Week 09, Buddha, The Jataka, The Bhagavad-Gita

Notes on Buddha’s Three Cardinal Discourses and the Buddhist Jataka.

The Three Cardinal Discourses are entitled “Setting Rolling the Wheel of Truth,” “The Not-Self Characteristic,” and “The Fire Sermon.” One thing is obvious about Gautama Buddha, as accounts of his personality have come down to us: he is unencumbered by desire or ambition, and has disinvested himself of all stock in the body. Unlike George Costanza’s nutty father on Seinfeld, he doesn’t have to shout “serenity now!” out of desperation, but is truly free. Why, then, does he bother talking to others about spiritual matters? His reason for taking up the role of teacher and prophet is compassion for those who (to varying degrees) don't yet know what they need to know, and therefore do not live as they should. The ignorance and suffering of others, it seems, calls for a response on the part of those who have become enlightened, so liberation isn’t the same thing as irresponsibility.

How easy or how difficult does he make attainment of serenity sound for others, and what style does he adopt to convey his message? Much in Buddhism comes down to promoting acts of constructive self-annihilation and renunciation of materialism. The Four Noble Truths are that life is suffering, that suffering is a product of attachment or desire, that it’s possible to let go of such attachments, and finally, that there’s a specifiable path to follow towards liberation. That is a very simple, straightforward message: misdirected desire makes us unhappy, but right conduct and attitude can bring us peace. On the whole, Buddha counsels reorientation of one’s sensibilities and attentions away from the self and towards the community, though not in an ostentatious way. Buddhism is often called “the middle way” because it doesn’t preach extreme asceticism, but at the same time the concept of self-sacrifice for others’ welfare seems to be very important to this philosophy, which differs markedly from western outlooks that emphasize the primacy of the individual and the satisfactions of material accumulation. I will leave the specifics to the notes available online along with the sermons themselves, but basically, the Eightfold Path, as the first sermon sets them forth, consists in right view, right intention, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. (The BigView.com offers lucid explications of these categories, but you can find them all over the Internet. See, for example, The Buddhist Reading Room, which provides a wealth of materials and links).

What is especially noteworthy about Buddha’s views on attachment is that he applies them to everything: attachment to anything whatsoever—our thoughts, perceptions, feelings, and so forth—and consequent appropriation of them as mine, belonging to me, leads to delusion and misery. Fundamentally, it seems, the self is a delusion. That is a point we can also find in the Baghavad-Gita, beautifully enunciated by the god Krishna. Buddhism differs in a number of significant ways from Hinduism (see Brian's Syllabus), but in some respects it is consonant with it, and the point I just made is a key area of agreement: the small-s “self” or autonomous ego is a function of our greedy and anxious desire for security and gain. To put the case lightly, Buddhism and Hinduism both seem to be on to our “control freak” tendencies and possessiveness.

As for stylistics, Buddha surely doesn’t construe knowledge in an Aristotelian or Baconian fashion: patient inductive research and the gradual building up of knowledge into theories are not his method or goal. He has already achieved serenity, and that isn’t something we can capture in fourfold or eightfold divisions, or classify in the usual western way. Nonetheless, even though we are talking about something language can't really express—absolute peace and an intuitive sense of truth, Buddha characterizes enlightenment's stages as attainable in degrees, with each degree of attainment giving us a kind of satisfaction, though not of the sort that comes from object-relations. The sermons’ divisions are heuristic (teaching) devices: they help Buddha convey his main point that suffering is a product of desire—we covet objects, we covet security, we turn people into objects, and so forth—and that it is eminently possible to overcome such tendencies. He conveys in a constructively paradoxical style a message about acts of letting-go and letting-happen, not making-happen. This distinction seems to be common to several eastern philosophies and religions: while the west is often about spiritual struggle, or “making-happen,” eastern wisdom has to do with the letting-go of delusions and the letting-happen of intuition and wisdom. That’s an overstatement, of course, but I think it’s worthwhile as an initial distinction.

With regard to The Jataka, its stories are about Buddha’s incarnations, so they teach us about Buddhist ethics. Purification is important, and so is a strong sense of community. Buddhism preaches respect for all creatures and rejects emphasis on human rank or caste (important considerations in Hinduism) and instead promotes egalitarianism and community. Buddhism privileges the spirit of self-sacrifice. The hare, for example, sacrifices its life in the flames, giving its body as alms, and this is described as a constructive, purifying act of self-annihilation, one that forces others to confront their own selfishness. In another of the tales, a selfish king sees the error of his ways when he is confronted with the courage of a monkey who gives his life to save his comrades; the monkey’s broken body becomes a bridge whereby they pass to safety and escape the king. Of course, there are always those who take kindness for weakness, but Buddha is offering an uplifting code of conduct that will inspire as many as possible: devotion to the welfare of others is the way. Buddhism is “worldly” in the best sense: it makes us think through how we treat others and consider the consequences of our behavior in that respect. The stories in The Jataka sometimes entail punishment, but that really isn’t what they are about. Punishing those who do wrong is undeniably satisfying for a while, but it’s almost certain to make them withdraw into their own ego-shell and “forget” or deny that they have done wrong—not exactly a recipe for spiritual enlightenment. The punishments suffered by the selfish characters in The Jataka (like the greedy merchant in the first tale) seem designed to enlighten, not simply to cause pain and distress.

Finally, a good question would be, “to what extent can we take Buddhist ethics seriously in a western market society, one based on the desires of consumers for many more “things” than they need?” Capitalism thrives not on the buying and selling of basic foodstuffs and other necessities but rather on the producing, selling, and buying of all that which goes beyond need. Capitalism thrives on the production not only of goods but, more importantly, of people’s desire for an endless series of goods above and beyond what they need. The market sells us buying and selling, consumption, as a lifestyle, a world view: it takes advantage of the fact that we are creatures of excess and extravagance. (No wonder King Lear gets so upset when his daughters take away his hundred knights: “O, reason not the need!” he exclaims, “Our basest beggars are in the poorest thing superfluous.”) So how can we accept Buddha’s antimaterialism and “not-self-ism”? Can we at least use those ideas as a hedge against confusing our love for commodified objects with an appreciation of genuine value? Buddha offers a perspective outside the system. (Differences aside, the same is true of Jesus, who rejected materialism and said, “Take no care for the morrow” and “My kingdom is not of this world.”) A modern, semi-Buddhist ethos might say something like, “well, if you’re going to be consumers, at least live lightly in the presence of the object-system; don’t get attached to the objects you buy and consume or take buying and consuming as the purpose of your lives.” To the contrary, the capitalist order’s proponents would surely prefer that we be chained to a process of serial obsession and consumption, and unable to think outside the commercial box in any way that threatens to restrict the flow of our desire for objects and the satisfactions they bring. Buddha himself was high-born and could have taken full advantage of wealth and position, but he rejected those things, and chose to help others. It is possible, after all, so perhaps enlightenment is to some degree attainable by anyone who understands that it is a worthy goal and who wants to achieve it. Of course, wisdom itself is commodifiable—we can turn anything into a “product,” and thereby neutralize the transformative potential it may otherwise have had. But why not end on a positive note? This will do:

The greatest achievement is selflessness.
The greatest worth is self-mastery.
The greatest quality is seeking to serve others.
The greatest precept is continual awareness.
The greatest medicine is the emptiness of everything.
The greatest action is not conforming with the world’s ways.
The greatest magic is transmuting the passions.
The greatest generosity is non-attachment.
The greatest goodness is a peaceful mind.
The greatest patience is humility.
The greatest effort is not concerned with results.
The greatest meditation is a mind that lets go.
The greatest wisdom is seeing through appearances.

Atisha, an 11 th-century Tibetan Buddhist master.
(http://www.thebigview.com/buddhism/)

General Notes on The Bhagavad-Gita.

The Individual or “Self”: We tend to think of the individual person as a fully self-contained, autonomous agent. “I” am not “you,” and you and I are not “them.” Everybody, we like to say in our post-romantic fashion, is in at least some sense unique, and by this we seem to mean that something in us precedes any possible determination or shaping influence by outside forces like the society into which we have been born, the political order that subjects us to its imperatives, the expectations of our parents, the linguistic order, and so forth. We sometimes acknowledge that forces beyond ourselves are partly responsible for what we become, but that sort of acknowledgement usually makes us uncomfortable. Freud, Marx, Foucault and others have in their various ways insisted to our discomfiture that the forces that produce “us” as individuals are powerful and relatively autonomous—how does one combat the Unconscious, international capital, Ideological State Apparatuses, or Power? But how does The Bhagavad-Gita deal with the concept of the self? What constitutes it? It seems that the Gita author or authors would accept neither the idea of the self as an autonomous, unique agent nor the idea that forces such as “society” straightforwardly determine who we are as individuals. The Gita insistently claims that the self is a delusion stemming from ignorance and entirely dependent upon a strong desire to find security and permanence in our relationships with objects and with other people in their narrow selfhood. Ultimately, this desire boils down to fear of death. The only security an individual can truly hope to attain, counsels the Gita, is to be found in the knowledge that the small-s self has its source in the ultimate Self, Krishna. When a person realizes this truth, the fear of death recedes and a whole new world opens up. This is a key point in the Gita—when we no longer see the world “through selfish eyes,” so to speak, we see it in an entirely different, liberated manner. As William Blake says in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, “a fool sees not the same tree as a wise man sees.”

