A Constitution for a Democracy of Consciousness

In this blog, I advocate trying to achieve what I call a “democracy of consciousness,” where all your inner voices, values and feelings get a fair hearing in your conscious attention.  For most of us, the values we pick up from our family, peers and society over the years tend to censor this inner democracy, and it takes a sustained conscious effort, with lots of practice, to allow your inner voices the hearing they really want.  It can also be an emotionally challenging experience.  Some of those voices may have painful emotions attached to them, and other voices may be in conflict with each other.

I’ve recently been working on my own democracy of consciousness, and as I’ve done so, I’ve been coming up with what you might call a “constitution” for that democracy.  As with a country’s constitution, the rationale for a constitution is not to take sides in the democracy, but to establish the fundamental ground rules for how the democracy should be implemented.  What are the bedrock principles on which everything else should stand and move?

The following is my own “constitution” that I’ve been developing.  They go deep into the heart and soul of our human experience, and it’s in that place, deep in the experience of your mind/body that they will make the most sense.  It’s a work in progress, but so far it’s been helping me a lot, and I hope it may do the same for you.

CONSTITUTION FOR A DEMOCRACY OF CONSCIOUSNESS
You are what you intend to be.
There is no such thing as success or failure.  There is only experience.
Intention flavors experience.
Intention allows you to love yourself.
In a democracy of consciousness, you are always the victor.
————————–
Loving yourself is loving everything.
Love integrates.  Kindness lubricates.
Lovingkindness is love in kindness.
—————————
Listening to the body is wisdom.
When barriers go, energy flows.
The more energy you spend, the more you have.
The two constituents of life are energy and love.
There is no social status, only energy flows or blockages.
————————–
Transcending the self is becoming immanent in the universe.
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I am the wilderness before the dawn

Eliminate learning so as to have no worries
Yes and no, how far apart are they?
Good and evil, how far apart are they?

What the sages fear,
I must not fear.
I am the wilderness before the dawn.

The multitude are busy and active…
I alone am bland,
As if I have not yet emerged into form.
Like an infant who has not yet smiled,
Lost, like one who has nowhere to return.

The multitudes all have too much;
I alone am deficient.
My mind is that of a fool,
Nebulous.

Worldly people are luminous;
I alone am dark.
Worldly people are clear-sighted;
I alone am dull,
I am calm like the sea,
Like the high winds I never stop.

The multitudes all have their use;
I alone am untamable like lowly material.
I alone am different from others.
For I treasure feeding on the Mother.

From Tao Te Ching 20.  Translation: Ellen M. Chen.

I give thanks…

I give thanks to the trees, the sun, the trails, the wind, for being there.

I give thanks to my lungs for breathing me.

I give thanks to Pete Townsend for Baba O’Riley.

To Keith Moon for drumming me.

To Roger Daltrey for singing to me:

“I don’t need to fight to prove I’m right.

I don’t need to be forgiven…”

I give thanks to William Blake for telling me

“You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough.”

I give thanks to my mind for carrying me along in its currents.

I give thanks to my li for sustaining me.

Wang Yang-ming and the democratization of sagehood

To Acquire Wisdom: The Way of Wang Yang-ming

By Julia Ching

New York: Columbia University Press. 1976.

Things were looking very bad for Wang Yang-ming.  Midway through his career as a successful minister, he intervened to save some people unjustly imprisoned.  Instead of saving them, he was imprisoned himself, flogged and sent into exile, where he narrowly escaped an assassination attempt.  There he was, in a frontier region of the Chinese empire, a desolate, tropical hole infested with serpents, malaria and outlaws fleeing from justice.  He thought he’d never make it back to civilization, and had a coffin made for himself out of stone, which he looked at nonstop while sitting, meditating, day and night.

It was there, deep in meditation one night, that Yang-ming received enlightenment.  He leaped up, waking those around him, telling them: “I have finally understood that my human nature is quite adequate for the task of achieving sagehood.”

Julia Ching’s book on the life and philosophy of Wang Yang-ming (1472-1529) takes you right into the heart and soul of Ming dynasty China.    This, in itself, makes it a good read.  But what makes it special is the penetrating insight it offers into the revisionist Neo-Confucian philosophy he formulated several centuries after the height of the classic Neo-Confucian age during the Song dynasty.  This philosophy is not some historic relic of mere academic interest.  Far from it.  Wang Yang-ming’s philosophy is more fresh and relevant today than ever, and is increasingly validated by recent findings in neuroscience and systems biology.

