The Kongs of Lu were common gentlemen (shi) with none of the hereditary entitlements their ancestors had once enjoyed in Song. The common gentlemen of the late Zhou dynasty could boast of their employability in the army or in any administrative position—because they were educated in the six arts of ritual (see below Teachings of Confucius), music, archery, charioteering, writing, and arithmetic—but in the social hierarchy of the time they were just a notch higher than the common folk. Confucius’s father, Shu-liang He, had been a warrior and served as a district steward in Lu, but he was already an old man when Confucius was born. A previous marriage had given him nine daughters and a clubfooted son, and so it was with Confucius that he was finally granted a healthy heir. But Shu-liang He died soon after Confucius’s birth, leaving his young widow to fend for herself. 

Confucius was candid about his family background. He said that, because he was “poor and from a lowly station,” he could not enter government service as easily as young men from prominent families and so had to become “skilled in many menial things” (Analects [Lunyu], 9:6). He found employment first with the Jisun clan, a hereditary family whose principal members had for many decades served as chief counselors to the rulers of Lu. A series of modest positions with the Jisuns—as keeper of granaries and livestock and as district officer in the family’s feudal domain—led to more important appointments in the Lu government, first as minister of works and then as minister of crime.

Records of the time suggest that, as minister of crime, Confucius was effective in handling problems of law and order but was even more impressive in diplomatic assignments. He always made sure that the ruler and his mission were well prepared for the unexpected and for situations that might put them in harm’s way; he also knew how to advise them to bring a difficult negotiation to a successful conclusion. Yet he held his office for only a few years. His resignation was the result of a protracted struggle with the hereditary families—which, for generations, had been trying to wrestle power away from the legitimate rulers of Lu. Confucius found the actions of the families transgressive and their ritual indiscretions objectionable, and he was willing to fight by fair means or foul to have the power of the ruler restored. A major clash took place in 498 BCE. A plan to steer the families toward self-ruin backfired. The heads of the families suspected Confucius, and so he had no choice but to leave his position and his home.
The self-exile took Confucius on a long journey: first to Wei, the state just west of Lu, then southward to the state of Song, and finally to the states of Chen and Cai. The journey lasted 14 years, and Confucius spent much of that time looking for rulers who might be willing to accept his influence and be guided by his vision of virtuous government. Although his search was ultimately in vain, he never gave up, because he was eager for someone to “put me to use” (Analects, 17:5). He said to those who found his ambitions suspect, “How can I be like a bitter gourd that hangs from the end of a string and can not be eaten?” (Analects, 17:7).