Why is the self a delusion? Well, it’s just another concept that doesn’t explain anything. Nietzsche makes a fine point when he says that the expression “lightning flashes” may be useful, but it’s also a lie. We perceive a “flashing” in the sky, and then we invent a noun (lightning) to account for the instrumental cause of that flashing. But “lightning” is just a word, an empty concept, an abstraction. To say “lightning flashes” is at best shorthand for “go see what I’m talking about: flashing,” but it doesn’t explain the flashing activity that we see. No, it makes us think we do, which in turn makes us arrogant because (supposedly) now we know so much. As country folk say, “it’s not what you don’t know that gets you in trouble, it’s what you think you know.” Try substituting for “lightning flashes” the phrase “I do” or “self performs action,” and you can easily understand the Hindu and Buddhist notion of why the individual ego is a delusion: the noun “self” is an ex post facto construction we use to explain things and relationships that we really don’t understand. Arjuna says to Krishna something like, “I am the doer of my deeds, and am deeply attached to and responsible for their results,” and the latter entirely disagrees with that assessment. You only covet the fruit of your actions if you cling to the notion of self as an entity that covets, that tries to extend itself by means of things and deeds that in fact limit and attenuate, that hinder the path to enlightenment.

Consequentiality of Actions: Based on our delusory notion of the autonomous self, w e generally make a close connection between what we are and what we do. We like to say that as individuals with free will, we are responsible for what we have done and are doing. Deeds entail consequences and (supposedly) reveal the essence of a person. Existentialism, one of the most popular western philosophies, encourages such notions by means of its Sartrean dictum, “essence follows existence.” We might even say that we treat the deed like a thing, a commodity, with which our identity gets caught up to the point of identification: you are your car, you are your deed! This is a powerful tendency in modern western societies, with their strong emphasis on competition for the right to accumulate material goods, the achievement of carefully specified goals often tied to or allied with economic production and consumption, and the eventual accountability of all “evildoers” at the bar of justice. What does this book say about such a viewpoint? It counsels action, to be sure, but action in a peculiarly detached manner: action in what the text calls “the spirit of worship.” Can you act in such a way that you don’t expect to own or control the results of your actions? If so, you’re acting in the way the Gita suggests you should. If you act on the basis of some kind of “reward/punishment” or “success/failure” scheme, if you expect recognition and admiration for what you do, then the Gita would suggest that you’re not acting in the right spirit. This sort of selfish action is somewhat like that of a mediocre actor who “plays to the crowd” rather than just trying to be true to the part.

The Path to Enlightenment: On the surface, this seems simple— Krishna says all you really need to do is appreciate him, listen to his wisdom, and concentrate on him. If you do that, you’ll escape the seemingly endless cycle of death and rebirth. Too much spiritual storm and stress may turn a person into a fanatic who can’t act in the detached manner that Krishna advocates. I don’t think the Gita’s idea of “devotion” (which is the best path, in the text’s view) amounts to anything like zealotry—if salvation is pursued anxiously and obsessively, the seeker will move farther and farther away from enlightenment and liberation. Perhaps that is where some westerners go astray when they make contact with eastern philosophy: they become fanatics determined to cast off immediately everything they ever knew or did. Inevitably, I suspect, this fanaticism leads to disillusionment. Hindu religion involves devotion, but wisdom seems to be more a matter of “letting things happen” than of anxiously trying to make them happen. Of course, it makes paradoxical sense to point out that it takes a lot of work before a person can just “let truth happen.”

Structure: the book is dialogic, a conversation between the charioteer-god Krishna and Arjuna the warrior. As Krishna unfolds his truths, Arjuna plays the practical man and asks, “yes, but we are restless, how can we live up to all this advice?” Which question elicits variations and alternatives from Krishna . We move towards a penultimate vision of Krishna as both Destroyer and Preserver. He is life and death, beautiful and mild, terrible as the lion killing its prey. This vision is too much for Arjuna—be careful what you wish for! So Krishna becomes mild again, and conversational. The text returns to the theme of wisdom and the right path, and before it ends we are given something of a jeremiad against the losers who don’t get the idea. But the book doesn’t end on such a sour note, returning instead to the necessity of renunciation and the achievement of right attitude and understanding.

Text’s Status: How does this book compare to The Bible with regard to the status posited for the text? Well, the latter work makes more claims for itself as necessary for salvation. But the Gita sets itself forth as a husk you can work through to get at the kernel of truth, so that you won’t need the printed words anymore. The Four Gospels deal heavily in winnowing the wheat from the chaff; they are consequential, linear, black and white in their morality. Forgiveness is possible and there’s much magnificence of gesture, but individual sinners are closely bound to their actions. One might see Jesus as a transgressive figure, a revolutionary who breaks the law to fulfill it—but the strict law of observance reigns and is turned inward, as when Jesus says that even to think of adultery is already to have committed it.

Chapter-by- Chapter Notes on The Bhagavad-Gita.

Edition: The Bhagavad-Gita. Trans. Stephen Mitchell. New York : Three Rivers Press, 2000. ISBN 0—609-81034-0. Page numbers do not apply to the Norton Anthology of World Literature selections, but the commentary is compatible.

Chapter 1. Arjuna’s Despair.

41-45. Dhritarashtra, father of the Kaurava warriors, sits beyond the story’s frame, requesting from the poet Sanjaya that he relate what happened in the fateful days of the Battle of Kurukshetra. He, too, will have a chance to derive enlightenment from the story. As Sanjaya recounts things, Arjuna asks Krishna to drive his chariot to a commanding place where he may view the entire field of battle. Time seems to stand still, opening a space for sustained reflection. Arjuna is not yet enlightened, and needs to know the precise relationship between himself and the actions he is about to perform. At this point, he is overwhelmed, and grieves over the imminent loss of his kindred in the battle, and the confusion and disorder he believes will necessarily result.

Chapter 2. The Practice of Yoga.

46-53. To clear away the thicket of Arjuna’s illusions, Krishna must first help him redefine what is meant by the term “self” and what is meant by “action.” He tells him to let go of his grief, which stems from attachment to his kindred in their perishable, mortal form. The truth is that such a connection is selfish—Arjuna is thinking more of himself than of the others whose loss he fears. Krishna seems to counsel that while family and caste are important, they are not to be fetishized for their own sake, or for the comfort and advantage they bring to oneself. The general comments I made above about “the self” apply well to this chapter. The Self transcends ego or personhood and cannot die; it is as imperishable as modern physics says matter is indestructible. Some of the language in this chapter may remind us of Jesus in The Gospels. For example, Mark 3.31-35: 3:31 There came then his brethren and his mother, and, standing without, sent unto him, calling him. 3:32 And the multitude sat about him, and they said unto him, Behold, thy mother and thy brethren without seek for thee. 3:33 And he answered them, saying, Who is my mother, or my brethren? 3:34 And he looked round about on them which sat about him, and said, Behold my mother and my brethren! 3:35 For whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is my brother, and my sister, and mother.

Saint Augustine follows this lead in The Confessions, too, in the way he deals with the passing of his mother Monica—he treats her with great regard, but at the same time he does not cling to the mortal element in her, saying that it would be selfish and an insult to God to behave that way. Krishna doesn’t preach stoicism; what he suggests is that Arjuna should act with detachment and that he should treat whatever feelings or sensations that come to him with indifference. He should do his duty as a Kshatriya warrior, and not worry about the so-called death of his relatives. At 52, Krishna speaks to Arjuna in terms he can understand: not to do your caste-based duty is shameful, it constitutes failure and disgrace.

53-60. What is the wisdom of yoga? All of the yoga types— of action, wisdom, devotion, and meditation, as they’re usually described—counsel that whatever a person does or thinks, it should be done or thought in “the spirit of worship,” and not for the sake of the results. Taking unwise account of the results to be attained from actions leads only to enslavement to desire and ambition, whether one’s own desires and ambitions or those of others. Reading the Hindu scriptures with some ulterior motive in mind, it seems, would be just as misguided as acting for personal gain. Regarding religion in this way only leads to empty ritualism and, in the end, disillusionment. The text is very clear on these points at page 54: “Act for action’s sake,” it says, and “unnecessary are all scriptures to someone who has seen the truth.” From 56-60, Krishna explains that the essence of yoga is rest, meditation, detachment. He calls for a reorientation of purpose when a person acts: the one who acts should be centered not in him- or herself, but rather in Krishna , the all-encompassing Self.

Chapter 3. The Yoga of Action (Karma Yoga).

61-63. Arjuna does not yet understand Krishna’s message, it seems, since he sees only paradox in the command to act: action is necessary, but action, he thinks, must be bad because it enslaves the doer. So on 62-63, Krishna varies the message, saying that action is necessary, but that so long as a person acts in the spirit of worship, it will not have the results Arjuna fears.

65-66. Krishna suggests that those who know about yoga do not try to impose enlightenment, but inspire by example.

66-70. Krishna himself keeps the cosmos going by means of action, as he says at 66, so inaction is not the aim. Human beings must act, but they must not covet the results or outcomes; they must not attach their desires to their deeds, and try to control what happens after they have acted. Krishna posits a reciprocal relationship between gods and human beings: “by worship you will nourish the gods / and the gods will nourish you in return” (63). What is the cause of “action”? The three gunas or qualities that arise from nature: sattva (spiritual, having to do with purity and spirituality), rajas (worldly, having to do with action and process) and tamas (unholy, having to do with inertia). It is not the ego that we should consider the performer of actions, but the gunas, which, if I understand correctly, exist in all things and bind the body to the spirit; as Krishna says on pg. 158, they “bind to the mortal body / the deathless embodied Self.” (This is an important consideration in Indian dietary practice, by the way—a healthy diet reinforces the balance between mind and body, while an unhealthy one destroys that balance. See, for example, the clear explication about yoga, the gunas and cooking at Sivananda.org.