It’s fitting that Yang-ming’s enlightenment occurred in the middle of his political vicissitudes, because for Yang-ming, knowledge and action are one and the same thing.  For him, the idea of pure knowledge, separated from experience, is nonsense.  As Ching puts it, “One can become a sage only by acting in a sagely way, and this action itself is knowledge.”  On the flip side, as Yang-ming says, “One can only know pain after having experienced it.”

And just as knowledge and experience are inseparable, so sagehood – the Neo-Confucian version of enlightenment – is not some distant, transcendent goal.  Rather, sagehood exists within every one of us.  You could say that Wang Yang-ming promoted the democratization of sagehood:

the ideal of sagehood still remained the reserved goal of a few selected scholars, who always risked the danger of being considered mad (k’uang) for daring to have such an ambition.  It was against this situation that Yang-ming revolted, and, in revolting, would present his own discoveries – that every man not only can be a sage, but possesses within himself all the means necessary to become one, and that sagehood is not a remote, impersonal ideal, but a concrete goal, well within reach, a state of mind, self-transcending and yet to be made immanent, to become internalized…

Sounds great, but how do we get there?  Wang Yang-ming builds on the idea of the ancient Confucian scholar, Mencius, that human nature is naturally good, but tends to get corrupted by environmental influences.  “Sagehood,” in Yang-ming’s opinion, “is a quality with which every man is born.  To become a sage is simply to recover one’s original innocence, to take over one’s self completely by recapturing one’s pristine state of mind and of heart.”  If you are able to get to that place, there is a joy you can experience from that inner “peace of mind-and-heart,” at which point you can truly say: “All things are present in me.  I have no greater joy than to find, when I look deep into myself, that I am true to myself.”

But don’t confuse being true to yourself with being self-centered.  Far from it.  One of the great revelations of Neo-Confucian thought, which would be so valuable to us in the West if we could only learn it, is the ultimate interdependence of self and other.  In Wang Yang-ming’s case, this insight took the form of the phrase hsin chi li, which may be roughly translated as “the human mind-and-heart are ultimately identical with the organizing principles of nature.”

As I’ve described elsewhere on this blog, modern scientific thought is beginning to describe this mysterious Neo-Confucian view in rigorous, technical terms, as in this description of complex adaptive systems by Princeton evolutionary biologist Simon Levin:

Ecosystems, and indeed the global biosphere, are prototypical examples of complex adaptive systems, in which macroscopic system properties … emerge from interactions among components, and may feed back to influence the subsequent development of those interactions…  Examples of complex adaptive systems abound in biology. A developing organism, an individual learning to cope, a maturing ecosystem, and the evolving biosphere all provide cases in point.[1]

So, as you gradually accumulate an understanding of the external world, this can lead you to a better understanding of your own nature… and vice versa.

By following the implications of this interconnection, and through Wang Yang-ming’s approach to experiencing it, not just intellectually but in your gut, it’s possible to arrive at a realization of the ultimate unity between each of us and the world around us.  This naturally leads to what Yang-ming called jen, an overflowing sense of love between humanity and the natural world.  For Yang-ming, as Ching describes it, “the world of nature and of human society are fundamentally one, and unity with other men extends itself to unity with birds and beasts and the whole cosmos.”  In his own words:

Everything from ruler, minister, husband, wife, and friends to mountains, rivers, heavenly and earthly spirits, birds, beasts, and plants, all should be truly loved in order that the unity may be reached [through] my humanity (jen).  Then will my clear virtue be completely made manifest; then will I really form one body with Heaven and Earth and the myriad things.

At a time when our global greed and plundering of the earth’s resources is causing millions of barrels of oil to spew out of the bottom of the ocean, enveloping pristine lands and innocent sea creatures in a black cloak of death, if only more people would stop and consider this view of our relationship to nature.  Ultimately, we’re all one and the same.  As Wang Yang-ming put it in one of the beautiful poems appended to the book:

Swimming in the depths, the fish are passing on words of power;
Perched on the branches, birds are uttering the true Tao.
Do not say that instinctive desires are not mysteries of Heaven:
I know that my body is one with the ten thousand things.
People talk endlessly about rites and music;
But who will sweep away the heaps of dust from the blue sky?