Confucius was emboldened to think that he could set things right in the world, because he was born at a time when such aspirations were within the reach of men living in circumstances similar to his. By the mid-6th century BCE the Zhou dynasty was approaching its 500th year. The political framework that the dynastic founders had put in place—an enfeoffment system held together by family ties—was still standing, but the joints had been giving out since the beginning of the Spring and Autumn Period, and so the structure, if not shored up, was in danger of collapse. The regional rulers, who were relatives of the Zhou king, should have been his strongest supporters, but they preferred to pursue their own ambitions. In the century before Confucius’s birth, two or three of them simply acted on behalf of the king, and under their watch the empire managed to hold itself together and to keep enemies at bay. By Confucius’s time, however, such leaders had disappeared. No one among the regional rulers was interested in the security of the empire or the idea of the greater good. Petty feuds for petty gains consumed most of their time, while lethargy took up the rest. The same could be said of the members of the aristocratic class, who had once aided their ruler in government. Now they were gaining the upper hand, and some were so brazen as to openly compete with their ruler for wealth and women. Their apathy and ineptitude, however, allowed the common gentlemen—men like Confucius, who had once been in their service—to step in and take charge of the administrative functions of the government.
The common gentlemen, at this point, still could not displace the aristocrats as the society’s elite. Yet, if they worked hard enough and were smart, they could exert influence in most political contests. But the more discerning among them set their goals higher. They saw an opportunity to introduce a few new ideas about worth (xian) and nobleness (shang)—which, they felt, could challenge assumptions that had been used to justify the existing social hierarchy. They asked whether ability and strength of character should be the measures of a person’s worth and whether men of noble rank should be stripped of their titles and privileges for incompetence and moral indiscretion. Those who posed such questions were not merely seeking to compete in the political world. They wanted to change unspoken rules so as to favour the virtuous and the competent. This, in part, explains what Confucius was trying to teach. He believed that the moral resolve of a few could have a beneficial effect on the fate of the many. But integrity alone, in his view, would not be enough. Good men had to be tested in politics: they should equip themselves with knowledge and skills, serve their rulers well, and prove their worth through their moral influence.
The man Confucius looked back to for inspiration and guidance was Zhougong (the Duke of Zhou)—a brother of the founder of the Zhou dynasty and the regent of the king’s young son Chengwang. Despite the temporal distance between them, Confucius believed that he and the Duke of Zhou wanted the same thing for the dynasty: social harmony and political stability grounded in trust and mutual moral obligations, with minimal resort to legal rules. But the Duke of Zhou was royalty and Confucius was a professional bureaucrat, which meant that he had limited political authority. And even the authority he possessed was transient, depending on whether he had a government job. Without an official position, Confucius also would not be entitled (for example) to host a feast, to assist a ruler in a sacrifice, or to take part in any of the occasions that were the living components of the political order that the Duke of Zhou had envisioned and Confucius strongly endorsed. Thus, Confucius was distressed when he was unemployed—anxious about not being of use to the world and about not having material support. Men who knew him on his travels wondered whether his eagerness for a political position might have led him to overplay his hand and whether he had compromised his principles by allowing disreputable men and women to act as his intermediaries. His critics included the three or four of his disciples who accompanied him on his exile.

Confucius’s disciples were considerably younger than him. He did not actively recruit them when he was a counselor in Lu. He did not found any school or academy. Young men from a wide range of backgrounds—sons of aristocrats, children of common gentlemen, merchants, farmers, artisans, and even criminals and sons of criminals—chose to attach themselves to him in order to learn from him skills that might get them started on a path toward an official career. In the process, they acquired a lot more: in particular, a gentleman’s refinement and moral acuity, which in Confucius’s mind were essential to a political profession. Confucius was the “master” (zi) to these followers, who called themselves his “disciples” or “apprentices” (tu). Among his earliest disciples, three stood out: Zigong, Zilu, and Yan Hui.

Zigong had been a merchant before becoming Confucius’s disciple. He was articulate and shrewd and quick on his feet. Confucius observed in him a resolve to improve his lot and the promise of becoming a fine diplomat or a financial manager. He enjoyed Zigong’s company because Zigong was someone with whom he could share his thoughts about the world and the people they knew and about poetry and ritual practices (Analects, 11:3; 1:15; 11:19; 5:9).

Zilu, unlike Zigong, was rough and unhewn, a rustic man. Confucius knew that Zilu would do anything to protect him from harm: “wrestle a tiger with his bare hands” or “follow him on the open sea in a bamboo raft.” Yet, Confucius felt, simply being brave and loyal was “hardly the way to be good,” because, without the advantage of thought and a love for learning, people would not be able to know whether their judgment had been misguided or whether their actions might lead them and others onto a perilous road, if not a violent end (Analects, 5:7; 7:11). Still, Confucius took Zilu in, for he was someone “who did not feel ashamed standing next to a man wearing fox or badger fur while himself dressed in a tattered gown padded with silk floss” and who was so reliable that “by speaking from just one side of a dispute” in a court of law he could “bring a legal dispute to a conclusion” (Analects, 9:27; 12:12). Besides, Confucius did not deny instruction to anyone who wanted to learn and was unwilling to give up when trying to solve a difficult problem. In return, he expected nothing more than a bundle of dried meat as a gift (Analects, 7:7).
Yet even that modest offer was probably beyond the means of another disciple, Yan Hui, who was from a poor family and who was content with “living in a shabby neighborhood on a bowlful of millet and a ladleful of water” (Analects, 6:11). No hardship or privation could have distracted him from his love of learning and his desire to know the good. Yan Hui was Confucius’s favourite, and, when he died before his time, Confucius was so bereft that other disciples wondered whether such a display of emotion was appropriate. To this their teacher responded, “If not for this man, for whom should I show so much sorrow?” (Analects, 11:9; 11:10).