Towards the end of the chapter, Krishna explains why a certain withdrawal from the senses is advisable—he says that desire strikes us first through our senses, so people must learn to control their reactions to sensory experience. Again, stoicism or simply “not feeling anything” doesn’t seem to be what is counseled here. Rather, the key thing is how a person responds to sensory experience, feelings and desires. Embedded in this text is a hierarchical notion of the mind being more valuable than the body.

Chapter 4. The Yoga of Wisdom (Jñana Yoga).

73. Krishna’s method entails variation and elaboration, the partial unfolding of truths to which the text returns repeatedly. Here he explains that all honest action leads to him. Indeed, a person rooted in wisdom is already “there,” so the book’s employment of location-words is more a device than an actuality; the “path” described is circular, not linear.

75. Here Krishna thoroughly redefines the concept “action.” Action isn’t simply “doing things”; this kind of busy-action may amount to doing nothing at all. In fact, says Krishna , in this sense the wise do nothing at all since wisdom consumes the content of their actions. As an American Secretary of State once said, “don’t just do something—stand there!”

76-77. The various “offerings”—sacrifice, the objects of the senses, action, etc.—almost don’t matter; what matters is how you do what you do. Right-spirited action is worship. What Krishna advises here resembles the preaching of Buddhists: a constructive, gentle form of self-annihilation. Experience itself can be considered an offering to Krishna if it’s approached rightly. Those who act honestly are, he says, “freed of themselves” (77).

78-79. Krishna says that the seeker should find a teacher. How to learn? Well, first the person who wants to learn must know that learning consists not in the accumulation of facts and so forth, but rather in the clearing away of deeply rooted illusions that stem from self and society. A person teaches not so much by imparting truth but rather by modeling how to learn. Oscar Wilde’s quip is relevant: “Education is an admirable thing. But it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.” (“A Few Maxims for the Instruction of the Over-Educated.” The Writings of Oscar Wilde. Ed. Isobel Murray. Oxford : Oxford UP, 1989. 570. ISBN-10: 019281978-X.)

Chapter 5. The Yoga of Renunciation.

81-87. This chapter furthers the transition away from what we would call narrowly construed Cartesian dualism (cogito, ergo sum or “I think; therefore, I am” being the key precept). It seems that the errors of connecting doers with actions, being attached to one’s desires, and being attached to the results of actions, are symptoms of this primal intellectual mistake. In my view, the text values the things of the mind and spirit over the body, but I also think it warns us against deriving from this hierarchy a narrow, ego-centered conception of the self as something purely intrapersonal. The point isn’t to dismiss one’s embodied existence altogether so as to exalt Reason or anything of that sort; it’s to understand how the mind and body work together and how the individual is related to constructions that go well beyond the narrow confines of the “little-s” self. The chapter’s central statement occurs on page 83: when a person offers his actions to Krishna , the text says, “sin / rolls off him, as drops of water / roll off a lotus leaf.” Such a person has shed the illusion of self and thereby connected to the cosmic Self that is Krishna , and purification is a natural result of the transformation. I suppose someone determined to deconstruct the text’s metaphysics would suggest that this Self is the ultimate “center that is not the center,” i.e. that it’s the metaphysical concept set beyond investigation so as to ground everything else Krishna says. That would be a fair point, but I find it more interesting to attend to the manner in which the text’s representational and dialogic strategies try to slip away from this difficulty and to produce genuine enlightenment. The representation of infinity and absolutes in religious texts may be mostly intended to instill a certain perspective on things, a way of living in the world without losing hope, not to deliver something that really cannot be conveyed in language or by means of images. The point is to keep the mind and spirit open, not to shut it down. The vastness of the Gita’s time frames swamps teleological thinking—its cycles seem run in billions of years, a frame too great for the mind to comprehend. In Job, the protagonist is instilled with such a perspective after God recounts his sublimities: Job says simply that God has spoken “things too wonderful” for a mortal to understand, and that silence is the only appropriate response.

Chapter 6. The Yoga of Meditation (Dhyana Yoga).

88-98. It seems as if the yoga of action is to be pursued only so that one can reach a level of maturity sufficient to practice the yoga of meditation, which yields serenity. Reigning in the mind is necessary since it’s natural for it to wander during meditation. If possible, one is supposed to reach a temporary state of silence wherein the flow of language and emotion stops. A person who has ever attended to this incessant internal chatter for long will know how difficult it is to make it stop or even to slow it down, even for a moment. As the Shakers say, “‘tis a gift to be simple, ‘tis a gift to be free.” Western people seem addicted to self-consciousness. The romantic poets analyze and sing well regarding the potentially infinite and maddening regression of acts of self-consciousness: “I am thinking about myself thinking about myself thinking about myself . . . .” Where does that attempt to gain complete mastery over the psyche lead but to despair? How is it supposed to engraft a person into a state of wisdom, or rather (to be more accurate) into a process of thinking that yields wisdom? No wonder poets like Shelley pine because they can’t become like a skylark or a nightingale, even for an instant—see his excellent poem “To a Sky-lark.” It isn’t too difficult to think of analogies for the meditative transformation Krishna describes: Heidegger’s wonderful line about that need to refine one’s thinking to the point where one can perceive “a single star shining in the sky” (like Krishna’s “single object” on page 90) bracketing out all else, captures something of the transformation. More generally, how many people have ever really seen the night sky, free of interference and diminution by city lights, human language, and anything else that might get in the way? To do so is to be liberated from oneself, at least for a time; the stars have power to draw us beyond the confines of ourselves: self-annihilation, so to speak. A need for serenity and silence need not be construed as a flight into mysticism and irrationalism: instead, opening up a space for contemplation involves the bracketing-out of quotidian things like language, ordinary eventuality, and polluted sensory perception; where this cannot be accomplished, it involves knowing how to deal with what cannot be avoided so as not to be bound to it and determined by it. Finally, the chapter makes a broad offer of what in western terms might be called salvation: Krishna says that nobody is ever utterly lost; even the one who wanders may “cleanse himself” of sin “through many lifetimes” (97), and thereby reach the goal of liberation.

Chapter 7. Wisdom and Realization.

99-101. This chapter begins with mention of the rarity of seeking, and the even greater rarity of attaining, a true understanding of Krishna . At 101, the god explains that he is the excellence in all things, though he is not himself bounded by such excellence: “I am the taste in water,” he says. Desire is sanctioned so long as it is in accordance with duty. Apparently, one can find Krishna in anything excellent—”I am the arc of the ball as it flies through the air; I am the sound of the ball as it drops through the hoop / without touching the rim.” How’s that for a basketball analogy? Or perhaps Krishna is the best thought one has while reading a text, the one that comes and goes as quick as lightning—illustrating Moses Maimonides’ conception of learning as taking place through a series of illuminations, of “flashings” that come and then leave one in the dark again.

102-05. Krishna describes the sage as one who has sought the truth and who is now at rest. Page 104 is central to this chapter since Krishna declares himself “beyond all knowing”—a fact obscured to “fools” who, tied to the cycles of their own desire and aversion, believe he can be reduced or reified to a limited form: something, that is, that they can wrap their narrow minds around.

Chapter 8. Absolute Freedom.

106-112. Freedom is described on 107 at “union with the deathless” Self of Krishna, which can be realized only by a kind of devotion not reducible to mere ritual. At 110, we again see the vastness of the text’s time frames and the shifting or ever-expanding quality of its conceptual frameworks: Krishna says that “one single night of Brahma / lasts more than four billion years” and that “beyond this unmanifest nature / is another unmanifest state, / a primal existence that is not / destroyed when all things dissolve.” This kind of successive revelation of Krishna’s dimensionality I sometimes try to represent by drawing a series of concentric circles—every time the last dimension of reality seems to have been revealed, you have to draw another circle. Or picture yourself sitting somewhere, and then “situate” that scene in a much larger one encompassing your surroundings, and then the still larger one that would encompass that, and so forth, ad infinitum. The chapter ends with the thought that a wise person, dying, “reaches / the supreme, primordial place” (112). I suppose that the Gita author would agree with William Blake in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell that birth is a kind of “fall” into the realm of materiality, and that “if the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.”

Chapter 9. The Secret of Life.

113-20. This chapter prepares the way for Krishna’s subsequent self-descriptions and manifestations. The “secret” that Krishna promises to unveil is that he pervades all things, is the source of all things. On 118-19, he makes the startlingly broad claim that “all those who worship / other gods, with deep faith, / are really worshiping me, / even if they don’t know it,” and concludes by saying that “no one who truly / loves me will ever be lost.”

Chapter 10. Divine Manifestations.

121-30. This chapter is partly about how Arjuna may visualize Krishna , and again, it prepares us for the “cosmic vision” of the eleventh chapter. Krishna offers many beautiful and exalting images—the lion, the flower, the wind, the river Ganges ; he also employs more ineffable language such as “time” (127), “death that devours all things” (128), and “the wisdom of the wise” (129). He ends the chapter with the words, “I support the whole universe / with a single fragment of myself” (130). On the whole, the chapter offers a series of intuitions, not one coherent image or description of Krishna , because the point we are to understand is that he is ultimately not representable in any finite shape, either in images or in language. Krishna also explains that he is both Vishnu the Preserver and Shiva the Destroyer, the two gods Shelley invokes in his “Ode to the West Wind”: “ Wild Spirit, which art moving every where; / Destroyer and preserver; hear, O, hear!”

Chapter 11. The Cosmic Vision.