And who will sweep away the heaps of tar balls from the Gulf coast?


[1] Levin, S. A. (1998). “Ecosystems and the Biosphere as Complex Adaptive Systems.” Ecosystems, 1998(1), 431-436.

A Moment to Touch the Li

Wife lying sick in hospital bed.
Long hours sitting by her side.
But lunch time brings a walk to grab a sandwich
Through quiet pathway along a little stream.

Surrounded by hedges on both sides
Sounds and smells of spring in the air.

The tweeting of birds calling to each other
Fresh-cut grass and honeysuckle flood the nose.

New shoots jutting out from the hedges
And flowers beckoning with splashes of color.

What a moment to touch the li!

The Three Boxes of Enlightenment: A Story

“So, you tell me you’ve achieved enlightenment!  Congratulations!”

The little, old man smiled at me in a strange way.

“Now that you’ve arrived at this new status, there’s something very special I have to show you.  Very few people have ever seen it.”

With that, the funny little man turned and began walking back to his house, beckoning me to follow him.  He led me down the stairs to a dusty old basement, lined with shelves holding a variety of oddly shaped items.

“Here they are!” he exclaimed with satisfaction.  “My three boxes of enlightenment.”

He reached up to a high shelf and, one by one, took three sealed wooden boxes down and put them on a table next to me.

“Here, open it up!”  He pushed one of the boxes toward me.

I picked up the lacquered box, barely able to see its colors through the dust on top.  I saw it had a latch, which I opened.  The lid creaked up on a hinge.  I peered inside.  Strange, indeed!  All I could see in the box was a dirty little piece of black string.  As I looked more closely, I realized I was looking at a used candle wick.

“Isn’t it beautiful!  Isn’t that extraordinary!” the little old man cried out gleefully in his strange accent.  “This is the beauty of the candle’s flame.  One evening, there I was, watching the flame flickering in the breeze, dancing to the invisible music of the air currents, sucking up the wax and turning it into warmth, brightness and life.  It was so beautiful, I wanted to capture it forever.  So, I took my scissors, cut the flame off the candle, and put it in my box.  And here it still is, after all these years, my beautiful candle flame.”

I looked again, but all I could see was a dingy little remnant of blackened thread.  Before I could ask him what on earth he was talking about, he had jumped up and started pushing over to me another of his boxes.

“Now, this next box is really something special!  Open it!  Open it!”  He could hardly contain his excitement.

As I picked up this new box, wiping the cobwebs away, I noticed it was heavier than the last.  It seemed to have something liquid swishing inside.  With a little consternation, I carefully unlocked the lid.  I opened it up and saw that it was full of water.  I gingerly put my nose towards it.  A smell of mildew from the sides of the box wafted up at me.  It was too dark to see below the surface of the water, but it didn’t seem like it contained anything else.  Just a liter or so of slimy, smelly water.  What was so special about this water? I wondered to myself.

“Isn’t that the most dramatic thing you’ve ever seen!”  The strange old man could barely contain himself.  He jumped off his stool and came over to where I was sitting.  He peered into the recesses of the watery box.

“I still remember the beauty of that moment like it was this morning!” He continued breathlessly.  “I was walking on this mountain path, and came across a hidden waterfall.  The water was crashing down!  I could hardly hear myself for the sound of its roar.  As the water hit the rocks, it foamed and fulminated, throwing up spray, whirling around like a wild animal.  It was breathtaking!  I can still taste the freshness of the stream, its cold sensation, as if it had just melted from the snow minutes earlier.  So I took my little box and captured some of the water.  I’ve kept it down here ever since!  Isn’t it sensational!”

I was wondering how I could politely point out to my odd host that, in fact,  all I saw was some stagnant water slowly becoming a health hazard, when he stretched up and grabbed the final box.

“And here,” he said to me, beaming, “here is my final glory.  This one, I guarantee you, you will never forget!”

By this time, almost panic stricken, I took a deep breath and accepted his gift of the final box.  This one was really sealed.  I had to go around the edges, untwisting some little metal strips, before I could free up the lid.  What was I going to find inside?  I carefully opened up the lid and, holding my breath, looked in.  Nothing.  There was absolutely nothing inside.

