Chapter Thirty-Seven: Interpretation

The so-called “interpretation of the classics” refers to elucidating the meaning of classical Confucian texts through annotated commentary. The key lies not in memorizing all the annotations, but in grasping the underlying principles of the classics and articulating them with clarity and literary grace.

Beyond this, there is the matter of calligraphy—an additional skill. Not only must one comprehend the meaning and philosophy, but the writing itself must be beautiful. This caused Li Sanjian much distress. While he could rely on his background in the old script, coupled with intelligence and diligence, to barely grasp the classics, calligraphy was not something to be mastered in a day. Without years or even decades of immersion, how could one achieve a hand both powerful and refined, with strokes that seem to leap off the page?

Thus, as he studied, Li Sanjian also practiced his calligraphy as best he could, so his writing would not appear unsightly.

A book or a phrase could be understood in light of earlier commentaries, yet there are many interpretations of any given Confucian passage. One must discern the correct understanding among them and provide an explanation.

The essence of interpretation lies in the “opening statement.” The best openings are concise, direct, and pregnant with meaning. A superior essay opens in one or two sentences; next best, in three; worse, in four. If the introduction rambles on before stating the topic, the examiner may discard your paper outright.

The words of the opening are the skeleton of the essay; nothing superfluous, everything to be echoed later. This forms the basic framework of a composition.

In addition, there are steps such as identifying the subject, elaborating on it, formulating an argument, and crafting one’s language.

“The Master said: ‘The fact that the barbarians have rulers is not as good as the states of the Central Plain having none.’”

Professor Huang Huan of the Lingshan County Academy in Qinzhou slowly recited the topic for the public examination.

Li Sanjian found it quietly amusing—he had submitted his methods of punctuation to Huang Huan, who now read them aloud to the class, as if afraid the other students might not understand.

But it was understandable. Huang Huan could master these punctuation methods swiftly, but the other students’ abilities varied widely. This approach was, in fact, quite effective.

It also signified that Huang Huan had recognized Li Sanjian’s punctuation method. Compared to the past, this way of punctuating allowed county students to more easily and quickly comprehend the meaning of the classics.

The exam topic, chosen by Huang Huan, was taken from the “Eight Rows” chapter of the Analects.

To interpret the classics, one must first understand the meaning of the sentence. Li Sanjian silently translated it in his mind.

The “Eight Rows” refers to sixty-four people. “Row” means a line or rank; one row is eight people, so eight rows is sixty-four. According to the Rites of Zhou, only the Son of Heaven could have eight rows; feudal lords had six, high officials four, and scholars two. This pertains to the rules of ritual.

Li Sanjian understood the sentence as: even though the barbarians have a ruler, it is not as good as the Central States having none.

Of course, that is only the literal meaning. To truly penetrate the classics, one must grasp the overall intention and not quote out of context. Partial understanding yields only a fragment of truth and ultimately falls short.

To probe the meaning of “the barbarians have rulers, but the Central States have none,” one must analyze the entire “Eight Rows” chapter.

The whole chapter discusses ritual and music, directly addressing the collapse of proper rites and music. The first section mentions the Ji family’s usurpation of ritual by using the Son of Heaven’s eight rows of dancers. It then describes the Meng, Shu, and Ji families performing the Son of Heaven’s music at the end of their ancestral sacrifices, which was a grave violation.

These three families were ministers of the state of Lu who brazenly transgressed ritual and music. In such circumstances, Confucius was deeply dissatisfied and asked: “If a man is without benevolence, what use are ritual and music to him?”

A man without benevolence—of what use are the rites? Of what use is music?

This was Confucius’s central thesis in the chapter.

He believed the root of the Lu ministers’ transgressions was a lack of benevolence.

Facing a world where the rites had collapsed, Confucius advocated for restoring ritual and music culture. To understand his intent, one must consider the state of the Zhou court at the time.

Since the Eastern migration of the Zhou, the Son of Heaven’s authority waned; by the Spring and Autumn period, the power of the feudal lords had overtaken the court, and the Zhou dynasty was a shadow of its former self. Confucius thus called for a restoration of ritual and music, a return to proper order, and respect for the king while resisting the barbarians.

“Even the barbarians still have a ruler, but the Central States have none…” Li Sanjian pondered deeply and found the crux of the matter. He picked up his brush to write his opening—a paired couplet, succinct and direct, as is customary in expository essays.

He then elaborated his view and interpretation of the passage.