When Arjuna asks to see Krishna as he really is, the latter endows him with special eyes with which to view this celestial wonder. Arjuna gets infinitely more than he bargained for since Krishna shows his divine aspects as the embodiment of the Hindu Trinity of Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Shiva the Destroyer. We are told that Arjuna “saw the whole universe enfolded” (134). This sight is properly infinite, so the text’s descriptive language seems designed more to instill wonder at the sublimity of Krishna’s true nature than actually to body it forth. Only Arjuna, with his temporarily adequate eyes, can see what is described to us. The sight does not bring comfort to Arjuna; it brings terror at Krishna’s “billion-fanged mouths” that “blaze like the fires of doomsday” (136). When Arjuna asks for a spoken description, Krishna declares, “I am death, shatterer of worlds, / annihilating all things” (138) and drives home to Arjuna the imperative to act, to do his duty as a member of the Kshatriya caste, a warrior: indeed, explains Krishna, he himself has already acted, and the battle has already taken place: all the warriors will die, and Arjuna the limited being is not truly the doer of the deeds that “will occur.” This “dazzling, infinite, primal” (141) form of Krishna cannot be endured long, so at Arjuna’s request he returns to his milder dimensions, and explains that only through devotion—not by “study or rites / or alms or ascetic practice” (143)—can he be known as he is.

Chapter 12. The Yoga of Devotion (Bhakti Yoga).

Krishna privileges devotion—centeredness on him, offering up one’s actions to him—as the best way to achieve mokhsha or liberation and escape the cycle of death and rebirth. Mystical worship of “the unmanifest” is more arduous for embodied beings like humans; the devotion to which Krishna refers seems to consist in devotion to him “as if” he were himself an embodied being, the way one human being might be devoted to another to the point of never allowing other imperatives to get in the way. The spirit of “surrender” is greater, Krishna explains, than practice, meditation, or knowledge (146)—such spiritual efforts are worthwhile techniques, not the thing itself. But ultimately, Krishna says with great generosity, all spiritual roads lead to him, though some may require longer and more difficult journeys than others. The supreme contentment he describes is, he says, beyond any human feeling—beyond even what we call “joy.”

Chapter 13. The Field and Its Knower.

The field is the body, with its ten senses. This is the main idea of the chapter—knowledge and its object are interrelated, it seems. Desire and aversion are included in the field; they are the two main things to watch out for because they have harmful effects on a person’s capacity for devotion to Krishna .

The ten senses or indriyas: Swami Jnaneshvara Bharati says that a human being is “like a building with ten doors”: the five exit doors or karmendriyas are eliminating, reproducing, moving, grasping, and speaking. The five entrance doors or jnanendriyas are the cognitive senses of smelling, tasting, touching, seeing, and hearing. The point is that one has to become aware of all these in order to become detached from them, to turn inward (pratyahara) by means of meditation. Simple denial of sensory experience isn’t good—rather, one gradually understands that the senses, though necessary, are ultimately unreliable and don’t give the only kind of knowledge. We are more than the body.

This chapter again says that the self is not the cause of actions; actions arise from Nature. Here is how the text explains this point: “Nature gives rise / to changes in the field and to gunas. // Nature is the cause of any / activity in the body; / the Self is the cause of any / feelings of pleasure or pain” (153). A bit later, the Gita says that it is Nature, and not the self, that causes actions (155). Again, unitary notions about the ego, some abstract self that makes things happen, are delusory; an act is the coming together and parting of many forces in motion. The terms “Self” and “self” are important to distinguish in this book: the capital-letter Self is a cosmic entity and is not to be reduced to Nature or the gunas (which are best explained in the next book); it is that eternal part of us that transcends ego and personhood and temporality, the part that is pervaded by Krishna . It is not the limited, bounded ego.

Chapter 14. The Three Gunas.

The three gunas are the three prime qualities of nature—sattva (spiritual), rajas (worldly) and tamas (unholy), which constitute all life (158). They “bind” the body to the deathless Self. The point is that the little-s self is too narrow a conception—the capital-s Self is a trans-subjective reality; we are all part of a vast cosmic Self. I think the idea is that the gunas, the prime qualities of nature, are the “doers” of actions. This is not the same thing as fatalism or determinism—there has to be something that is aware of itself to make such a determination as “I am not the doer of the deed.” It is sometimes said that karma is all about action. That’s what the word means, but I believe we are not to take it as a western-style cause/effect or “sin” model of transgression and punishment. The yoga of devotion can take us beyond concern with action. Pure devotion leads us to become unattached to action, realizing that your “little-s self” is not the center of the universe. We come to look upon the realm of action in a serene, detached manner. So Arjuna the warrior should participate in war, and yet, in the highest possible sense, not be “doing” anything at all. This is to redefine the concept of action in a profound way.

Chapter 15. The Ultimate Person.

Visualization technique becomes important again here: the Gita pictures the upside-down world tree, “this world of sorrow.” Krishna is said to be the supreme Person, beyond eternity. The author isn’t satisfied with even the grandest, most capacious concept because concepts, by their very nature and function, must contain, limit, and narrow things down to a level of specificity and simplicity at which we think we understand them. This is a useful function—we tame and comprehend the world by abstraction, but it is not an end in itself. Krishna says he is beyond beyond. “How utterly utter,” as the C19 aesthete would say, making fun of superlative language. Whoever understands this philosophical maneuver and representational strategy, it seems, knows Krishna and is devoted to him.

Chapter 16. Divine Traits and Demonic Traits.

This chapter seems almost condemnatory, though that’s understandable: desire, anger, and greed are the three main gates to hell. They all result, I presume, in attachment to the material realm in a narrow and selfish way. The demonic are people who do attach themselves to their desires and their aversions, seeing themselves as the doers and the center of all things. If they understood, I think, they would not behave the way they do: the fundamental problem is one of misunderstanding, not knowing the true nature and cause of action.

Chapter 17. Three Kinds of Faith.

Everything in the realm of Nature can be divided into sattvic, rajasic, and tamasic: food, worship, etc.

Chapter 18. Freedom Through Renunciation.

Relinquishing is a more important distinction than renunciation because beyond the issue of renouncing desire, one is still confronted with orienting oneself with any action whatsoever—even, for example, worship. An embodied being can’t give up action altogether; such a being can only relinquish the results of the action. You worship for worship’s sake, not because you hope to get something from it or want to feel upright, etc.

A final thought: it’s tempting, with our western vocabulary, to say that this Hindu text advocates self-overcoming. That’s one way of looking at it, but it doesn’t quite capture what I think Krishna is saying. Self-overcoming sounds like struggle—the Germanic idea that life is always striving to be other (Leben ist andersstreben.) But isn’t that to say that desire is the essence of life?—that we are never satisfied with who we are, always want something more, and so forth? It makes us sound like country folk who yearn to visit the big city, like those characters in the musical Oklahoma . That doesn’t sound Krishna-like to me. I think he’s saying the necessary adjustment isn’t so much to struggle as to let go and become free. Think of the common Buddhist example of how understanding happens: you concentrate and concentrate on one of those funny-looking dual-images, and all of a sudden, you just see it properly; you understand or become unconfused. Your delusions have slipped away and have been forgotten, and understanding comes peacefully. It isn’t a matter of arduous “getting of knowledge,” as when we stock our minds with facts; it is a matter of letting understanding happen. Eastern philosophy and religion sometimes call for intense self-discipline in meditation, yoga, etc., but the emphasis is on the fact that these practices allow immediate and intuitive understanding. Not building, but clearing away and opening up, is the aim.

211-21. Mohandas Gandhi’s essay “The Message of the Gita” interprets the Gita as non-violent. I believe this approach stems from Gandhi’s decision to read the text in light of present-day needs, in a time when consciousness has moved beyond the conservative, caste-based system within which the Gita was created. It’s obvious that Krishna counsels Arjuna to do his duty as a member of the warrior caste, but Gandhi’s point is that on the whole the text teaches us about “perfection” (212) and “self-realization” (213). At 218, Gandhi further says that acting without desire to control the outcome of one’s actions, as the Gita surely does, leads a person to reject violence and untruth as principles of action. Both involve an attempt to force or deceive others into getting them to do what you want them to do. He concludes with the thought that “Like man, the meaning of great writings undergoes evolution.”

Week 08, The Mahabharata

Book-by-Book Notes on The Mahabharata.

Book 1. “Origins” (959-65).

960. Be careful what you wish for, as the saying goes: Kunti has borne Karna (Vasushena) to the Sun God, and GQ9dhara the wife of Dhrtarashtra, who having pleased the sage Vyasa had wished for 100 sons just like her husband, strikes her womb in frustration. But Vyasa again helps her, giving her instructions on how to bring about the birth of those 100 sons. Duryodhana is the first to be born. The Brahmanas warn that the omens are bad, that the boy will destroy his race, but the blind Dhrtarashtra’s love prevents him from destroying the child first. We also hear that Pandu’s eldest son Yudhisthira has become king upon his father’s death.

961. Karna survives his mother’s attempt to kill him. The young man respects the Brahmanas, and Indra rewards him with a sword. (The four classes or castes of early India are the Brahmans or learned men, the Kshatriya or warriors, the Merchants, and the Laborers.)

962. Here is related the manner in which Kunti chose Pandu as her husband. But then Pandu shoots what appear to be two deer mating, and it turns out that the male is actually a sage. He curses Pandu, who is told he’ll die the next time he has relations with his wife. Well, this interdiction leads indirectly to the birth of “the sons of Pandu” when Kunti declares that she will bear children by several gods. So by Dharma she has Yudhisthira, by Vayu she has Bhima, and by Indra comes Arjuna.