It was these three—Zigong, Zilu, and Yan Hui—who followed Confucius on his long journey into the unknown. In doing so, they left behind not only their homes and families but also career opportunities in Lu that could have been gainful.

Their first stop was the state of Wei. Zilu had relatives there who could have introduced Confucius to the state’s ruler. There were others, too—powerful men in the ruler’s service—who knew of Confucius’s reputation and were willing to help him. But none of these connections landed Confucius a job. Part of the problem was Confucius himself: he was unwilling to pursue any avenues that might obligate him to those who could bring him trouble rather than aid. Also, the ruler of Wei was not interested in finding a capable man who could offer him counsel. Moreover, he had plenty of distractions—conflicts with neighbouring states and at home in Wei—to fill his time. Still, Confucius was patient, waiting four years before he was granted an audience. But the meeting was disappointing: it only confirmed what Confucius already knew about this man’s character and judgment. Soon after their encounter, the ruler died, and Confucius saw no further reason to remain in Wei. Thus, he headed south with his disciples.
Before reaching the state of Chen, his next stop, two incidents along the road nearly took his life. In one, a military officer, Huan Tui, tried to ambush Confucius as he was passing through the state of Song. In another, he was surrounded by a mob in the town of Kuang, and for a time it looked as though he might be killed. These incidents were not spontaneous but were the machinations of Confucius’s enemies. But who would have wanted him dead, and what could he have done to provoke such reactions? Historians in later eras speculated about the causes and resolutions of these crises. Although they never found an adequate explanation for Huan Tui’s action, some suggested that the mob of Kuang mistook Confucius for someone else. In any event, the Analects, the most reliable source on Confucius’s life, records only what Confucius said at those moments when he realized that death might be imminent. “Heaven has given me this power—this virtue. What can Huan Tui do to me!” was his response after he learned about Huan Tui’s plan to ambush him (Analects, 7:23). His utterance at the siege of Kuang conveyed even greater confidence that Heaven would stand by him. He said that with the founder of the Zhou dynasty dead, this man’s cultural vestiges “are invested in me.” And since “Heaven has not destroyed this culture” and does not intend to do so, it will look after the cultural heirs of the Zhou. Thus, Confucius declaimed, “What can the people of Kuang do to me?” (Analects, 9:5).

Emboldened by his purpose, Confucius continued his journey to Chen, where he spent three uneventful years. Eventually, a major war between Chen and a neighbouring state led him to journey west toward the state of Chu, not knowing that another kind of trial was awaiting him. This time, “the provisions ran out,” and “his followers became so weak that none of them could rise up on their feet” (Analects 15:2). The brief account in this record prompted writers in later centuries to speculate about how Confucius might have behaved in this situation. Was he calm or vexed? How did he talk to his disciples? How did he help them come to terms with their predicament? And which disciple understood him best and offered him solace? None of these stories could claim veracity, but, taken together, they humanized the characters involved and filled, if only imaginatively, the gaps in the historical sources.

Confucius and his companions went only as far as a border town of Chu before they decided to turn back and retrace their steps, first to Chen and then to Wei. The journey took more than three years, and, after reaching Wei, Confucius stayed there for another two years. Meanwhile, two of his disciples, Zigong and Ran Qiu, decided to leave Confucius in Wei and accept employment in the government of Lu. At once Zigong proved his talent in diplomacy, and Ran Qiu did the same in warfare. It was probably these two men who approached the ruler and the chief counselor of Lu, asking them to make a generous offer to Confucius to entice him back. Their plan worked. The Zuozhuan (“Zuo Commentary”), an early source on the history of this period (see below Classic works), notes that, in the 11th year of the reign of Duke Ai of Lu (484 BCE), a summons from the duke arrived along with a gift of a handsome sum. “Thereupon, Confucius returned home.”

