The Teaching of “Chinese Philosophy” in Sinology Studies

I must confess right at the beginning of this short article that I never studied philosophy at university. The little I know about philosophy I owe to self-study and interested reading. So, may someone who has no formal philosophical training teach “Chinese Philosophy” at university at all? Wouldn’t it perhaps be more appropriate—and in keeping with the current Zeitgeist (namely the endeavor to use politically correct language, not to mention cancel culture) to refer to an “Introduction to Chinese thought” or an “Intellectual history of China”?

There is also another problem: Chinese philosophy plays no role whatsoever in the corresponding Western university discipline—although chief European thinkers such as Heidegger were very interested in Chinese philosophy (he is known to have read parts of the Daodejing with a Chinese academic). It is even argued, starting with Hegel, that Chinese thought should not be regarded as “philosophy” in the true Western sense. Thus, in Chinese universities, there is a strict separation between Chinese and Western philosophy in the philosophy departments at all universities.^[1]

I started studying Sinology (with a minor in Japanese Studies and Art History) at the University of Hamburg in 1970. Prof. Liu Mau-tsai—an exemplary Confucian gentleman in my eyes—was my most important teacher there. I owe much of what is still important to me in my teaching to him. This includes my acquaintance with the rich philosophical and religious tradition of China, right at the beginning of my studies, in his first-year course “Intellectual History of China.” Since the beginning of my teaching career as a professor of Sinology in 1987 (first at the University of Tübingen and from 1992 also at the University of Trier), a similarly structured seminar always formed a fixed part of my teaching program for beginner students—until the end of my active teaching career in 2010.

So, how do you teach “Chinese Philosophy” as a humble Sinologist? My course aimed to expose students to the rich Chinese tradition, students who had probably not even heard the name Confucius at secondary school and had no other prior knowledge of China. My approach was a historical overview using presentations of seminar papers: It began with Confucianism, Daoism, and others of the so-called “Hundred Schools” (Yin-Yang thought, Mohism, Legalism), continued with Buddhism and Neo-Confucianism (in its two forms, of the Song and Ming periods) and ended with the encounter with Western modernity.

The course was structured in such a way that, in addition to the presentations, appropriate readings on each topic were assigned, initially sections of Fung Yu-lan’s A Short History of Chinese Philosophy, and later also of the History of Chinese Philosophy by Wolfgang Bauer who, unfortunately, died far too early (hence edited by Hans van Ess). The aim was to convey a sound knowledge of all topics based on these readings—and thus beyond the specialized term papers. This is why the course was always completed with a written examination. A presentation of a paper plus the passing of the final exam were required to obtain a credit.

The aim of the course was, on the one hand, to understand the complexity of „Chinese thought” and, on the other, to discuss parallels between Chinese and Western concepts. For example, the different views on human nature between Mencius (good) and Xunzi (bad) can be compared to a certain extent with those of John Locke and Thomas Hobbes. Similarly, the dualism of li (principle) and qi (material force) in Song-era Neo-Confucianism could be contrasted with the views of Plato and Aristotle (such as form and matter).

The topic of one of the first sessions was Fung Yu-lan’s introductory chapter on the language in which the Chinese classical scriptures are written. As Fung Yu-lan makes clear, classical Chinese—quite unlike Greek and Latin (which I had to learn in secondary school)—is not a grammatically analytical, sharply defined language, but an idiom that tends more towards figurative expression. Due to its grammatical vagueness, it is also much more open and in need of interpretation than the languages of our ancient thinkers. Many passages of classical Chinese texts can hardly be understood without the rich commentary tradition of earlier literati; however, there is also a whole range of readings (as with poems).

