case is different: one’s love for parents is different from one’s love for children; one’s love for friends is different from one’s love for enemies; and one’s love for human beings is different from one’s love for non-human beings. In terms of ge wu qiong li, I don’t see any special difficulty when li is understood as life-giving activity: one studies things to understand their unique forms of life-giving activity. The last objection that Liu has is to my claim that li as life-giving activity is the life-giving activity of the ten thousand things. Her view is that “the ten thousand things in the world are . . . given life, rather than giving life (they are the created and not the creator).” I agree with Liu that each of the ten thousand things is a given life, but this is not in contradiction to their being givers of life as well. The reason is that they are lives given by themselves. In this respect, I would like to remind us of A. C. Graham’s insight about sheng in the Cheng brothers: “the analogy behind their thinking is not a man making a pot, but a tree growing from its hidden root and branching out” (Graham 1992, p. 108). When we talk about the sheng of a tree, for example, we are talking not about the creation of the tree as a creature by a creator, which is the traditional Christian model of creation, but about the life-giving activity of the tree itself. I would like to conclude by thanking my commentators again for their critical comments, which have forced me to rethink many of the issues discussed in my book of both a philosophical and an interpretive nature. Yong Huang 307 Notes 1 – My interpretation/translation basically follows that of Wing-tsit Chan. In his A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy, he translates the phrase as “[the] principle is one but its manifestations are many” (Chan 1963, p. 550). However, as far as I know, it was also Wing-tsit Chan who first proposed the interpretation that Yu highlights in his comment. In a 1978 article, Chan states that “The term fen is not to be pronounced in the upper even tone, meaning to divide. This misunderstanding had led to such a wrong translation as ‘distinction.’ Rather it is pronounced in the falling tone, meaning duty, share, endowment” (Chan 1978, p. 106). Yet, even in that article, he still translates the phrase as “Principle is one but its manifestations are many.” One possible way to understand this seeming inconsistency is that fen understood as share is the share of li in different things. Chen Lai translated Chan’s article into Chinese (Chan 1983) and adopted this interpretation in his book on Zhu Xi (Chen 2000, p. 102). 2 – It is revealing that when Chinese scholar You Wubing 尤吾兵 argues for the interpretation that Yu is making here, he intentionally omits the Mohist part in Cheng Yi’s letter: “We know that, when he first makes this proposition, Cheng Yi put it this way: ‘The Western Inscription illuminates li yi fen shu, while Mohists. . . . ’” (You 2007, p. 13). Perhaps he has already seen the difficulty of reading fen in li yi fen shu in the fourth tone when it is made in contrast to the Mohist wu fen. 3 – Indeed, Wing-tsit Chan’s translation of wu fen is “without differentiation,” indicating that he read fen in wu fen in the first tone and not the fourth tone. 4 – This sense of fen, to be read in the first tone, is made most clear later in Zhu Xi. In explaining li yi fen shu, Zhu Xi says that “the more differences one sees by separating things (fen de yu jian bu tong 分得 愈見不同), the greater the same li one can see (among them)” (Zhu 1986, Zhuzi yulei 6, p. 102). In two other places, he contrasts fen in fen shu and he 合 implied in li yi. On the one hand, when responding to a question about li yi fen shu in the Western Inscription, Zhu Xi says that “the whole Western Inscription is about li yi fen shu. The reason that heaven is father and earth is mother is that there is only one principle (yi li 一理). Speaking separately (fen er yan zhi 分而言 之), however, heaven and earth are heaven and earth, and father and mother are father and mother, and the difference between the former (heaven and earth) and the latter (father and mother) can already be seen from how they are called” (Zhu 1986, Zhuzi yulei 98, p. 2523). On the other hand, Zhu Xi says that “Cheng Yi’s li yi fen shu is really great. To speak by combining ten thousand things together (he tiandi 308 Philosophy East & West wan wu er yan 合天地萬物而言), there is only one li, but there is a li in each person” (Zhu 1986, Zhuzi yulei 1, p. 2). So for Zhu Xi, li yi fen shu means that generally speaking (he er yan zhi 合而言之) li is one and the same, while separately speaking (fen er yan zhi 分而言之), it is many and different. The Qing dynasty scholar Niu Niu 牛鈕 also understands fen in this sense: “generally, all things in the world originated from one; later this one scatters and separates (san er fen zhi 散而分之). In appearance, they are not consistent, but in reality there is no incoherence. This is so-called li yi fen shu” (Niu 1977, p. 9.27a). Here fen is used together with san 散, clearly meaning separating. 5 – Later, Zhu Xi states that “li yi fen shu is li’s naturally being so (li zhi ziran ruci 理之自然如此)” (Zhu 1986, Zhuzi yulei, p. 72), indicating that both yi (one or the same) and fen shu (different manifestations) are predicates of li. 6 – Zhu Xi also uses fen shu and wan shu interchangeably. For example, when asked about li yi fen shu, Zhu Xi says that “sages have not talked about li yi; they mostly talked about fen shu. . . . If one does not know there is yi li (one principle) in each of the wan shu and just talks about li yi, then one has no idea where the yi li is” (Zhu 1986, Zhuzi yulei 27, pp. 676–678). In his The Four Books to Be Asked About (Sishu daiwen 四書待問), the Yuan dynasty scholar Xiao Yi 蕭鎰 says that “to be affectionate to parents, to be humane to people, and to love animals is the so-called one principle with ten thousand differences (yi li wan shu 一理萬殊), and then he says that “what can be applied to humans cannot be applied to animals, which is called one principle with different manifestations (li yi fen shu)” (Xiao 1995, 22.729). Here, on the one hand, he uses wan shu and fen shu interchangeably; on the other hand, he makes it clear that fen shu and wan shu are both about li. 7 – His brother Cheng Hao connects one principle with ten thousand things (wan shi 萬事): “The Doctrine of the Mean starts with one principle (yi li), its being separated (san 散) into ten thousand things (wan shi) in the middle, and returns to one principle at the end” (Cheng and Cheng 2004, Yishu 14, p. 140). It is important to point out that he uses the character san 散, which has the same meaning as fen 分 when pronounced in the first tone. References Chan, Wing-tsit. 1963. A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy. Princeton: Princeton University Press. ———. 1978. “Patterns for Neo-Confucianism: Why Chu Hsi Differed from Ch’eng I.” Journal of Chinese Philosophy 5:101–126. Yong Huang 309 ———. 陳榮捷. 1983. Lun Zhu Xi yu Cheng Yi zhi butong 論朱熹與程頤之 不同 (On Zhu Xi’s difference from Cheng Yi). Zhongguo zhexue 中國哲 學 (Chinese philosophy) 10:77–94. Chen Lai 陈来. 2000. Zhuzi zhexue yanjiu 朱子哲学研究 (Research on Zhu Xi’s philosophy). Shanghai: Huadong Shifan Daxue Chubanshe 华东师范 大学出版社 (East China Normal University Press). Cheng Hao 程顥 and Cheng Yi 程頤. 2004. Er Cheng ji 二程集 (Collected works of the two Chengs). 4 vols. Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju. Darwall, Stephen. 1983. Impartial Reason. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Graham, A. C. 1992. Two Chinese Philosophers: The Metaphysics of the Brothers Cheng. 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