After his return, Confucius did not seek any position in the Lu government. He did not have to. The present ruler and his counselors regarded him as the “state’s elder” (guolao). They either approached him directly for advice or used his disciples as intermediaries. The number of his disciples multiplied. The success of Zigong and Ran Qiu must have enhanced his reputation as a person who could prepare young men for political careers. But those who were drawn to him for this reason often found themselves becoming interested in questions other than how to advance in the world (Analects, 2:18). Some asked about the idea of virtue, about the moral requisites for serving in government, or about the meanings of phrases such as “keen perception” and “clouded judgment” (Analects, 12:6; 12:10). Others wanted to know how to pursue knowledge and how to read abstruse texts for insights (Analects, 3:8). Confucius tried to answer these questions as best as he could, but his responses could vary depending on the temperament of the interlocutor, leading to confusion among his students when they tried to compare notes (Analects, 11:22). This way of instructing was wholly in tune with what Confucius believed to be the role of a teacher. A teacher could only “point out one corner of a square,” he said; it was up to the students “to come back with the other three” (Analects, 7:8). To teach, therefore, is “to impart light” (hui): to provide guidance to students and to entice them forward, so that even when they are tired and dispirited, even when they want to give up, they cannot. In a similar vein, Confucius said of himself, “I am the sort of man who forgets to eat when trying to solve a problem, who is so joyful that I forget my worries and do not become aware of the onset of old age” (Analects, 7:19).

When old age did arrive, Confucius discovered that the act of holding his conduct and judgment to the right measure no longer bore him down. “At 70,” he said, “I followed what my heart desired without overstepping the line” (Analects, 2:4). This, however, did not mean that Confucius was free of care. Historians and philosophers in later centuries typically portrayed a careworn Confucius in his final days. Yet he still rejoiced in life because life astonished him, and the will in all living things to carry on in spite of setbacks and afflictions inspired him. It was the pine and the cypress Confucius admired most, because “they are the last to lose their needles” (Analects, 9:28). He died at the age of 73 on the 11th day of the fourth lunar month in the year 479 BCE.

The Analects is the work most closely associated with Confucius. It is a record of his life in fragments, collected into 20 sections. The sections contain descriptions of his character, deportment, and moments of his life in exile or at home in Lu; bits of conversations he had with his disciples and other people he knew; and remarks spoken in his voice but often in the absence of a context. Without the aid of commentaries, this work—which also lacks any apparent organization—can be misleading or discouraging for some readers. Yet, with patience and attentiveness, it is possible to glean from the gathered pieces flashes of Confucius’s genius and the elements of his humanity. The Analects probably took shape within the first century after Confucius’s death. A handful of younger disciples—who make their appearances rather forcefully at the beginning and the end of the work—could have initiated the project, but it took another 200–300 years of tinkering—with some passages being omitted and others appended or modified—before the text settled into its present form. Material evidence of the age of the standard text emerged from the ground in 1973, when archaeologists opened the tomb of the prince of Zhongshan (Liu Xiu, also known as King Huai), a relative of the Han emperor Wudi. The tomb, dated to 55 BCE, was discovered in Hebei province about 100 miles south of Beijing. The Analects, written on bamboo strips, was included among the grave objects that accompanied the prince to his afterlife.

A second work that is central to the study of Confucius and his thought is the Zuo Zhuan (“Zuo Commentary”). Although it is a commentary on the Chunqiu, the official annals of the state of Lu covering the Spring and Autumn Period, it does more than provide background and narrative structure for the events listed chronologically in the annals. The Zuo writer probably had at his disposal a wide range of scribal records, the most important of which were speeches of rulers and counselors and of men and women who had played a role in the political fate of their families and their states during the late Zhou dynasty. The best of these speeches reflect the characters of the speakers and the cultural practices that guided their moral decision making. They also throw light on Confucius’s intellectual ancestry and the roots of his moral thinking. Confucius never professed to be an original thinker. He said, “I transmit but do not innovate. I love antiquity and have faith in it” (Analects, 7:1). The Zuo Zhuan offers a view of China in the 200 years before Confucius’s birth, which was not the antiquity Confucius had in mind. But when one reads it together with the early classics on rites (see below Teachings of Confucius), poetry, and history, it can take one to the knowledge that Confucius intended to transmit.