Li Sanjian wrote that after the southern migration of the Zhou court, royal authority declined, the feudal lords of the Spring and Autumn period rose and contended for supremacy, and ritual and music collapsed. Within the states, the rulers were weak, ministers wielded the power, and so the Ji family of Lu usurped the eight-row dance, offered sacrifices to Mount Tai, performed rituals without sincerity, and governed privately, with no respect for the sovereign. Consequently, disorder followed.

He argued that Confucius’s intention was to restore the ancient rites and music, to revive the civilization of the Three Dynasties, while the Ji family’s actions ran counter to this.

The barbarians, though simple, maintained a hierarchy of ruler and subject, while the Central States were steeped in disorder, with no regard for the sovereign and the collapse of ritual and music. The phrase “the barbarians have rulers, but the Central States have none” ultimately means that the barbarians still preserve the distinction between ruler and subject, while the Central States are mired in chaos, their order destroyed.

“The world belongs to all its people. It is not for north or south, center or border to monopolize. Shun came from the eastern barbarians, King Wen from the western tribes—should we then divide the world by east and west? The legitimate line must always have its source!”

With this final sentence, Li Sanjian’s essay took a sharp turn, delivering a pointed irony at Confucius.

In the quoted Analects passage, Confucius clearly expresses a “barbarian” perspective, drawing a boundary between the Huaxia and outsiders.

Li Sanjian’s father was Han, but his mother was from the Li people—regarded by the world as barbarians, or at least half so.

This left Li Sanjian with a deep sense of distaste. If wise rulers of old could embrace the barbarians, why should Confucius insist on drawing such lines?

Li Sanjian’s recent ability to compose essays was closely tied to a dream he’d had; he had begun to recall his past, or rather, he had inherited some of the old Li Sanjian’s skills. His father, Li Qing, had earnestly instructed him, and his mother, Lady Fu, had lavished him with care and affection. Thus, the present Li Sanjian had merged with the former, though the old Li Sanjian had been feebleminded and his memory scant. Nevertheless, Li Qing’s force-feeding method had enabled him to recognize most characters and acquire much knowledge.

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“Even the barbarians still have a ruler, but the Central States have none…”

After the exam came the selection of the best essays. Those recognized as the best at the county academy could be recommended to the prefectural academy, and from there, possibly enter the Imperial Academy.

After reading Li Sanjian’s essay, the county academician Zeng Bin could not help but exclaim, “Marvelous! It has been long since I have read such a superb essay—penetrating in its interpretation… but this handwriting…”

Indeed, Li Sanjian’s calligraphy was utterly ordinary—so plain it would disappear in a crowd.

Yet his interpretation of the classics was accurate and original, standing apart from other students who merely cited or copied past commentaries.

Most crucially, Li Sanjian offered his own insights, expressing them with clarity and logic.

“The world belongs to all its people. It is not for north or south, center or border to monopolize. Shun came from the eastern barbarians, King Wen from the western tribes—should we then divide the world by east and west? The legitimate line must always have its source…” When Huang Huan read Li Sanjian’s closing sentence, he shook his head, saying, “He even dares to mock the Sage?”

The assembled scholars, after a moment’s pause, burst out laughing.

They were all well aware that Li Sanjian’s mother was from the Li people; it was clearly stated in his records.

They thought him somewhat impetuous and youthful, but this was only natural—he was, after all, not yet fifteen.

At the same time, they were astonished that such an essay could come from one so young.

“Who should be selected as the best this time?” Huang Huan asked.

“It can be none other than Li Sanjian from Danzhou,” Zeng Bin replied.

This time, the outstanding essays came from Li Sanjian, Sima Du, and Zeng Gong. Zeng Gong was Zeng Bin’s nephew. Being a man of integrity, Zeng Bin avoided favoritism and recommended Li Sanjian; besides, Zeng Gong’s essay was not as good.

“Li Sanjian’s essay is brilliant, but his calligraphy is just too… mediocre,” objected a scholar surnamed Zhang. “Sima Du’s essay is equally outstanding, with clear interpretation and fine calligraphy. Every exam, he ranks at the top. I believe Sima Du should be chosen this time as well.”

If Li Sanjian surpassed Sima Du and was chosen as an outstanding student, and did so again in subsequent exams, he might well replace Sima Du in the prefectural academy. This made the scholar rather anxious.

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“Hanjian, we wish to recommend you for study at the prefectural academy. What do you think?” Huang Huan said to Li Sanjian.

The prefectural academy? Li Sanjian was surprised—wasn’t the spot already reserved for Sima Du? Why was Huang Huan now proposing this?

Li Sanjian knew well the benefits: entry to the prefectural academy was but a step from the Imperial Academy, and in scale, library, and student privileges, it far surpassed the county academy.

Faced with such temptation, how should Li Sanjian decide?