In addition, there is another linguistic peculiarity: the tendency towards (antithetical) parallelism (duizhang) in all written utterances, whether in poetry or prose. Due to the structure of classical Chinese, which (as a monosyllabic, isolating language) consists of single units of meaning in the form of characters, it is very easy to form orderly arrangements with the same line length, that is, several characters per line, and thus also pairs of two parallel lines. Each character in a line—as a single syllable and word—finds its equivalent in the other, whereby the correspondences are usually made according to semantic fields. Such parallel pairs of sayings are not only found in classical texts but everywhere in China, whether on pillars in temples or on doorposts, the latter especially around the New Year.

Of course, other linguistic and cultural traditions, including ours, are familiar with parallelism as a means of rhetoric (e. g. “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” – 1 Corinthian)^[2], but the possibilities are in no way comparable to those in China due to linguistic structures. Parallelism is therefore rather rare in our European languages. Yin-yang thought also plays an important role in this linguistic peculiarity; it promotes a pattern of thought based on balance: complementary parallels are formed instead of opposites. Due to these characteristics, classical Chinese is more akin to a poetic mode of expression (in poetry, parallel lines are prescribed for certain pairs of verses). To this day, I regard the knowledge of these linguistic peculiarities of the classical Chinese scriptures as a prerequisite for a discussion of their content.

For advanced students, the various topics—Confucianism, Daoism, Buddhism—were deepened through special core seminars. I was particularly interested in the various schools of Buddhism in China as well as in the complex and systematic system of thought of Neo-Confucianism (which was strongly influenced by Buddhism). Wing-tsit Chan’s A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy served as the textual basis for translations (I had learned to appreciate it, particularly as a source text during my graduate studies at the University of Toronto). It was later supplemented by the two volumes of Wm. Theodore DeBary, Sources of Chinese Tradition, and Zhang Dainian’s Key Concepts in Chinese Philosophy. Along the lines of Cheng Chung-Ying’s (and Nicholas Bunnin’s) Contemporary Chinese Philosophy, I also once attempted an advanced seminar on contemporary Chinese philosophy.

Because I understand Confucianism to be the core of Chinese tradition (and still effective today as “post-Confucianism“), seminars on its various aspects formed the central program at advanced levels of study. I found it important to emphasize the positive aspects of Confucianism. In this respect, I am very much indebted to Tu Weiming, who brought to light a side of Confucianism that had long been forgotten, namely that it does not simply stand for an ossified social system, but that it is rather a tradition of wisdom and high ethical standards, and that it also has a spiritual dimension, namely in its emphasis on self-cultivation (xiuyang). The latter, basically, represents the core that applies to personal lifestyle in Confucianism. One is reminded here of Pierre Hadot’s (1920–2010) characterization of philosophy in European antiquity as a practice or “way of life” (“exercices spirituels”). The fact that these aspects were neglected for so long can be attributed to the paradigm of the May 4^th Movement (1919). This paradigm was still valid during my time as an undergraduate, namely that Confucianism was the cause of China’s backwardness and therefore the main evil to do away with. “Down with Confucius and sons” (dadao Kong jia dian) was the slogan of this iconoclastic movement in the early 20^th century.

For advanced students, I offered overviews of Confucianism in terms of its various forms as well as discussions of its influence in Chinese society – from the pre-modern to the modern era. For example, here is a list of topics from a 2009 advanced seminar at the University of Trier entitled “Confucianism and its Influence on Chinese Society – from its Beginnings to the Present Day”:

1. Introduction (Pohl): Main features of Confucianism / Values / Image of man / Criticism / „Post-Confucianism”

2. Confucianism as a political philosophy or social ethics

3. Religious traits and metaphysical dimension of Confucianism

4. Confucianism and yin-yang thought (Dong Zhongshu)

5. Philosophical anthropology and cosmology in Neo-Confucianism

6. Confucianism and Buddhism

7. Confucianism and Education

8. Criticism of Confucianism in pre-modern and modern times

9. Influence of Confucianism in East Asia (Japan, Korea, Vietnam, Singapore)

10. Confucianism and Marxism – similarities and influences, “Sino-Marxism”

11. “Unity of nature/heaven and man”—“Boston Confucianism” and discussion about ecology based on Confucianism