“Can you believe it!” the funny little man was getting so excited his arms were starting to swing by his side.  “This is my crowning achievement!  Sunlight!  Transcendent, glorious, life-giving sunlight.  There I was, one beautiful summer’s afternoon, feeling the warm glow of sunshine on my skin, and I knew this moment was to be treasured for all time.  So, I got my most special box, put it in the sunlight and closed it tight, capturing who knows how many sunbeams.  You must admit, my friend, this is truly momentous!”

My heart was sinking as the old man led me back outside.

“Now, my friend,” he said to me as we were making our farewells.  “Next time you arrive at a moment of enlightenment, you could just let yourself feel it, experience the moment, be one with the harmony of the sensations going through you, embrace it and share it quietly with those around you in the form of grace and love.  But, I’d much prefer if you could think about it for me, give it a name, put a frame around, box it up and bring it to me.  Then I can add it to my three boxes of enlightenment.”

With that the strange man shook my hand heartily, gave a formal bow and turned to walk back into his house.

“But wait!” I ran after him and grabbed him by his sleeve before he disappeared through his front door.  I plucked up my courage.

“Your boxes don’t have enlightenment in them!” I blurted out.  “They’re nothing but remnants of those moments.  When you took your scissors and cut the candle wick, you extinguished the flame.  When you caught the water and locked it in a box, you turned the fresh stream into stagnant poison.  And when you closed the lid on the sunlight, you didn’t catch the sunbeams – you just shut them out.”

I thought I’d insulted the old man.  But instead, his face broke out in a smile.  A calmer smile than before.  He suddenly looked both wiser and kinder as his eyes embraced me.

“And that’s exactly what you do, my young friend, when you tell me or anyone else about your moment of enlightenment.”  His voice was soft and gentle.  “That’s exactly what you do the moment you start thinking to yourself ‘I’m enlightened.’  There may be moments in your life when the waves of your body’s sensations and the waves within your mind achieve a perfect harmony, when your reality and that of the external world is synchronized, when time becomes eternal.  Let those moments be.  Don’t try to put a box of thought around them, don’t lock them in with words, and close them off with your concepts.  Just let them be.  And if you let them be, they will melt into your being and express themselves in love and kindness.  But as soon as you try to encapsulate them with a sentence, you will extinguish the flame, and all you will be left with is the burned candle wick, and the empty words: ‘I’ve achieved enlightenment.’”

And when I finally left the old man, and closed his gate behind me, I thanked him from the deepest part of my being, because his three closed boxes of enlightenment had opened up the boxes in my heart that I didn’t even know were there.

Einstein, Chu Hsi and the Investigation of Things

Supposing we all learned to view the universe like Einstein saw it?  Wouldn’t that lead to a very different world?  Now, I’m not suggesting that any of us can ever hope to have the genius that Einstein possessed, but it’s possible that the traditional Neo-Confucian approach to understanding the universe (that I’ve described in earlier posts) might offer a few insights into seeing the same natural wonder that Einstein saw all around him.

Albert Einstein saw no distinction between science and religiousness.

Albert Einstein saw no distinction between science and religiousness.  It was all encapsulated in one sublime vision.  “The most beautiful thing we can experience,” he tells us, “is the mysterious.”[1] In Einstein’s view, the religious feeling of the scientist “takes the form of a rapturous amazement at the harmony of natural law, which reveals an intelligence of such superiority that, compared with it, all the systematic thinking and acting of human beings is an utterly insignificant reflection.”[2]

Well, that may have been the case for Einstein himself, but it certainly hasn’t been true for most scientific voices of the past few hundred years.  In direct contrast to Einstein, the typical viewpoint from the Western world has been one which originated in the writings of English philosopher Francis Bacon (1561-1626), whose vision of the role of science led to the founding of the British Royal Society and the institutionalization of the scientific methods that we take for granted nowadays.

