"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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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).
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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
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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
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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.
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