12. Confucianism and Economics – functional equivalent of Weber’s work ethic?

13. Yu Dan and the popularization of Confucianism in the media

14. Confucianism and the debate on human rights and global/universal ethics

The topic of how Marxism in China was adapted to Chinese conditions, i. e. “sinicized” (as happened previously with Buddhism), is particularly exciting – not only in Trier, the birthplace of Karl Marx, but in general when it comes to learning to understand today’s China both from its traditions and in interaction with Western influences. Other topics that looked at China in a global context, such as its value system, everyday culture, cultural debates, human rights, and global ethics, were added to the range of advanced seminars.

On this level, there were also special reading courses on “philosophical“ texts in classical Chinese, including readings of central writings from the Confucian tradition—from the Yijing (Book of Changes) to Wang Yangming, from Zhuangzi and Buddhist sutras (“Heart Sutra” and parts of the “Vimalakirti Sutra”) to special neo-Confucian texts such as Zhu Xi’s (1130–1200) neo-Confucian anthology Jinsilu or Chen Chun’s (1159–1223) Beixi zi yi (both are available in translations by Wing-tsit Chan: Reflections on Things at Hand. The Neo-Confucian Anthology and Neo-Confucian Terms Explained). The latter above all is useful—and since it is written in an almost colloquial style—an easily understandable explanation of central concepts of Neo-Confucianism by a student of Zhu Xi.

The second focus of my work was Chinese aesthetics—which is more closely associated with China’s other great tradition, Daoism. It can also be seen as a sub-discipline of philosophy. In the West, it seems, however, to have become by now something for a few specialists, and books on aesthetics apparently have no social influence in Germany or other Western countries. This is quite different in China, where aesthetics has an essential connection to China’s cultural self-image—if not to a feeling of Chinese identity. I, therefore, argue that if one wants to understand China better, one also must understand the role of aesthetics in China. Of course, aesthetics was an import of Western thought at the end of the 19^th century. But when Chinese intellectuals began to engage with Western culture at that time, aesthetics resonated for them with their own rich tradition, namely the reflection on poetry, painting, and calligraphy. The prevailing opinion at the time was that the West could be characterized by religion (Christianity), whereas China was characterized by aesthetics. Aesthetics was therefore seen as a functional equivalent of religion. The influential intellectual Cai Yuanpei (1860–1940; Minister and President of Peking University, among others) called for “aesthetic education instead of religion!” And the famous writer Lin Yutang (1895–1976) wrote in his book My Country and My People (1935): “Poetry may well be called the Chinaman’s religion.” Lin Yutang also wrote a book that is still worth reading—and available—today: The Importance of Living (1937) which presents this aesthetic self-understanding of the Chinese in a marvelous way—and through which the author of these lines was spellbound by China after reading it in its German version (Weisheit des lächelnden Lebens) as a high school student.

As a sub-discipline of philosophy, Chinese aesthetics is part of “Chinese Philosophy,” and the teaching of this topic thus formed part of the non-philosopher teaching program. The translation of Li Zehou’s (1930–2021) modern “classic” Mei de licheng (The Path of Beauty), which was compiled together with a group of students at the University of Tübingen in 1990, served as a textual basis. The publication of the book in China triggered an “aesthetics fever” in the 1980s—something that seems unthinkable in the West with a book on aesthetics. In 1991, Li Zehou himself spent six months in Tübingen at my invitation, so that he could be consulted on the final editing of the translation. After the book, published as a Herder paperback, had been out of print for around 30 years, an updated new edition was published in 2022, one year after Li Zehou’s death, by the European University Press in Bochum. Based on the knowledge I had gained from Li Zehou (and others), I was finally able to write my book on this topic in German: a History of Chinese Aesthetics and Literary Theory (Chinesische Ästhetik und Literaturtheorie. Von der Tradition bis zur Moderne, 2006 – Chinese translation in 2010).