963. Madri, Pandu’s other wife, bears Nakula and Sahadeva by the divine Asvins. But when Pandu is overcome by desire for Madri, he dies. His sons excel Dhrtarashtra’s, which creates enmity especially in the eldest, Duryodhana. He and Bhima (born on the same day), we can see, will become rivals. Drona is born, and Drupada becomes King of the Northern Pancalas.

964-65. Drona gets angry at Drupada, and goes to Hastinapura, where Bhisma appoints him tutor to his grandsons. Drona extracts a promise from Arjuna, the exact nature of which as yet he doesn’t specify. Arjuna shows his skills in martial contests, creating envy. Karna (who is unknowingly a half-brother to the Pandu sons), performs with equally great skill, and his challenge to Arjuna endears him to resentful Duryodhana.

966. When the question of rank arises, Duryodhana simply declares Karna King of Anga, cementing the affinity between the two men. Drona now calls in his favor, which is that he wants Drupada captured and brought to him. Drupada is freed, but resents Drona fiercely. Drupada’s daughter Draupadi is born around this time.

Book 2. “The Assembly Hall” (967-83).

967-74. Yudhisthira is challenged by Duryodhana to a dice match, which, as the editor’s note explains, is by no means improper since Yudhisthira is only meeting his responsibility as Universal King and obeying the Kshatriya code by accepting a challenge. Well, he loses all he has, including his brothers, his wealth, himself, and their common wife Draupadi. The question is, was he still his own man when he gambled away Draupadi? This becomes a legal conundrum for both the Pandavas and Kauravas assembled in the Hall. Duhshasana treats Draupadi with contempt on 973-74, infuriating the Pandus but causing delight in Karna. Bhisma does not know how to resolve the legal dilemma.

975-83. Arjuna counsels patience to Bhima, explaining to him the “The king was challenged by his foes, and, remembering the baronial Law, he played at the enemy’s wish. That is our great glory!” But again they argue over the riddle, and again Duhshasana mistreats Draupadi. At 977, Bhima is infuriated with Duhshasana when the latter disrespects Draupadi. At 981, a frightened Dhrtarashtra pacifies Draupadi, who redeems Yudhisthira and the Pandavas. Bhima remained outraged at the conduct of the Kauravas, and has to be restrained. Why did Dhrtarashtra allow the game to go on? He explains, “I wished to see my friends and find out the strengths and weaknesses of my sons. Yudhisthira goes into exile with his fellow Pandavas, and as the summary explains, the Karauvas refuse to give back what they had taken.

Book 5. “The Preparation for War” (983-89).

983-85. Krishna, at the behest of Dhrtarashtra, tries to persuade Duryodhana not show such disrespect for the scriptures, for Dharma. But Duryodhana refuses to listen, and Krishna accuses him of merely being envious. “By poison, by snake, and by rope, in fact by every means, you have attempted the destruction of the sons of Pandu” (984-85). At this, Duyodhana hisses like a serpent and stalks out of the court.

985-89. Karna plots to capture Krishna to keep him from combining with Dhrtarashtra, and Dhrtarashtra can’t control events anymore, if indeed he ever could. The plot against him earns Krishna’s scornful laughter. At 986-87, Krishna informs Karna that he is “morally the son of Pandu” because of his status as Kunti’s son by the Sun God. Karna refuses to abandon Duryodhana even when his mother pleads with him and the Sun-god himself makes it clear that he supports reconciliation with Arjuna. Karna apparently cannot abide what he believes would be the dishonor of betraying Duryodhana, and says that, win or lose, he will retain either “merit” (if he wins) or “great glory” (if he should lose). He will fight Arjuna, who pairs up with Krishna, his divine charioteer. At 989, Bhisma says that while he will not kill the sons of Pandu, he will at least aid Duryhodhana’s Kauravas; Bhisma is bound not to harm them since he promised a long time ago to help the king of Hastinapura without regard to persons. On 989, Balarama says that the great struggle to come “is surely ordained by fate and cannot be averted.” He avows his equal love for his two pupils Bhima and Duryodhana, and goes off to purify himself; he will not stay to see the Kurus destroying one another. But later he will return to see Bhima and Duryodhana fight.

Book 8. “The Book of Karna” (990-94).

990-91. Karna requests that Duryodhana ask Shalya to serve as his charioteer since Arjuna has the divine Krishna. At first, Shalya is insulted because he doesn’t consider Karna’s birth high enough to merit his aid, but he responds to flattery. Karna confides his troubled state of mind regarding the curse leveled at him by Parasurama, whom he had tricked into giving him a celestial weapon. (This is a bit confusing—is it a different weapon from the one given him by Indra earlier?) It’s said that he will forget the invocation necessary to make the sword function just when he most needs it.

992-94. Bhima savagely kills Duhshasana in battle, and says, “I consider the taste of this blood superior to that of my mother’s mil, or honey, or ghee, or wine…” (992), avowing further that the second half of his vow—to kill Duryodhana—will soon be fulfilled. Karna duly suffers a chariot accident and forgets the magic invocation for his weapon, and Krishna first upbraids him for his poor behavior in insulting Draupadi during the dice game episode, and then kills him. Karna’s death is described in heroic terms; it is said that his head “fell like the Sun disappearing in the blood-red sunset behind the western hills” and that “from the body of the fallen Karna a light, passing through the atmosphere, illumined the sky” (994). The Kauravas flee the field in dismay.

Book 9. “The Book of Shalya” (994-98).

995-96. Duryodhana takes flight from the battle, and goes down into the waters of a lake that he has “charmed by the power of his wizardry” (995). The Pandavas hunt him down, but at first Duryodhana is reluctant to fight; he says “clad in deerskins I shall retire to the forest. Friendless as I am, I have no desire to live” (996). But he finally comes around when Yudhisthira promises him he will be king if he wins. Balarama comes to watch his two disciples Bhima and Duryodhana fight; he will witness what the others call the two warriors’ “skill in battle” (996).

997-998. When Balarama objects to the way the battle plays out, Yudhisthira excuses Bhima’s murderous fury against the fallen Duryodhana (the hero has kicked him in the head), saying that the Kauravas had brought this sort of treatment upon themselves by betraying the Pandavas in their exile.

Book 11. “The Book of the Women” (998-1000).

998-1000. Dhrtarashtra is brought low by sadness, knowing that he has lost so much after disregarding Krishna’s good advice to make Duryodhana allow the Pandavas five villages rather than taking their entire kingdom. Krishna allows Dhrtarashtra to vent his anger against a statue of Bhima, which is smashed while the real warrior is elsewhere. Dhrtarashtra is relieved to hear that he has not really killed Bhima. Then the Pandava brothers visit Gandhari, who has lost her one hundred sons. Bhima’s explanation of his “unfair” tactics by no means placates her (he says he had to kill Duryodhana in an unfair manner since it wasn’t possible to kill him fairly). Why did the Pandavas have to kill all one hundred of Dhrtarashtra’s sons? Her anger somewhat scorches Yudhisthira. After consoling Draupadi and Gandhari, Kunti curses Krishna: “Thirty-six years hence you shall, after causing the death of your kinsmen, friends, and son, perish by ignoble means in the wilderness” (1000).

Book 12. “The Book of Peace” (1000-01).

Yudhisthira and the Pandavas undergo a month of purification, but the king is in despair, saying, “I am an evil-doer and a sinner and the cause of the destruction of the earth. Seated as I am now, I shall starve myself to death” (1000). He is consoled effectively by Vyasa, and his kingdom is restored to him. He then pays homage to his uncle Dhrtarashtra as supreme lord. Bhima is made crown prince, and Arjuna becomes “responsible for resisting hostile forces and punishing the wicked” (1001).

Week 07, Confucius, Chuang Chou

General Notes on the Analects of Confucius.

The complexity of the moral system in this text may stem from political necessity. As Lau says in his introduction to the complete translation, even before Confucius’ time, observing human behavior was considered an important way to gain some control over current and future events. People are unpredictable, and if you want to derive some sense of regularity from them, you have to study carefully how they behave. Confucius held some political offices connected to the Chou dynasty court, and he is concerned about this matter, too—he treats his disciples in accordance with their respective understandings.

Benevolence. The main quality of a gentleman is benevolence. It seems that in keeping with his flexible way of defining things, Confucius doesn’t offer any single statement, but makes us work at piecing together a sense of what the gentleman is, and how he must behave. First of all, the term seems partly connected with social class, as it sometimes is even today—i.e. to be a gentleman is to be well born, of a certain social standing and not exactly a member of the seething masses. Ancient societies had no problem maintaining strong distinctions between the lower orders and the higher-ups. But it also isn’t only a class-based term; the gentleman may be judged in terms of his character and his conduct, too. Lau explains clearly what “benevolence” entails:

1) Don’t make others do things you wouldn’t want to do yourself. This sounds a lot like the golden rule.

2) Love your fellow men. The family comes first here, but the affection extends in ever-lessening degrees to much more distant groupings. Confucius writes in support of a dynasty based on the clan-inheritance system, but we can see an impulse towards universalism here; he is capable of saying “love your fellow men,” even if he may not mean precisely the same thing as we might mean.

3) Do your best, do your duty—for the sake of doing so since Confucian ethics doesn’t really depend on concern over punishment in the afterlife. This seems similar to the idea set forth in the Gita: act in the spirit of worship, not self-aggrandizement.