The third source is a long biography of Confucius written in the 1st century BCE. The author, Sima Qian, is China’s most distinguished historian, and the biography remains the standard in Chinese historiography. Even though later scholars did not find all his stories believable and saw logistical problems in his account of Confucius’s travels, they were willing to overlook such questions because of Sima Qian’s rare talent for improving the records imaginatively and reconstructing the interior lives of his subjects. In his biography of Confucius, Sima Qian tried to work mostly with the Analects, grouping individual utterances together to make them cohere and expanding isolated episodes by adding more characters and action. The biography was not altogether elegant or persuasive, but it was the earliest attempt to thread together into a continuous narrative the fragments in the Analects and the stories about Confucius that had been circulating through the works of historians and philosophers in the 300 years since his death.

Teachings of Confucius
Confucius thought that the rites, or ritual (li)—encompassing and expressing proper human conduct in all spheres of life—could steady a man and anchor a government and that their practice should begin at home. “Give your parents no cause for worry other than your illness,” he said. “When your parents are alive, do not travel to distant places, and if you have to travel, you must tell them exactly where you are going” (Analects, 2:6, 4:19). But what if your parents are thinking of doing something wrong? “Be gentle when trying to dissuade them from wrongdoing,” Confucius advised. “If you see that they are inclined not to heed your advice, remain reverent (jing). Do not openly challenge them. Do not be resentful even when they wear you out and make you anxious” (Analects, 4:18). Every human relationship is a balancing act, and the one between child and parents is the most demanding yet the most deserving of attention and patience, because it is rooted in love and the child’s earliest memories of warmth and affection. Confucius did not want children to be acquiescent in situations that call for their judgment. At the same time, he discouraged confrontation even when the parents are culpable. He worried that parents might lose their sense of proportion and their child’s affection for them, and so he urged the child to “remain reverent” even if the parents are not inclined to heed the child’s advice. The rites, therefore, enable the child to avoid a clash without having to betray principles. But unless the child “acts according to the spirit of the rites, in being respectful, he will tire himself out; in being cautious, he will become timid” (Analects, 8:2).

In the eyes of his contemporaries, Confucius was someone who embodied that spirit. They observed that “at court when he was speaking with the counselors of the lower rank, he was relaxed and affable. When speaking with counselors of the higher rank, he was frank but respectful. And in the ruler’s presence, though he was filled with reverence and awe, he was perfectly composed” (Analects,10:2).

The spirit of the rites is the ineffable, and, therefore, different from prescribed rules. It awaits the person with knowledge and awareness and skills in deportment to put it into motion, for every occasion is different. The circumstances change, and they change even as the occasion unfolds. Thus, when Confucius was inside the temple of the Duke of Zhou, “he asked questions about everything”; he knew the procedures of the sacrifice, yet he still approached the rites as if he were performing them for the first time. “Asking questions,” he said, “is the correct practice of the rites” (Analects, 3:15).

An education in the Odes, the earliest collection of Chinese poetry, complements an education in the rites. The Odes “can give the spirit exhortation, the mind keener eyes,” Confucius said. “They can make us better adjusted in a group and more articulate when voicing a complaint” (Analects, 17:9). He told his son, “Unless you learn the Odes, you won’t be able to speak” (Analects, 16:13). Just as the legendary sage emperor Shun (c. 23rd century BCE) told the director of music to teach the children poetry—to let the poems become their voice—so that “the straightforward shall yet be gentle, the magnanimous shall yet be dignified”—Confucius, too, hoped that the Odes would become his son’s speech, because such utterances are always appropriate and so will “never swerve from the path” (Analects, 2:2). For him, a love poem from the Odes, called Guanju (“Fishhawk”), best illustrates this point. The poem tells the reader that in yearning for the woman he desired, the wooer did not suffer unduly, and in courting his lady, he did not make a vulgar display of his feelings. The poem reads: “With harps we bring her company,” and “with bells and drums do her delight.” Of the tone and sentiment in this poem, Confucius said, “There is joy but no immodest thoughts, sorrow but no self-injury” (Analects, 3:20).

