[My Recommendation] “The Biography of Zeng Guofan”

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　　Zeng Guofan, the founder of the Xiang Army, was the foremost statesman of the Qing dynasty’s late‑period revival, a leading figure of the Self‑Strengthening Movement, and ultimately ennobled as a marquis and appointed to high office, enjoying unparalleled prestige. He was posthumously honored with the title “Marquis Wenzheng of Zeng.” His life began at an exceedingly humble station yet reached towering heights; he was a man whose character grew ever more steadfast the deeper one delved into it, and ever more sublime the higher one looked up to him. Mao Zedong once remarked, “Of all recent figures, I admire only Zeng Wenzheng,” while Chiang Kai-shek likewise hailed him as “a spiritual exemplar for the Chinese people.” Some even composed couplets praising him: “Upholding virtue, achieving merit, and leaving behind enduring words—three immortal feats; serving as teacher, general, and chancellor—perfect in every way”; and “His achievements rival those of Duke Zhou, Confucius, and Mencius, his fame will endure through ten thousand generations.” Of course, there were also those who branded him “Zeng the Shaver” or “Zeng the Butcher”—a butcher who suppressed the Taiping Rebellion.
　　To gain a deeper understanding of Zeng Guofan, I recommend Zhang Hongjie’s “Biography of Zeng Guofan.” The book presents a clear, objective, and comprehensive narrative, drawing extensively on contemporary letters, memorials, diaries, and other primary sources. Its blend of storytelling and analysis makes it accessible and easy to follow. This is neither a conventional biographical novel nor one of those self‑help bestsellers that tout cunning and manipulation. Reading it allows you to appreciate the vitality, resilience, and inclusiveness of traditional culture, enriches our grasp of Chinese intellectual history, fills important gaps in our knowledge, and offers profound insights for personal growth—hence my strong recommendation.
“The most clumsy in the world can overcome the most ingenious”—accumulation over time leads to sudden brilliance.
　　Zeng Guofan’s intelligence was unremarkable; he had to take the xiucai examination seven times before finally passing, and on his sixth attempt he was even publicly reprimanded with a placard hung on his back, his paper displayed as a cautionary example of poor literary skill—leaving him deeply humbled. In truth, his “clumsiness” was merely a lack of insight or sudden enlightenment. Later, he sailed through the juren and jinshi exams with ease, and breezed through the imperial academy’s rigorous tests as well. His career seemed almost supernaturally blessed: “ten promotions in ten years, leaping ten ranks in succession.” Within a decade, he had risen to a provincial‑ministerial level—a feat far beyond what could be attributed to mere “clumsiness.” On the contrary, many of his contemporaries who passed the xiucai exam at an early age never achieved half of what he later accomplished. In both his conduct and his work, he adhered to the principle of “clumsy sincerity”: others come with pretense, but he meets them with candor, shunning cunning and guile. When commanding troops, he emphasized “fortifying strongholds and fighting straightforward battles,” advancing methodically, step by step, and never engaging in warfare without thorough preparation. His “clumsiness” was rooted not in laziness or shortcuts, but in relentless effort and unwavering diligence—qualities that set him apart from those who seek quick gains or easy paths. Such “clumsiness” taken to its extreme becomes “wisdom,” and “simplicity” pushed to the limit turns into “skill”—much like Guo Jing’s Eighteen Dragon Subduing Palms: “the heaviest sword bears no edge, the greatest art lies in simplicity.” Though outwardly plain and unadorned, they are, in fact, grand and profound, sweeping all before them.
　　The famous “Lotus Law” states: In a pond, the number of lotus flowers doubles each day, and by the 30th day, the entire pond is in bloom. So, on which day will the lotus flowers cover half the pond? Is it the 15th day? No—it’s the 29th day; only on the final day does the other half burst into full bloom. The perfection of that last day is the sum of all the effort expended beforehand. This teaches us a profound truth: success requires steady accumulation and patient refinement; no one can transform effortlessly. Truly wise or truly foolish people are exceedingly rare; most of us are ordinary, with little distinction. If we want to stand out, we must simply put in extra effort and dedication. Only by giving our all can we make it seem effortless.
“If not a sage, then a beast; ask not what you shall reap, but what you shall sow” — Strive to become a sage.