Bacon’s favorite metaphor of the natural world was that of a powerful woman who needed to be conquered and subdued.  As he tells us in his book, Novum Organum:

I am come in very truth leading to you Nature with all her children to bind her to your service and make her your slave.[3]

Bacon viewed science as the means to gain power over Nature, “to conquer and subdue her, to shake her to her foundations.”[4] Bacon’s metaphors might sound disconcerting to our 21st century sensibilities, but they form the foundation of the Western view of science.  For example, later in the century, echoing Bacon, Joseph Glanvill defended the recently founded Royal Society arguing that “Nature being known, it may be master’d, managed, and used in the Services of human Life.”[5]

That approach succeeded beyond Bacon’s wildest dreams, but it has also led our civilization to a precipice of climate change and global destabilization, where Nature now seems to be threatening to shake us to our own foundations.  Many observers have seen the Baconian view towards Nature as the fundamental source of this imbalance.  The great spiritual ecologist Reverend Thomas Berry, wrote that:

The deepest cause of the present devastation is found in a mode of consciousness that has established a radical discontinuity between the human and other modes of being and the bestowal of all rights on the humans… Consistently we have difficulty in accepting the human as an integral part of the Earth community.[6]

Ultimately, we’ll only escape from our global predicament if we can find a way to view Nature that’s fundamentally different from Bacon’s domination.   This is where the Neo-Confucian tradition can possibly help us out.

I’ve described elsewhere how the Neo-Confucians of China’s Song Dynasty understood Nature in terms of the li, the dynamic organizing principles underlying everything in the universe.  For Chu Hsi, the leading Neo-Confucian philosopher, one of the driving imperatives of human existence was what he called the “investigation of things” (ko wu).  But this investigation was very different from the kind that the Royal Society instituted in Europe.  When you see the natural world in terms of the li, this leads to an emphasis on the underlying principles in nature that are shared by all of us.  So, in Chu Hsi’s approach, an investigation of nature was equally an investigation into yourself.  Only by understanding yourself could you make sense of the world, and vice versa.

Chu Hsi’s investigation of things broke down the barriers between man and nature, subject and object, intellect and feeling – as described here by 20th century Chinese scholar, Wing-Tsit Chan:

…in Chu Hsi’s doctrine, full understanding of li leads to full realization of man’s nature; there is unity of nature and li when knowledge and practice go together… [I]n Chu Hsi’s investigation of things … there is no distinction of subject and object, for only when one comes into contact with things can one investigate their principle.  Thus intuition and intellection are simultaneous.[7]

Echoes of this worldview may be re-emerging in the thinking of some biologists who apply complexity theory to understand natural processes.  Here are the thoughts of biologist Brian Goodwin:

Instead of a primary focus on controlling quantities, the challenge for science is to cooperate with the natural creative dynamic that operates at the edge of chaos, to experience the qualities that emerge there, and to move toward a participatory worldview which recognizes the intrinsic values that make life worthwhile.[8]

Nature Within Our Mind: Diffusion spectrum image of association pathways in the human cortex, taken by Van Wedeen, Massachusetts General.

But the Neo-Confucian investigation of things goes further than a mere awareness of our interdependence with Nature.  For Chu Hsi, there’s really no separation between understanding Nature out there and the Nature within us.  “Every individual thing in the universe has its own li; all these separate li, furthermore, are to be found summed up in the Nature which is contained in our own Mind.  To acquire exhaustive knowledge of the li of these external objects, therefore, means to gain understanding of the Nature that lies within ourselves.”[9]

Again, modern scientific thought is beginning to describe this mysterious Neo-Confucian view in rigorous, technical terms, as in this description of complex adaptive systems by Princeton evolutionary biologist Simon Levin:

Ecosystems, and indeed the global biosphere, are prototypical examples of complex adaptive systems, in which macroscopic system properties … emerge from interactions among components, and may feed back to influence the subsequent development of those interactions…  Examples of complex adaptive systems abound in biology. A developing organism, an individual learning to cope, a maturing ecosystem, and the evolving biosphere all provide cases in point.[10]

So, as you gradually accumulate an understanding of the external world, this can lead you to a better understanding of your own nature… and vice versa.  Up till now though, we’ve been looking at a purely intellectual approach to understanding.  In another crucial difference from Western thought, Neo-Confucian investigation involves all aspects of our consciousness: thought, feeling, and everything in between.  As Chan said above, “intuition and intellection are simultaneous.”

