Exploring the Analects

Dig out an old report card. At the top, letter grades: English, history, math. Near the bottom, a stock phrase or two: "Works hard." "A pleasure to have in class." The things most of us would say matter more than diagramming a sentence — showing up, pulling your weight, keeping your word — got the stock phrase, because nobody knows how to test them. Twenty-five hundred years ago, Confucius set out four subjects, and only one of them would get a real grade in a modern school.In this twenty-fifth episode, host Elliott Bernstein reads passage 7.25 — 子以四教：文，行，忠，信, "The Master's four areas of instruction were: culture, conduct, commitment, and credibility." Culture and conduct were a curriculum, taught much the way we'd teach literature or team sports today. Commitment and credibility were something else. Confucius had no grades or codes of conduct for them: he lived them in front of his students, watched each one for years, and then gave his verdict.Two and a half millennia of commentators have argued over those four characters. Did he teach four subjects, or teach *with* them, as his own example? Why does 1.6 put conduct before culture when 7.25 puts culture first? Is it even a list of four, when 忠 and 信 nearly always travel as a pair? The Jin-dynasty critic 王若虛 decided the disciples simply wrote it down wrong. And underneath the whole argument sits an older one, between Mencius and 荀子, about human nature.Along the way: two and a half millena of commentators arguing over the proper order of those characters; 子路 swaggering in to meet Confucius only to be shown real wisdom; 閔子騫 and the winter coat stuffed with reed catkins; the eloquent student Confucius caught napping at midday; why the pine and cypress only show their worth when the year turns cold; and a translation of 忠 coinciding with the one the host's old college professor chose.Follow along with the episode guide at https://www.analects.net/ep/25

In this twenty-fourth episode, host Elliott Bernstein reads two passages about how Confucius carried himself around the bereaved. 7.9: "When with mourners, the Master would never eat his fill." 7.10: "On days he wept, the Master would not sing." Neither opens with the usual 子曰 — these aren't quotations but descriptions of conduct, recorded because his students thought the conduct was the teaching. As the Song commentator 馮椅 put it, in his own day these practices weren't being observed, but the Master observed them.The singing needs explaining more than the weeping does, and the answer is in the character: 樂 is music and 樂 is joy, the same graph read two ways. 荀子 said it flatly — as for the musical, it is joy. You don't bring joy into a room that has none.Along the way: hired professional mourners wailing on schedule, and why that showed sincerity rather than undercutting it; the 禮記 chapters that tell you where to weep for a father's friend versus an acquaintance; the three-hop leaps men performed to bound their grief before it turned to chaos; a minister who kept his mourning dress on to make a point and another who leaned on the gate and sang; and why 孟子 called Confucius the Timely Sage — not the man with all the answers, but the one always looking for the approach the moment called for.Follow along with the episode guide at analects.net.

In 1665, London's Lord Mayor ordered every stray dog and cat in the city killed to stop the plague. Those strays were the very thing hunting the rats whose fleas were spreading it. He was not negligent, and he was not malicious — he was wrong, and countless numbers may have died for it. So how do you judge a man like that?In this twenty-third episode, host Elliott Bernstein reads passages 4.3 and 4.4 — "Only the human-hearted are capable of loving people and capable of hating people," and "If you just set your will on human-heartedness, you will have no bad intentions." Both turn on 仁 (rén), human-heartedness: the first on those who possess it, the second on those merely aiming at it. And both turn on one troublesome character, 惡, read wù ("to hate") in one passage and è ("bad") in the other.Read the same way twice, the two passages flatly contradict each other. Robert Eno shrugs and blames the Analects' messy editorial history. The commentators refuse to: one camp, running from the Han scholar 孔安國 Kong Anguo to 朱熹 Zhu Xi, keeps the two readings and builds a ladder — merely stepping on it clears you of bad intent, but only the climb earns you the right to hate. The other, starting with 蘇轍 Su Zhe in the 11th century, insists it's hatred all the way through, and has to explain how a sage hates without animus.Along the way: a Han-dynasty murder mystery from the 春秋繁露 The Luxuriant Dew of The Spring and Autumn Annals about a duke who gave his throne to his brother and got two states at war for his trouble, the legal maxim 論心定罪 ("assess the heart to determine the crime"), why passage 17.24 lists hateful behaviors and never kinds of people to hate, and a nominalizer that works (until dogs and aliens develop human-heartedness).Follow along with the episode guide at https://www.analects.net/episodes/love-and-hate

Side quests are in every game these days. Help Bopeep find her sheep, track down 900 Korok seeds, spend twenty hours decorating a house you'll barely visit. They can be the best part of a game — but every hour spent on one is an hour not spent on the thing you actually set out to do. Confucius watched his own students wander off into farming, medicine, astronomy, and board games, and gave them eight characters about it.In this episode host Elliott Bernstein reads passage 2.16 — 攻乎異端，斯害也已, "Laboring along the byways—this is harmful indeed" — as a warning about detours. The byways are what commentators call the 小道 (small ways) and 他技 (other skills): everything that isn't the long road to becoming an exemplary person. None of them are wrong. The world needs farmers and doctors. They're just incompatible with the goal, and you only get one life to spend.But that's not how the passage has been read for most of its life. Around 500 CE 攻 flipped from "labor" to "attack," 異端 hardened into "perverse doctrines," and by the Ming a humble tone marker was reread as "stop" — converting a caution about distraction into official license to stamp out Buddhism, Daoism, and anything off-message. Two passages earlier, the Analects says the exemplary person is inclusive, not partisan.Along the way: why Confucius probably wouldn't have wanted his students to become professional musicians (in the Zhou, court musicianship was an occupation reserved for the blind), the ladder running from 君子 to 賢人 to 聖人 measured purely by how many lives you touch, a copy of the Analects sealed in a cave until 1973 that quietly undercuts the whole "attack" reading, and the lingering question of walnut oil.Follow along with the episode guide at https://www.analects.net/ep/22.

道不同，不相為謀 — seven characters Chinese speakers still use to tell someone it's time to go their separate ways. But did Confucius mean that people on different paths can't plan together, or that they shouldn't?In this twenty-first episode, host Elliott Bernstein works through passage 15.40 and the two readings that have divided it for two thousand years. In the neutral one, clashing goals simply make collaboration impossible — picture two partners who both love pizza but agree on nothing else, and part before the shop sours. In the moral one, canonized by 朱熹 (Zhū Xī), the passage warns the principled to keep away from the corrupt, whose influence is more dangerous than any wasted afternoon.Along the way: the Mencius on three sages who shared no single way but all kept their integrity, the 81 BCE Discourses on Salt and Iron and the finance minister who ran rhetorical circles around a room full of Confucians, why the character 論 ties the Analects to "principled discourse," and where nine English translators land between "cannot" and "should not."Follow along with the episode guide at analects.net/ep/21