As Li Zehou is considered to be one of the most important intellectuals in modern China, not only in the field of aesthetics but also as a cultural philosopher and historian, his works and thoughts have influenced me greatly—as have the writings of the equally important Tu Weiming. I have always been particularly keen to pass on their work to my students. I also consider some Western sinologists in the field of Chinese intellectual history to be very influential, such as A. C. Graham (1919–1991) and Roger Ames (the latter, above all, because of his endeavor to understand China from its own traditions), and more recently François Jullien. Li Zehou and Tu Weiming both gave lectures at the University of Trier, partly during two major conferences in 1997 and 1999 (under the title “China and the West in Dialogue”), the contributions of which were published in two anthologies: Chinese Thought in a Global Context. A Dialogue Between Chinese and Western Philosophical Approaches and Chinese Ethics in a Global Context. Moral Bases of Contemporary Societies (both published by Brill, the latter edited together with Anselm Müller).

In the past, the Sinology program was structured in such a way that there were standard courses for the first and second years, but the courses offered for the advanced students varied, in line with the expectation at the time that new topics had to be presented from semester to semester. This meant that I also had to deal with topics of my other specialties, that is, literature (especially poetry and literary theory) and art. This custom disappeared with the academic reform between 2005 and 2010 that is, the introduction of B. A. and M. A. programs. If I see it correctly as an outsider, there are now only recurring courses in customized degree programs, not only for those in the B. A. but also in the M. A. programs. Whether this should be seen as a gain or a loss is an open question. While it was always a challenge (and labor-intensive) to introduce new topics each semester, it ultimately offered the opportunity to open up to new themes in teaching, and not just in research. As each cohort of students only needed a few credits from one professor (there were also courses offered by colleagues), the transfer of knowledge, thus, was not systematic, but rather exemplary. It served, as it were, to encourage students to study for themselves, namely to “expand their knowledge by examining things” (ge wu zhi zhi), to borrow a phrase from the classic “The Great Learning” (Da xue) that became very influential for Neo-Confucianism. But even this is limited by the fact that the Chinese tradition, as my teacher Prof. Liu Mau-tsai used to say, is such a vast treasure trove that a single lifetime is not enough to explore it.

China was and still is largely misunderstood in the West. Next to nothing is taught about China in schools. People know nothing about its language, nor about its (formative) history, not to mention its intellectual traditions. Clichéd ideas characterize the image of the country, its inhabitants, and its politics. In public discourse about China, it is primarily our (political) preferences that are projected onto the country, and it is measured against them. This does not do justice to the claim of wanting to understand China, thus one can call it a “black box.”

Of course, there is no one “key” to understanding China. The country is not only more complex in terms of its traditions, but also in terms of its current situation than one-dimensional media approaches suggest. Interpretations of the “black box,” however, will always reflect personal preferences. For me, three aspects are important as an approach to understanding China, which I also consider central to Chinese identity. They have always been and still are at the center of my mediation efforts: 1. the influence of Confucianism (also in the guise of “post-Confucianism” and “Sino-Marxism”); 2. the importance of Yin-Yang thought (as a pattern of thinking of balance and the search for complementary parallels instead of opposites); 3. the special role of aesthetics (together with the influence of Daoism). In this sense, I have always seen my role as that of a cultural interpreter – and not as a promoter of the academic subject of “Chinese Philosophy”.

However, in endeavoring to explore and understand another culture, one also succumbs, to a certain extent, to its influence. The Jesuit missionaries in the 16^th and 17^th centuries already experienced this: Although they wanted to convert the Chinese to Christianity and diligently studied their language and traditions for this purpose, they also became largely converts namely to Confucianism. The famous contemporary Sinologist Simon Leys once wrote: “Cultural initiation involves metamorphosis, and we cannot learn any foreign values if we do not accept the risk of being transformed by what we learn.”^[3] In this way, my worldview underwent a profound change as a result of engaging with Chinese culture, a process which I—in discovering a fascinating other world—found to be quite enriching.