　　The great Ming‑dynasty scholar Wang Yangming once said, “Passing the imperial examinations may not even be the highest achievement; perhaps the true aim is to read and learn from the sages!” Zeng Guofan wholeheartedly agreed, setting his life’s goal as that of becoming a sage. He pursued this path in two ways. First, he kept a daily diary, using it to reflect on his conduct, repent of his faults, and diligently seek self‑improvement—this was the foundation for attaining sainthood. The diary had to be written every day, with each entry serving as a stern reminder to correct one’s words and deeds; moreover, he would share it with relatives and friends for their feedback, much like leaving comments beneath posts on Weibo—truly a practice that cut to the quick and laid bare the heart. Yet, progress often requires both stimulus and pressure; it was precisely under the “encouragement and admonition” of his teachers and peers that he managed to abandon many bad habits. Second, he emphasized the importance of perseverance, which he regarded as the cornerstone of becoming a sage. As he put it, “Only those who can endure hardship most steadfastly are able to surmount difficulties and rise to greatness, becoming towering figures of their age.” He devoted himself to self‑cultivation and moral refinement, engaging in constant reflection and awakening, and established for himself twelve precepts and methods for personal conduct and spiritual growth—such as quiet meditation, early rising, careful speech, and nurturing one’s qi. He spoke frankly and offered candid advice, laying out the pros and cons without hesitation, and dedicated himself to the ideal of “raising rulers to the level of Yao and Shun, and once again purifying customs.” He served his ruler with utmost loyalty, honored his parents with filial piety, treated his brothers with heartfelt sincerity, respected his wife as an equal, and showed both love and strictness toward his children. Above all, he tirelessly strove to achieve the grand vision of “cultivating oneself, regulating one’s family, governing the state, and bringing peace to the world.”
Some say, “Reading ten thousand books is not as good as traveling ten thousand miles; traveling ten thousand miles is not as good as encountering countless people; encountering countless people is not as good as being guided by a master; and being guided by a master is not as good as attaining understanding on your own.” In truth, reading, traveling, meeting others, and seeking guidance are all indispensable—but in the end, it is still up to you to “attain insight” through personal experience. Zeng Guofan’s entire life philosophy can be summed up in a single word: “insight.” As the novel The Remote Savior puts it, “Unless I personally perceive and realize something, no one else can give it to me—even if they do, I won’t be able to hold onto it. Only what I myself perceive and comprehend can I truly put into practice, and only what I can put into practice becomes truly mine.” This, too, explains why so many people “understand the principles yet still fail to live their lives well”: without the crucial step of genuine comprehension, we may continue to make the same mistakes when faced with challenges.
“Sustaining a single flock with the spirit of spring, and propping up two meager bones” — the founder of the Xiang Army
　　As the Taiping Rebellion gained momentum, Zeng Guofan was ordered to organize “local militia” in his hometown. Starting from scratch and braving countless hardships, he seized the opportunity to raise the Xiang Army, a force built on personal ties—teachers and disciples, relatives, and close friends. After twelve years of relentless effort, employing a strategy of “iron‑clad siege,” he captured key strongholds such as Anqing and Nanjing, ultimately crushing the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom, which sought to eradicate traditional Chinese culture. His success rested on a generous pay‑and‑benefits policy; on the organizational principle that “officers must be personally selected, and troops must be recruited independently”; on a personnel structure that “chose scholar‑officials to lead mountain farmers”; on strategic and tactical approaches that emphasized “leading others rather than being led by them”; and, above all, on his emphasis on ideological and political education, which forged an army united by shared beliefs and spiritual strength. As one scholar has observed: “Zeng was both the commander‑in‑chief of the army and its moral mentor; thus, the Xiang Army was a force guided by a clear doctrine.” The Xiang Army “went into battle by day and returned to study by night,” often fighting during the day and studying at night. It is said that the Red Army’s later “Three Disciplines and Eight Points of Attention” were modeled after Zeng Guofan’s folk song, the “Song of Loving the People,” which codified strict military discipline.
Zeng Guofan’s establishment of the Xiang Army was truly the result of painstaking deliberation and immense effort. First, the Qing court, which had instituted a “low‑pay system” for soldiers, provided no funding; he had to raise it himself. Second, as he was not a local governor, he lacked the authority to promote his subordinates and found it difficult to coordinate with regional officials. Moreover, upon first arriving in Changsha, his boldness in taking on responsibilities—suppressing banditry and safeguarding the people, frequently impeaching officials who failed to act—earned him the enmity of the local bureaucratic elite, leaving him severely constrained in the early stages when it came to raising funds, procuring arms, and organizing the army. Faced with these mounting difficulties, Zeng Guofan neither retreated nor simply complained. For the greater cause of “delivering the people from peril and rescuing them from dire straits,” he resolved to uphold two essential principles: cultivating inner virtue and moral integrity while also projecting firmness and outward influence. Though inherently upright and diligent, he later learned to adopt a more accommodating demeanor, blending strength with gentleness and adapting flexibly to circumstances. He could set aside the pretensions of a scholar to solicit donations—even resorting to compulsory levies—and, in times of crisis, enforce strict measures. He could not, like Hai Rui, aspire to be merely an “upright official”; such a stance would have left him unable to marshal all available resources within the late‑Qing bureaucracy to accomplish truly momentous undertakings that served the nation and the people. His ambition was not to be a paragon of moral rectitude, but to accomplish great deeds.