4) Benevolence entails self-overcoming and observance of the rites, or, more broadly, religious and social custom. These are received wisdom, and, along with music and philosophy, they help to bring a sense of order to life, especially given the generally unpredictable and unruly character of people. Lau reminds us that self-interest is something Confucius understood to be a powerful chaos-maker in society and politics. Maybe this constant interest in “the rites” is annoying to modern westerners—American culture values rebelliousness (think “Boston Tea Party”) and individualism in that modern, post-romantic way. But many ancient cultures think of the self as more of a public construct. Confucius isn’t a Spartan advocating the life of the mess hall and the military camp, but the point is that a gentleman grows up respecting the rites, developing and learning in accordance with them. There is room for a notion of individualism, of personal integrity and reflectiveness—but the self is given a priori the pattern of the customs and traditions, and learns the value of moving along such a path towards wisdom and maturity. It would be arrogant, I think, to put this down as “conformism,” even if Confucianism is often used by Westerners like Ezra Pound to mean something like “strict order, respect for rank,” and so forth.

Other related virtues—they complement one another—are courage and reliability or living up to one’s word so long as that doesn’t mean being stupidly rigid. Then there are reverence in religious matters, and respectfulness in outward manner and in accordance with the station of the people around you.

Education. I think it’s true that the courtly notion of education was strict and labyrinthine—we’ve all heard the term “Mandarin” applied to mean something like “an erudite person who is remote from ordinary people.” But it’s silly to generalize like that—Confucius evidently doesn’t see education as merely the passing on of facts; it is lifelong and process, part of a perpetual formation of character. Notice that he doesn’t call himself a sage, and insists that he’s never even met one. The sage is an ideal, not a reality easily achieved. Maybe even that is going too far, since as we said, the point of Confucian morality isn’t to strive for recognition—it is to do one’s duty and treat others generously but according to their status and merit.

General View of Social Order. It’s not so difficult to see that Confucius’ society emphasizes order and harmony. Most likely, such an emphasis counteracts powerful real-life tendencies. There was plenty of political violence and probably a good deal of social unrest at times. Plato’s Republic was written in the aftermath of Athenian democracy’s self-inflicted implosion and defeat at the hands of Sparta—it is something of a wish-fulfillment. I don’t know that Confucius is in quite that position, but evidently, he had no illusions about his ideas being broadly applied as principles of government and social harmony. He has to settle for influencing his disciples, who will try to broaden the influence of his example to as many people as possible. This is a philosophy about how to develop sound individual character.

Another thing to consider with regard to Confucius’ vision of social order is his insistence on the way the common people—for whose good the whole political order is ultimately arranged, we are told—are influenced by the good (or bad) example of the nobility and ruling elite. Confucius claims that the common folk are like grass, and the nobility’s actions and words are like the wind that blows over the grass, bending it. The people take their “set,” so to speak, from their betters. What is American government founded on but a healthy distrust of government, coupled with an insistence that those whom we elect not tell us what to do in any area of life where it isn’t absolutely necessary? I’ve noticed that a certain slice of the electorate conflates leadership with moral example—there’s no harm in rulers behaving themselves (it’s embarrassing when they don’t, and can be dangerous if it touches upon matters of state), but a lot of us have trouble with the idea that we’re paying elected officials to set a moral example for us because such notions tend towards authoritarianism. In a sense, I’m paying the pols to carry out the public’s business, not to tell me how I should behave in my private affairs. Some of our presidents would probably never have been elected had we scrutinized their moral fabric or even their mental stability the way we do today—Jefferson was a complex and moody man to say the least, and Lincoln was subject to profound depressions.

Confucius’ sayings are at times rather cryptic and paradoxical, but they sound like the authoritative words of a master. They have come down to us at second-hand, as things said in response to questions asked by disciples of varying degrees of wisdom. I think this fits Confucius’ outlook well—he responds in particular ways to particular people at particular times. He isn’t preaching from the mountaintop; he’s talking about practical things in the here and now, and trying to explain to others why they ought to respect themselves and the relative dignity of other people, whatever their rank.

Page-by-Page Notes on the Analects of Confucius.

823. Confucius says that at seventy years old, a person’s understanding frees up development in accordance with the Way. The ruler is urged to teach by concrete example. What to do? Raise the virtuous, promote meritocracy.

824-25. Benevolence: respect for all, reverence for some. Benevolence is perhaps wisdom long continued, and involves overcoming internal and external barriers. A gentleman should maintain appropriate bearing and speech, consider the context and circumstances of words and actions. Tact is essential.

825-26. Music, religious rites, received customs—not chaos-inducing self-assertion—should be our pattern for development. Statecraft plays a major role in promoting this path. A gentleman should have a certain temperament: one that makes him generally capable rather than merely proficient in a few areas. Confucius and John Henry Newman the Victorian author would agree in that regard: Newman promoted a truly liberal education that would form a person’s character and temperament; above all, liberal education makes a person capable of continuing to learn, and learn quickly. Above all, a gentleman sets a good example for the commonfolk.

826. The young, says Confucius, deserve awe. Those fifty and under should have the potential to develop themselves authentically, at least if they live in a state that follows the Way. So in a sense, Confucius is promoting a “youth culture,” in spite of all the reverence for the old we associate with traditional Confucianism. I doubt, however, that he would agree with Oscar Wilde’s quip, “the young know everything.”

827. Undue sorrow is appropriate, Confucius suggests, if the person you grieve for has earned it. As the Bible says, “there is a time for every purpose and for every work.” It is somewhat less than human, perhaps, to measure out one’s sorrow, confining it neatly by means of the old rituals. Is it not in the very nature of sorrow to have something excessive about it? The deepest sorrows are in response, after all, to events that rake us to the very core of our being. Passage 26 is particularly fine: Confucius is tolerant of the others’ busybody counsels of perfection, but when Tien says he simply wants to “go bathing in the River Yi and enjoy the breeze on the Rain Altar, and then to go home chanting poetry,” Confucius is impressed. Tien’s wish is best because it flows from a sure knowledge of the wellspring of joy: to follow one’s heart in the proximity of the rites, concretely and simply.

828. Benevolence is discussed again. The golden rule is to treat all with respect and with due regard for their station in life. Government by good example is best. Encourage everyone to respect themselves by respecting their duty. It isn’t simply “rank” that matters. One must occupy well a certain station and fulfill one’s responsibilities. People are bound, bonded together, by a strong sense of reciprocal obligation. Even so, Confucius knows that it may take generations to achieve order, based on the multiplication of personal example. Is this because he believes self-assertion will keep cropping up? Sure. Also that the unwise can “teach by example,” creating thereby a prevailing climate of stupidity and greed. To what extent is Confucianism applicable today, we might ask? We live in an age of manufactured consensus, simulacra, global villagism, and so forth. Can cultural learning happen by means of concrete example? What is the root of us?

830. Education is not the same thing as extreme erudition. I agree—it seems best to “think along with” a text rather than simply to regard it as information to be received as fact and memorized.

831. The Odes are a channel for legitimate expression, and they help induce harmony. Society works like music; we must play in tune together, or there will be not euphony but dysphony, chaos, ugliness. We can’t escape our humanity, says Confucius. He is no primitivist. The state should guard the rites and customs. People live within the state, which is not, therefore, to be understood as a mere set of arrangements whereby some people will superimpose order on the lives of other people. Confucius and the nineteenth-century German philosopher Georg Hegel might agree on at least one thing: the state is the nursery and guarantor of true individuality. We become who we are under the auspices of the governmental and social order.

Page-by-Page Notes on Chuang Chou’s Chuang Tzu.

835. Chuang counsels self-sufficiency, but not pride in accomplishment. It’s implied that since the Way can’t be known in its entirety, we shouldn’t presume to have met all its demands or to have followed it since we can’t verify our claims. Chuang’s basic approach is perspectivalist, but even that term seems inadequate since it invokes the “here/there” distinction that Chuang finds troubling. In his paradoxicality, he resembles the pre-Socratics, and his approach towards the misleading aspects of language and concepts seems quite similar to Nietzsche’s proto-deconstructive analyses many centuries later.

836. Lien Shu hears from Chien Wu about a “Holy Man living on faraway Ku-she Mountain.” He chides Chien Wu for not crediting the man’s perfection and wisdom. Such a man resists definition, he explains: in his perfections, such a sage remains aloof and refuses to be defined by things, events, or desire: “Though the age calls for reform, why should he wear himself out over the affairs of the world? There is nothing that can harm this man.”

837. Chuang Tzu tells a story about a traveler who made good money and achieved social advancement by buying the rights to a salve for chapped hands that the inventor had failed to capitalize on. The lesson here is that ingenuity pays. Chuang Tzu next explains that Hui Tzu’s shu tree is actually quite valuable in its uselessness, and has something to teach him: “If there’s no use for it, how can it come to grief or pain?” Chuang here seems to be setting forth an anti-utility, anti-purpose ethos. Hui Tzu should adapt himself to the tree’s being, not the other way around.

838-39. Tzu-ch’i’s views on desire are excellent. He suggests, I think, that openness to desire is fine, but we mustn’t try to ground our lives on attaining the object of our desires. We won’t find any false carpe diem claims in Chuang. He also says that “Great understanding is broad and unhurried; little understanding is cramped and busy,” and that those of little understanding “drown in what they do.” Is the body the key to understanding? Well, it doesn’t seem to be the case, based on what is said here: “Once a man receives this fixed bodily form he holds on to it, waiting for the end. Sometimes clashing with things, sometimes bending before them, he runs his course like a galloping steed, and nothing can stop him. Is he not pathetic?” (839) Are words vital? It’s not certain: “Words have something to say. But if what they say is not fixed, then do they really say something?” Or does the Way rest upon something other than these things? Tzu-ch’i says that the mind teaches itself: “If a man follows the mind given him and makes it his teacher, then who can be without a teacher?” (839) Evidently, Chuang’s is not Confucius’ “little accomplishments” philosophy: we find in Chuang a different definition of “the Way,” one suggesting it is not realizable in custom or society.