This is why Chu Hsi’s description of the investigation of things seems closer to the Buddhist process of achieving enlightenment than a scientific investigation.  “As you progress in accumulating your understanding of the world,” Chu Hsi believes, this can “eventually lead to a moment of sudden enlightenment, when the li of all the myriad things in the universe will be seen to exist within our own Nature.”[11] Here’s how Chu Hsi himself describes it:

When one has exerted oneself for a long time, finally one morning a complete understanding will open before one.  Thereupon there will be a thorough comprehension of all the multitude of things, external or internal, fine or coarse, and every exercise of the mind will be marked by complete enlightenment.[12]

What’s the nature of this “complete enlightenment”?  Well, one insight of Neo-Confucian thought is the underlying interpenetration of everything in Nature, the fact that, underneath it all, the principles of life are the same for all of us.  Wing-Tsit Chan describes this insight in another Neo-Confucian thinker, Ch’êng-Yi:

… if one investigates more and more, one will naturally come to understand Li. It can readily be seen that the principle in any one thing is the same principle in all things. This is why [Ch’êng-Yi] said, “We say that all things are one reality, because all things have the same Li in them.” As Li is the universal principle, “The Li of a thing is one with the Li of all things.[13]

Cosmic Unity: an insight shared by Albert Einstein and the Neo-Confucian thinkers.

This sense of cosmic unity may sound mystical and unscientific to some Western ears, so let’s look again at the striking parallels to the understanding of the universe that Albert Einstein achieved.  Here’s how Einstein described it:

A human being is part of a whole, called by us ‘the Universe’, a part limited in time and space.  He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest – a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.  This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest us.  Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circles of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.[14]

Perhaps if we can learn to practice the Neo-Confucian investigation of things, in our own modern terms, we might find ourselves on the path to “accepting the human as an integral part of the Earth community,” as Thomas Berry so fervently hoped.  After all, as noted by 20th century philosopher Ernst Cassirer:

He who lives in harmony with his own self … lives in harmony with the universe; for both the universal order and the personal order are nothing but different expressions and manifestations of a common underlying principle.[15]

________________________________________________________________________________

Note: This is the fifth in a series. Go to other posts:

1: Nature’s Organizing Principles: The Li.

2: The Li: Beyond the Laws of Nature.

3: Wiggles in the Stream of Time: Li and Ch’i.

4: The Rosetta Stone of Metaphysics: The Li.

5: Einstein, Chu Hsi and the Investigation of Things.


[1] Quoted by Ravindra, R. (2008). “Notes on Scientific Research and Spiritual Search.” Parabola, 33(3: Fall 2008), 7-11.

[2] Quoted by Ricard, M., and Thuan, T. X. (2001). The Quantum and the Lotus, New York: Three Rivers Press, 50.

[3] Quoted by Hartmann, T. (1998/2004). The Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight, New York: Three Rivers Press.

[4] Leiss, W. (1972/1994). The Domination of Nature, Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 55-59.

[5] Leiss, op. cit., 79-81.

[6] Quoted by Speth, J. G. (2008). The Bridge at the Edge of the World: Capitalism, the Environment, and Crossing from Crisis to Sustainability, New Haven: Yale University Press, 202.

[7] Chan, W.-T. (1976). “The Study of Chu Hsi in the West.” The Journal of Asian Studies, 35(4), 555-577.

[8] Goodwin, B. (2001). How the Leopard changed Its Spots: The Evolution of Complexity, Princeton: Princeton University Press, x.

[9] Fung, Y.-L., and Bodde, D. (1942). “The Philosophy of Chu Hsi.” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies, 7(1), 1-51. In Bodde’s original translation of Fung’s work, the word “Law” is used instead of li.  For reasons discussed in another post, I’ve taken the liberty of “de-translating” the word back to its original “li”.

[10] Levin, S. A. (1998). “Ecosystems and the Biosphere as Complex Adaptive Systems.” Ecosystems, 1998(1), 431-436.

[11] Fung and Bodde, op. cit.

[12] Cited by Morton, W. S., and Lewis, C. M. (1995/2005). China: Its History and Culture, New York: McGraw-Hill, 114.

[13] Chan, W.-T. (1957). “Neo-Confucianism and Chinese Scientific Thought.” Philosophy East and West, 6(4), 309-332.

[14] Quoted by Thuan, op. cit., 72.

[15] Cassirer, E. (1944). An Essay on Man, New Haven: Yale University Press.