Confucius and the Little Boy: A Lesson on What We Do Not Know Right Before Our Eyes

On a slightly chilly autumn afternoon, the footsteps of Confucius and his band of students came to a stop beside a small river. The wind stirred through the dry treetops with a soft rustle, and the babbling of the flowing water blended with the sound of footsteps over the withered grass. Confucius wore a dark robe, his brow faintly furrowed from the long road, and he walked in quiet contemplation among his students as they dragged their worn sandals along the ground. Suddenly, the bright voices of quarreling children rang out ahead: two little boys were stamping their feet, pointing at one another, debating something with great fervor.

"You are wrong! The sky is so vast and high—how could you possibly know!"

"But I do know! My teacher told me, and that is how I remember it!"

Confucius smiled gently. He was by nature a deeply learned man who liked to involve himself in the affairs of the world, so when he saw the children arguing, he stepped a little closer, in a somewhat meddlesome way, hoping to untangle their dispute. The moment his kind eyes lowered toward them, one of the boys spun around and gazed straight into his face with wide, round eyes.

Many years had passed. Confucius had traveled everywhere to spread his teachings, meeting kings and nobles, and he had kept his illustrious learning intact. But that day, on the quiet riverbank, he had only a few poor students with him, without any elaborate ceremony. The students stepped back, for out of habit they knew their teacher loved to lecture. The little boy, however, knew no fear. He had heard the name Kong Qiu for a long time, but he had never seen the man with his own eyes.

The boy asked abruptly, his voice ringing with challenge:

"Ah, so you are Kong Qiu! They say you are immensely learned. In that case, may we ask you a question?"

Confucius paused for a moment, then nodded and said:

"Ask, child, and I shall answer."

His heart remained calm and steady, while his hands folded before his chest as he waited for a question about the rites or about the heavens. Yet the boy narrowed his eyes and pointed straight at his face:

"Honorable sir, how many stars are there in the sky?"

Confucius suddenly felt perplexed. His right hand clutched his sleeve, and he shook his head in confusion:

"Good heavens! No one asks me about the things right before my eyes; instead they ask about matters far away and lost in mist. I do not know how many stars there are in the sky."

The boy would not yield. He stepped closer, his voice bright and clear:

"Then let us ask about something near: how many eyelashes do you have before your eyes?"

Confucius froze. His eyes blinked rapidly, and his head began to feel hot. He raised a hand to wipe his brow, searching his memory for the shape of his own eyelids, but found nothing. Embarrassed and at a loss, he said:

"A matter so close before my eyes... even that I do not know."

The boy burst out laughing and pointed at his face:

"Well then! And who was it who said you know everything? Ask you about something far away and you do not know; ask you about something close before your eyes and you do not know either. The very nearest thing, right on your own body, and you do not know it!"

Confucius stood still, his shoulders sinking a little. He looked at his students and saw them bowing their heads, holding back their laughter. A strange stirring rose within him: he had once been confident in interpreting the classics and discoursing on the affairs of the world, yet he could not even say how many lashes hung before his own eyes. That was the turning point—he realized that his knowledge had limits, that even his own body remained in darkness to him.

He sighed and waved his hand to the students:

"Come, let us go. 'The young are to be held in awe'—those born after us are truly formidable. He is far too quick; I cannot out-argue him."

The students hurried after his footsteps, trailing away one by one. As he walked, Confucius murmured to himself, understanding that those who came after him would one day surpass him, and, more importantly, that there are things right within our own selves which even a master cannot see.

In later years, whenever he sat before a mirror, Confucius would often recall that autumn afternoon by the river. He taught his students not only to read the books of others, but to look into themselves as well. From then on his life grew lighter, less burdened by the pride of the learned, for he had taken the lesson to heart: if one does not even know the eyelashes before one's eyes, how could one fathom the many things hidden deep within the mind and heart?

The Meaning of the Story

The story shows that there are many things about our very selves that we do not know at all—like the eyelashes before our eyes, or the structure hidden within body and mind. We find it easy to see the faults of others yet remain blind to our own; only when we humbly look inward can we truly understand ourselves and loosen our self-attachment.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thich Chan Quang.