840-41. The paired categories “this” and “that,” says Tzu-ch’i, amount to conceptual slicing and dicing. The distinction-making into right and wrong (moral categories) stems from desire. But desire for what? For certainty and stability, comfort for mind and body. We humanize, anthropomorphize everything around us. Consider Nietzsche’s Apollo/Dionysus argument, in which both are of twin birth, like obverse/reverse. The similar point is that the sage embraces everything, and rejects only rejections implied by the distinction-makers and anthropomorphizers. So understanding should rest in what it doesn’t understand, and go by “the torch of chaos and doubt” (841 middle). All firm definitions of the Way are false. Heaven is the equalizer, and one should relegate all to “the constant” (840). Tzu-ch’i says, “A state in which ‘this’ and ‘that’ no longer find their opposites is called the hinge of the Way. When the hinge is fitted into the socket, it can respond endlessly. Its right then is a single endlessness and its wrong too is a single endlessness. So, I say, the best thing to use is clarity.” Difficult language, to be sure, but at times Chuang’s simplicity is remarkable: says Tzu-ch’i, “A road is made by people walking on it; things are so because they are called so. What makes them so? Making them so makes them so.” When people stop walking on a road, they stop calling it a road, and it isn’t a road anymore. There’s no need, therefore, to get fooled by abstract concepts into confusing words with the world itself. Not all philosophers would agree (if indeed I understand Chuang’s point correctly) that we can keep the two distinct, but the clarity of his remarks is excellent: he understands that “concepts” are impositions on things, not sufficient explanations for them.

842-43. Tzu-ch’i suggests that understanding should “rest in what it does not understand” (842) since “If the way is made clear, it is not the Way.” The sage embraces things, leaves things as they are: this simultaneous embracing and letting-be constitutes success. See 842 1/3, 843 near bottom. We should consider what this philosophy offers by rejecting rejections and the lure of facile concepts and oppositions. See 840 mid: making into one equals allowing, letting be. Tzu-ch’i says that “Ordinary men strain and struggle; the sage is stupid and blockish. He takes part in ten thousand ages and achieves simplicity in oneness. For him, all the ten thousand things are what they are, and thus they enfold each other.”

844-45. I believe that here Chuang is allowing his characters gently make fun of Confucius’ upbeat, social understanding of the Way, of its respect for rank. Chuang recognizes that you can’t look to society’s workings for the “natural order of things.” Why not? Because we humans are inveterate self-promoters, substituting our perspectives and desires for the world, swallowing up or vacuuming all else into our acts of definition and understanding. So who is the man: Chuang Chou or the dream butterfly? See 845 top.

845. The cook Ting teaches Lord Wen-hui something important. He follows the Way, he suggests, by simply doing what he does. His wondrously deft carving of an ox isn’t simply a matter of conscious technique: “After three years I no longer saw the whole ox. And now—now I go at it by spirit and don’t look with my eyes. Perception and understanding have come to a stop and spirit moves where it wants.”

846-47. The old tree’s uselessness—its resistance to men’s needs and desires—protects it. Carpenter Shih has learned to respect the forest, its way of remaining beyond our limitedness. The tree speaks to him in a dream and disinvites comparison, asking, “If I had been of some use, would I ever have grown this large? Moreover you and I are both of us things. What’s the point of this—things condemning things? You, a worthless man about to die—how do you know I’m a worthless tree?” Crippled Shu, too, remains outside the pale of usefulness, content to be unworthy of notice, though the philosopher notices him.

848-50. Master Sang-hu dies, and Confucius, in Chuang’s telling, sends condolences by Tzu-Kung. Confucius realizes that the man’s friends did not really need condolences. They sing and weave silkworm frames, and don’t lament. Confucius praises them for it, says that he, by contrast, stays in the realm, and thrives in the Way as fish in water: “Fish thrive in water, man thrives in the Way” (850). The emphasis on annulment of change sounds Confucian, but the kind of uncertainty Chuang embraces sounds very different. And singular Meng-sun? Well, he makes no distinctions but wails because others do. Confucius suggests that one may do well to “go along and forget about change” (850 bottom). I think he’s reasserting his perspective: go with, not against, the rites and customs. As for the Masters who didn’t need Confucius’ Hallmark-Card, is there a mild criticism here? Does their joy come from protest against death rather than calm acceptance? (Whitman’s “sane and sacred death.”) We recall Confucius’ willingness to indulge himself in “undue sorrow.”

852-53. Duke Huan learns a lesson about book-learning from the wheelwright P’ien: “When the men of old died, they took with them the things that couldn’t be handed down. So what you are reading there must be nothing but the chaff and dregs of the men of old.” So much for the Miltonic idea that “a book is a living thing,” I suppose. P’ien’s example of his “knack” for working with a chisel and mallet suggests that just as you can’t really teach people manual skills—they must learn for themselves, for the most part—there’s a great deal that can’t be captured in language.

854. Chuang Tzu is lectured in a dream by a skull on the rhythms of the living and the peacefulness of the dead. He had previously presumed to question this very skull, and had been using it as a pillow. But it’s clear that the skull thinks it has the best of the situation, and points out that life is full of troubles and tasks. It’s hard to see how the living could embrace this philosophy of nothingness and tranquility, but the passage seems to privilege the skull’s viewpoint.

858. The Yellow Emperor learns something about the nature of kingship from a boy tending to some horses: “Governing the empire I suppose is not much different from herding horses. Get rid of whatever is harmful to the horses—that’s all.” Stripping away the ceremony and flattery, the boy is suggesting, leaves the Emperor with this simple imperative as his guide.

Week 06, Plato, Classic of Poetry

Introduction to Plato

1. Socrates’ lineage as a philosopher allies him with his “pre-Socratic” predecessors who tried to provide explanations for natural phenomena without invoking the gods. To varying extents, Heraclitus and his fellows were trying to explain natural things in a natural way, not by enveloping them in mystery. Socrates sometimes speaks the language of fable and literature, but on the whole he’s a strong proponent of rational pursuit of truth.

His model of knowledge is similar to mathematics, which offers us irreproachable truths independent of empirical verification. Socrates himself, unlike Plato, doesn’t really advocate a systemic philosophy, though he seems certain that his method of questioning is the only way to arrive at the truth.

What kind of truth? Well, wisdom or understanding differs from the ordinary techne of craftsmen in that the latter don’t investigate first principles; they just start from the most convenient and practical place and go from there. They are pursuing practical ends, not trying to reason their way back to the essence of pottery or shoes. Which, of course, doesn’t keep them from asserting that they know all sorts of things they don’t—things far beyond the narrow limits of their craft. Socrates, however, is interested in finding out what virtue and the good are, not in what can be done with them in immediately practical terms.

The Platonic/Socratic way of philosophizing assumes a fundamental split between philosophical wisdom and the things and pursuits of this world. That willingness to split the world from philosophy is obviously problematical, but it results in an attractive emphasis on human potential and integrity: we admire the whimsical, yet lordly, figure of Socrates standing up to the vulgar mob that condemns him for exposing their stupidity. And isn’t exposing people’s ignorance a service, and therefore “practical” in the deepest sense? It is the beginning of education—we must be thrown back upon our own resources if we are ever to learn anything.

That’s what Socrates’ dialectic is meant to do: he rigorously tests individuals’ claims, and almost always finds those claims unsound. Such an experience should set people thinking on first principles and revive in them the knowledge they’ve forgotten, even if deeply rooted and traditional illusions keep them from getting to that point. People need illusions, we moderns have come with rue to admit—perhaps that’s what gets Socrates in trouble. Taking candy from babies may be easy, but it doesn’t make babies like you.

2. Socrates’ view of education can be summed up with a quip by Wilde: “nothing worth knowing can be taught.” In the dialogue Meno,Socrates shows how he has simply drawn geometrical knowledge from within a slave boy. Metempsychosis and anamnesis are the key terms here—we have always known what we know at present; it’s just that we need to recollect it and, if necessary, get rid of the illusions and other factors that may be getting in our way. The dialectic can stimulate us to make this recovery.

Contrast this view with the ordinary one that school is all about getting crammed chock full of facts so you can do well on tests. Our entire culture is geared towards that goal. Primary and secondary teachers are told to “teach to the tests” rather than emphasize the learning that Plato and Socrates advocate. The desire to make sure kids are learning is admirable, but I suspect that what we do at the primary and secondary level turns education into social control and makes it into little more than a bourgeois ticket to the good life—not an encounter with potentially life-transforming materials of any kind, whether in the sciences or humanities. Self-development of the modern post-romantic kind isn’t the agenda of Plato and Socrates, but they have something worthwhile to teach us about education—pardon the contradiction.

3. Chariot of the Soul: Refer to the Phaedrus as a segue from education to Socrates’ disdain for the multitude: the charioteer or soul must restrain the bad steed (base desire) and help the good steed (noble desire—something like emotion) set the right course in life. We are impelled towards our objects, but it makes all the difference which part of our passionate nature is doing the impelling. Plato figures the soul as tripartite, with one part being reason and the other two being more passionate: there’s mere appetite, and there’s the capacity to be moved by or towards something in a higher, more sustainable way.