The music Confucius loved best was the ancient music known as shao. When he first heard it, he said, “I never imagined that music could be this beautiful,” and “for the next three months he did not notice the taste of meat” (Analects, 7:14). The music of shao is associated with the story of how Shun ascended to power upon the decision of Emperor Yao (c. 24th century BCE), Shun’s predecessor, to abdicate in favour of a man who grew up in the wilds but whose love for virtue was like the rush of a torrent. According to the Shujing, a compilation of documents related to China’s early history, when the music was played in the court of Emperor Shun, not only men but gods and spirits, birds and beasts were drawn to it. Such was the power of music that embodied the tenor and vehicle of a moral government.

Whereas Confucius looked upon music as the culmination of culture—of notes “bright and distinct” gathering in fluency and harmony—the Confucian philosopher Mencius (c. 371–c. 289 BCE) took the idea in another direction, seeing it as a trope of Confucius’s achievements (Analects, 3:23). In the work most closely associated with him (the Mencius), Mencius said that only Confucius could advance or retreat, serve or not serve “according to circumstances” and in a timely fashion, and, like a symphony perfectly brought together, “from the ringing of bells at the beginning to the sound of the jade tubes at the end,” there was an internal order (Mencius, 5B:1). The order found in the music of shao or in the conduct of a person suggests the ultimate good, but it is not an abstract idea, for it effects an emotional pull—a gravitating toward the music or the person possessing it. It has a kind of magic because it reflects a rightness in sound or in human deliberation. And this rightness of expression or intent serves a higher ideal, which Confucius called humaneness (ren).

When his disciple Zigong asked him what is humaneness, Confucius replied, “Do not impose on others what you do not want [others to impose on you]” (Analects, 15:24). A humane man is someone who is able “to make analogies from what is close at hand” (Analects, 6:30). He uses this knowledge to imagine the humanity in others, and he relies on his learning of rites and music to hold him to the right measure. Confucius was often asked whether someone was humane, and in response he always gave a careful assessment of the person’s strengths. He would say, for example, that the man “did his best” in fulfilling his public duty, “had administrative talents,” or “wanted nothing to defile him”—but such virtue, he would add, did not imply that the man was humane (Analects, 5:8; 5:19). In fact, Confucius claimed that he had never met anyone who was truly humane. This, however, did not mean that humaneness was beyond reach. “As soon as I desire humaneness, it is here,” he said, and everyone he had come across had sufficient strength “to devote all his effort to the practice of humaneness” (Analects, 7:30; 4:6). Humaneness “is beautiful (mei),” and most people are drawn to it, yet, Confucius observed, few will choose to pursue it (Analects, 4:1; 4:6). That resistance suggests a rich and more complex notion of human nature, without which morality could not come into play. And, as his disciple Zengzi (505–436 BCE) said, only the strong and resolute are game for the quest, because “the road is long” and “ends only with death.” (Analects, 8:7).

Confucius gave his teachings on humaneness a political dimension, though they seemed to be intended for the self. He observed that Emperor Shun was able to order the world simply by perfecting his own humanity and by cultivating a respectful demeanour. “If you set an example by correcting your mistakes, who dares not to correct his mistakes?” he asked the counselor Jikangzi. “Just desire the good and the people will be good. The character of those at the top is like that of the wind. The character of those below is like that of grass. When wind blows over the grass, the grass is sure to bend” (Analects, 12:17; 12:19). But when asked what should come first when administrating a state, he said “trust” (xin). If a ruler’s words and actions do not inspire trust, Confucius asserts, his government will certainly perish, even though he might ensure enough food to feed the people and adequate arms to defend them (Analects, 12:7). Confucius thought that the classic enfeoffment system of the early Zhou dynasty came very close to an ideal government because it was grounded in the trust between the Zhou emperor in the west and the relatives he sent east with vested authority to create new colonies for the young empire. Such a government, reinforced with the civilizing powers of rites and music, does not need complex laws and edicts to keep the people in check. Confucius said, “Guide the people with ordinances and statutes and keep them in line with [threats of] punishment, they will try to stay out of trouble but will have no sense of shame. If you guide them with exemplary virtue and keep them in line with the practice of the rites, they will have sense of shame and will know to reform themselves” (Analects, 2:3).