“Under the towering sky, myriad blossoms shine upon the sea; flowing streams and lofty mountains—only my heart truly knows.” — Having achieved success, he yielded his power.
　　The Qing government long adhered to the principle of favoring the Manchu over the Han and strengthening the central authority while weakening local branches. As Zeng Guofan continued to score military victories, the imperial court grew increasingly wary. With a keen political instinct, he naturally understood the adage that “when the hare is dead, the hound is cooked.” In his letters to his younger brother, he frequently remarked: “The realm of fame and officialdom has always been a place hard to sustain,” and “Throughout history, in great wars and momentous undertakings, human planning accounts for only three parts out of ten, while divine will invariably holds the remaining seven. Often, those who toil tirelessly are not the ones who achieve renown, and those who attain fame are not necessarily the ones who enjoy lasting fortune.” He once entrusted his descendants with the most essential lessons he had gleaned from a lifetime of conduct: one must strive to be “neither envious nor grasping”—that is, to curb both envy and greed. He added, “Our family’s fortune is exceedingly prosperous; we must therefore exercise exceptional caution, for this is the way to preserve what we have attained and ensure enduring stability.”
　　The Book of Changes states: “When the sun is at its zenith, it begins to wane; when the moon is full, it will decline.” When a person’s status, power, and reputation reach their peak, that very moment marks the beginning of their descent. After capturing Nanjing, the imperial court grew even more wary of the Xiang Army, imposing constant vigilance and suppression at every turn. It is said that Xiang general Peng Yulin once asked Zeng: “With half of the southeast left without a master, might you harbor some ambition?” To this, Zeng Guofan replied with a couplet: “Countless flowers bask in the sky’s radiance, while flowing streams and lofty mountains know my heart alone.” Zeng had raised his army to uphold the moral order of Confucianism, which places paramount importance on the proper relationship between ruler and subject; thus, wielding military force to vie for supreme power was never his intention. Accordingly, he pruned his own influence, voluntarily disbanded the Xiang Army, and arranged for his younger brother, Zeng Guoquan, to step down and return home—only then did he allay the court’s suspicions and secure his position.
“Help others to stand while you stand, and help others to succeed while you succeed” — cultivating talent
　　Zeng Guofan said, “A gentleman has three sources of joy,” one of which is “broadly encouraging talent and inspiring others to make daily progress.” His guiding principle in selecting and employing people was: “What I wish to achieve, I help others to achieve; what I wish to succeed in, I help others to succeed in.” He never claimed all the credit for his accomplishments nor shirked responsibility for his mistakes, but instead did everything possible to create opportunities for his subordinates’ growth. As a result, “he could adapt to each person’s talents and bring them to fruition, so those who came to him flowed in like water.” The prosperity of his administrative office was rarely seen throughout history. According to statistics, among his close associates, five eventually rose to the rank of imperial envoy, two became members of the Grand Council, two served as ministers, two were grand secretaries, three held the post of vice-minister, one became the minister of the Beiyang Affairs, one headed the Zongli Yamen, sixteen became governors-general, with thirty separate appointments to that office, twenty-eight became provincial governors, and they collectively held the governorship fifty times. In addition, there were numerous other officials—such as provincial administrators, inspectors general, commanders‑in‑chief, deputy generals, and many more—too numerous to list. Around the time of the fall of Tianjing, the Xiang clique boasted a constellation of civil and military talents that rivaled half the empire; this was yet another manifestation of his spirit of nurturing others by willingly serving as a stepping stone and championing the next generation.