4. Refer to the Analogy of the Cave to deal with the theory of the Forms and how it’s connected to the ignoble many versus the wise philosophical few. The mind needs to become acclimated to its surroundings—the cave-dwelling ignoramuses are blinded by the Truth, while the philosopher is blinded by the darkness upon reentering it to help others. At this point we can move to The Apology: here Socrates has been roped and dragged down into the Cave, and the natives are hostile. No wonder Socrates himself is defiant, though he doesn’t directly condemn his judges—that would be unkind and contradictory to his mission and his nature.

General Notes on The Apology of Socrates

Socrates may be a new kind of hero. Just as Plato participated in a shift from old ways of thinking to new ones—a scientific, rational method for apprehending truth—he does Socrates the honor of redefining the heroic ideal. Were it not for his sense of humor, Socrates would come across as almost Christ-like. Consider the famous words of Jesus, “my kingdom is not of this world.” Socrates is a man who lived his life ironically; indeed, Quintilian, in discussing figurative language, uses Socrates as an example of irony because he went around asking people questions and appearing to know nothing while at the same time carrying out his mission as the wisest of men. Socrates is a model citizen of Athens, a man who respects his city’s institutions though perhaps he doesn’t care much for the individuals in the assembly.

It will be necessary to explain Socratic dialectic (elenchus) because the method is not very evident in the dialog. It seems that the audience in the text is not worthy of the dialectic. On the one hand, the charges leveled against Socrates are true—they boil down to something like “Socrates tries to change our minds, and he makes us and our children uncertain of what we already know.” This is hardly a legal charge, although it has been falsely cast in legal terms. The accusers have made an extra-legal communal charge—there simply is no place for a man like Socrates in their version of Athens. Socrates must have known that Athenian law was not always pure or objective—consider, for example ostracism. It seems like a spiteful custom. Notice that Socrates assumes there is hostility against him and that such hostility is in fact a sign of his success. Well, Socrates was always a good citizen: he fought bravely in Athens’s wars, served on the Council during tough times, and yet he must have had no illusions about the impurity of Athenian democracy as a vehicle for truth or justice.

So Socrates limits his attempt to counter the charges against him to a few sallies that show their complete absurdity and contradictory nature. But showing how silly his opponents are isn’t really the point, and he doesn’t care about the outcome. After all, he is an old man and claims to have no great fear of death. The self-defense Socrates offers, therefore, does not seem much more serious in a legal sense then the accusations made against him. Socrates displays sublime calm in the face of peril.

Doesn’t Socrates invite his death? He demonstrates his role as a gadfly, stinging Meletus, Anytus, and all his accusers, humiliating them with a chuckle, answering his own rhetorical questions—none of these things would endear him to a jury of moralistic Athenians. In addressing his particular audience, Socrates deliberately annoys them, thus reminding them why they dislike him.

But there is a more serious side to Socrates in this dialogue. By his bearing, he reaffirms the rock-solid quality of the realm he supports—the realm of absolute ideals such as truth and justice. You can put truth and justice on trial, but you cannot win; they will redefine you and your society even if you despise them. Socrates demonstrates the faith all great revolutionaries have: faith in the power of a direct correspondence between their actions and their perception of truth. There is in such revolutionaries no wavering, no cheap rhetoric, no fear. Behind the bantering of Socrates, there is purifying fire, as evidenced by the occasional flashes of anger. Socrates is a man who suits his words to his audience, who knows their minds and treats them appropriately—but not in a way that compromises his ability to stay true to the mission given him by Apollo.

Socrates is a complex figure, not a simpleton. He remains a “stranger at the gates” of Athens, just as when Odysseus comes home to Ithaca, he is a stranger who must prove his worth anew. Socrates never tries to undermine the assembly or its decisions, so he remains a good citizen no matter what his accusers say. See the dialog Crito, where Socrates says he has no desire to escape and that he respects his city’s laws too much to do so. At the same time, as a philosopher he takes up a position outside all ordinary human justice because he knows that he is the man coming back down into the cave as in the parable, and so he cannot fully acclimate himself to the darkness of the assembly and the trial, nor can the judges in the assembly respond with anything but hostility to him. He will be judged on the basis of his entire career of peripatetic questioning. So now they have got him “pinned and wriggling on the wall,” to borrow from T. S. Eliot.

The point of the dialog, therefore, will be rather to respond with bemused dignity and with some measure of stoic indifference to his accusers. Plato casts Socrates as the quintessential Greek bearing up under pressure, responding actively to a fate imposed upon him by forces he cannot control. His only weapon is his mind, and he has been confronted with the brute power of an idiotic citizenry. In sum, Socrates falls victim to the tyranny of the majority—always a risk in a democratic system.

He upholds the principle of law as something transcendent, though here personified; that’s always a difficult case to make: we ourselves make such abstractions, a materialist might say, and so have difficulty maintaining them as truly independent of us—mention the idea that law is in fact part of the “superstructure,” a tissue of language that enforces codes pertaining to private property and citizens’ identity, conduct, and relations with other citizens.

Notes on The Classic of Poetry

“Fishhawk.” Who is the speaker? It seems that the speaker is collective, not individual. This poem isn’t a direct love lyric, but rather a communal lyric that asserts a harmony between the processes of nature and human emotions. The girl the speakers sing about is no doubt a maiden favored by the prince.

“Plums are Falling.” This is similar to the combined action/thought pattern in “he loves me, he loves me not” while plucking a flower. I find that it conveys a sense of how the mind turns even sharp observation of material acts and things to its own account. The woman in this poem is just picking fruit, but she’s thinking of something else. Marriages at this time would surely have been arranged, as they were in most ancient cultures, but the woman here suggests that she can assert at least an opinion, a kind of general desire for happiness and a “fine” husband. I’ve read that plum blossoms are symbols of courage and hope, heralds of the new year.

“Dead Roe Deer.” The situation here is in one way obvious, in another enigmatic. The maiden has been “led astray,” but how should we interpret her response to the situation? The dead deer perhaps symbolizes the girl’s loss of innocence. I’ve read that if one came across a dead deer, it was considered auspicious and proper to cover it as described in this poem, i.e. by wrapping it in white rushes.

“Boat of Cypress.” The poem is probably best understood as being about the speaker’s sense of betrayal at the hands of a lover. So how does the poem show the speaker dealing with her discontent? How is the leading image, the boat of cypress, related to the theme? Well, this image often (according to Arthur Waley) symbolizes the back-and-forth motion of a person’s intentions. The Odes, as Confucius will later say, help one compose oneself in such situations.

“Gentle Girl.” The poem is interesting in the sense that the girl is placed beyond all objects of the senses; she’s the very source of beauty. But at the same time the speaker, in the girl’s momentary (?) absence, concentrates on the material objects with which she is associated.

“Quince.” The exchanges aren’t equal materially—only the color of the gifts seems to make a rough match. But the love match is what matters. The man redefines objects for their symbolic value, and so a precious object can serve as proper “return” for an ordinary one, and vice versa. The Norton editors mention this poem to highlight the sense of egalitarianism that runs through these poems; as they put it, the gods don’t “play favorites,” and the Chou dynasty rulers seem to have respected the common people they ruled.

“Chung-Tzu, Please.” As the editors say, the poem is an offering of sorts to an overly excited lover. His behavior is a bit wild, and it’s a violation of decorum—the girl is becoming embarrassed about what her family and people in general might say about this manner of courtship. Reticence reigns even in revelation—the girl is enamored of Chung-Tzu, and the poem admits as much. She’s redefining his role as a lover, telling him how he must behave if he is to keep her affection and prosper in his suit. The material boundaries he crosses, the damage he does to the garden, violates her sense of belonging, her security. In ancient cultures generally, the individual’s sense of self is defined largely in relation to a communal order; a person’s “sense of self,” as we would say, is from the outset informed by the voices and opinions of respected others in the community. This way of understanding “personality” differs markedly from modern, post-romantic Western insistence on the uniqueness and radical autonomy of the individual. I would not care to overstate this argument since it’s foolish to suppose “people didn’t use to have a self way back when” (there’s truly “nothing new under the sun,” and the ancients could no doubt teach us a thing or two), but there’s a difference in emphasis to be reckoned on between ancient Chou culture and our own.

“I Went Along the Broad Road.” This short poem is apparently about a momentary meeting in the road between (in the first stanza) two old friends, and in the second, two former lovers. The speaker is concerned that no friendship or affair should ever be completely forgotten.

“Rooster Crows.” This poem is related to the traditional “dawn song,” as we would call it in western literature. Here, though, the point isn’t to curse the dawn for breaking the lovers’ idyllic time together; instead, the female speaker spurs the man on to go and do some work before he returns. I get the sense that these are courtly lovers, not peasants—the speaker has jewels to give, and they both will live the good life, replete with attendant harpers, fine wine and excellent food.

“Willows by the Eastern Gate.” Seems like an assignation had been set, but one partner didn’t keep it. The other’s mind remains fixed upon the place, wistfully or obsessively. The place knows nothing of the proposed meeting, but it is associated with the meeting in the speaker’s mind.

“She Bore the Folk.” Chiang or Jiang seems to have been one of those mortals who bears divine children to a god, in this case to the Jade Emperor, co-ruler of Heaven along with Jade Pure or Yuan-Shi-Tian-Zong. (See http://www.godchecker.com/ on Chinese Gods.) Lord Millet is her first-born of this god, and the boy grows up in a natural realm that both nourishes and abandons him. In turn, he establishes a close, productive relationship between ordinary mortals and the land that sustains them; Chou culture is agrarian, and this poem seems to be about the foundations of their society and political system. Lord Millet established the rites that the people still carry on with in the present time of the poem; their agricultural labor itself seems to be part of what is meant by “the rites.”