Li Hongzhang was carefully mentored and groomed by Zeng Guofan as his designated successor, a debt of gratitude he carried for life: “In the past, serving under numerous commanders, I had no clear direction; only now have I found my way like a compass, reaping immense benefits… I have studied under many teachers, but none has taught as well as this old gentleman, who offers guidance in every circumstance—whenever, wherever, and whatever the task.” He further remarked that later, in all his endeavors—whether rising early or conducting diplomacy—he continued to draw inexhaustible benefit, all thanks to his mentor’s influence. Although Zuo Zongtang was promoted through Zeng Guofan’s recommendation, he did not offer steadfast support at critical moments and often placed obstacles in his path. Yet Zeng, prioritizing the greater good, consistently showed him great consideration. In the end, Zuo Zongtang could only acknowledge with admiration: “In loyalty to the nation and insight into people, I must confess I fall short of the Premier. United in purpose as gold, unyielding in correcting each other as stone—we hope never to disappoint one another throughout our lives.” Even Li Yuandu, a former subordinate who had been repeatedly censured by Zeng Guofan, expressed deep gratitude after Zeng’s passing, writing in his elegy: “Thunder and rain alike are but spring breezes.” In his book The Way of Living, Kazuo Inamori observes that maintaining a pure and benevolent heart, performing good deeds, nurturing kind thoughts, and practicing altruism—filling oneself with compassion and sincerity—is itself in harmony with the laws of the universe. Likewise, Zeng Guofan upheld a righteous mind: when faced with matters of gain, he attended to equitable distribution; when confronted with issues of reputation, he emphasized sharing—thus demonstrating broad-mindedness and a grand vision.
“To turn the tide when all seems lost, to shore up a crumbling edifice”—yet even with such efforts, the task remains beyond our power.
　　Struck by the twin Opium Wars, Zeng Guofan gained a deeper understanding of the gap between China and the West. He proactively engaged with Western geography, politics, science and technology, military affairs, and education, and vigorously promoted the Self-Strengthening Movement. He established the Anqing Arsenal, founded the Jiangnan Manufacturing Bureau, and encouraged the provinces to undertake Western‑style industrialization, thus pioneering the eastward spread of Western learning. On his deathbed, he even petitioned for the dispatch of the first group of government‑funded students to study in the United States, an initiative that would leave a profound mark on modern Chinese history. Through close engagement, he came to believe that the Westerners’ distinctive beliefs, cultural systems, and principles of conduct were qualities previously lacking among the so‑called “barbarian” tribes; their sole aim was commercial exchange to secure greater profits, coupled with the expectation that the Qing court treat them as equals. He urged a shift away from the traditional notion of the Celestial Empire as a hegemonic power ruling over all nations, advocating that foreigners be regarded as human beings and that international relations be grounded in mutual respect—principles consistent with the norms of modern diplomacy. He advanced a diplomatic approach characterized by “loyalty, trustworthiness, sincerity, and reverence,” arguing that in foreign interactions one should not obsess over such matters of “face” as whether to perform the three kneelings and nine kowtows or seek permission to settle within the city, but rather focus on securing the substantive interests that underpin national welfare and people’s livelihoods. As a pioneer and practitioner of the modern “open‑eyed view of the world,” his diplomatic vision and attitude toward foreigners clearly surpassed the level of understanding held by many of his contemporaries, remaining incomprehensible to the general populace, the reformist faction, and even the imperial court itself.
　　When the Tianjin Incident erupted, French missionaries were beaten to death by mobs, and the imperial court dispatched him to investigate and negotiate. Faced with a surging public mood that seemed ready to go to war with foreign powers, Zeng Guofan remained unmoved. He argued that the notion of “plucking out eyes and gouging out hearts” was entirely baseless; with our resources limited and our position legally weak, we should not stoke anti‑foreign sentiment to confront the foreigners, nor allow ourselves to be swept along by capricious public opinion—such a course would only cost us both substance and face. Although he reluctantly acceded to some of the foreigners’ reasonable demands in order to reach a settlement, the populace branded him a traitor who fawned on the West. Empress Dowager Cixi, who was skilled in political maneuvering but lacked true insight, cast him aside as a scapegoat, declaring that he was “adept in both civil and military affairs, yet unfortunately unable to handle the missionary case.” Zeng Guofan described his predicament at the time as one of “shame before public censure abroad and guilt before the gods within.” Thirty years later, the Boxer Movement broke out; having failed to learn from past mistakes, Empress Dowager Cixi declared war on eleven nations simultaneously—an episode widely regarded as an escalation of the Tianjin Incident.
　　Zeng Guofan followed the Way of the sages and aspired to emulate the worthiness of the sages; he devoted his entire life to this pursuit, yet he never succeeded in realizing the ideal of “establishing a heart for heaven and earth, securing a destiny for the people, reviving the lost learning of the ancient sages, and ushering in lasting peace for all generations.” He neither discerned the truth nor the doctrine that could redeem the old world, nor did he create a golden age guided by Confucian principles. As the author notes, Zeng Guofan spent his life defending and safeguarding the culture and faith he cherished; he died while striving to mend the heavens and fill the seas, thereby demonstrating both the heights to which human will can ascend and the limits of individual resolve. In the grand journey of the human spirit, his futile yet noble efforts have erected a monument that commands nothing less than solemn reverence.