APPENDIX THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JI XIANLIN

I was born on August 6, 1911, in the village of Guanzhuang, Qingping county (the city of Linqing today), Shandong, China. Our family was probably better off for some periods of time. But by the time when I was born, my grandparents died and my family was impoverished and reduced to the poor class. My father and his two brothers lived an orphaned, helpless life; later one of the brothers was given to a strange family and my father, along with the other brother, struggled to get by with scanty food and clothing and often found themselves gathering dry dates fallen from the trees to relieve hunger.

Before I turned six I had a tutor, Mr. Ma Jinggong. I can't remember what he taught me, probably a dozen of characters. At six I left home for Jinan to live with my uncle; my uncle went there to make a living earlier, driven in desperation, and finally established himself after going through tons of difficulties and setbacks. From then on I started to go to school formally. I first studied in a private tutor school and learned to read the classics like A List of One Hundred Surnames, The Thousand- Character Essay, The Three-Character Classic, and "The Four Books."[1] When I started my primary school I impressed the teacher by knowing the character "mule" and was permitted to skip the first three grades.

At Xinyu Primary School I once won a third place in the top category of learning and a first place in the second category of learning. I was not among the best students and did not work hard with mediocre academic performances in the last three years of primary schooling. One thing deserves a note. I began learning English then. At that time the primary school did not offer English classes, so I learned English in the evening in my leisure time. I did not take English classes for long, so I only learned a smattering of grammar and vocabulary. I was often baffled with the question, "Why are the words 'be' and 'have' both called verbs though neither of them means action?" Gradually I got to know it was due to a sloppy translation into Chinese.

I never thought, with this smattering of English, that I would benefit later by skipping half a grade of the middle school when applying to it. I knew the score about my capabilities and someone said I was too knowledgeable of myself. No matter what others' opinions are, one thing is for sure that I had no lofty ideals in my early years. At that time Shandong Provincial Number One Middle School was ranked the top in the province. Considering myself as dumb as a toad which should reject the desire for a taste of a swan, I didn't have the guts to apply to it. Instead I applied to the "poor" Zhengyi School. But this school gave an English entrance examination by requiring the applying students to translate the Chinese sentences into English, "Recently I've got a new book and already read a few pages. But I do not understand the meaning of some of the words." Though I did the complete translation, I pondered long over the word "already." As a result I was admitted, not into the first grade but the first and a half grade.

At the Zhengyi Middle School I was not a diligent student either, and my academic performance stuck around the last few places of the top category and the first few places of the second category, ranking in the upper middle tier. Located near Lake Daming of the city, our school was scenic. After school I would run to the lake shore behind, shrimping and angling for frogs, never bothering about what learning held in stock. But my uncle placed high expectations on me and had strict requirements. He personally taught me and let me read The Kezhi Reader, a collection of essays on the Confucian philosophy. He was not well educated but extremely intelligent and became knowledgeable through self-schooling on classics. He was good at composing poems and writing essays. He was also able to engrave seals. He had no son, so he treated me as his son with all his aspirations. He showered both discipline and affection on me and exerted great influence on the path I took. All that I have learned stemmed from his guidance and care, which I will never forget. According to his requirements, in the afternoon right after school, I went to participate in an extracurricular study program of classical Chinese and learned to read Zuo's Spring and Autumn, Intrigues of the Warring States, Records of the Grand Historian, etc.[2] Certainly we paid a separate payment to the tutors. In the evening I also had to learn English at the Shangshi English Society until ten before going home. Such life lasted for eight years. I did not feel any pressure, nor was I aware of any long-term significance from it. My main interest was still catching fish and shrimp. Now as I recall today, what a solid learning foundation I laid in those years!

In terms of our courses at the middle school, the curriculum includes Chinese, English, mathematics, physics, biology, geography, and history. In the course of Chinese we read books such as Guwenguanzhi and had to recite the essays from it.[3] For English classes we read Fifty Famous Stories Retold, One Thousand and One Nights, Tales from Shakespeare, Nesfield's English Grammar, etc. In Chinese composition classes we wrote essays in classical Chinese. In English classes we also wrote essays. Out of school I read many old-style novels on my own, in addition to taking classes in the extracurricular learning programs, such as Three Kingdoms, Journey to the West, The Creation of the Gods, Tales of the Tang Kingdoms, Stories of Yue Fei, The Legend of Ji Gong, Tales of Peng Gong, Three Heroes and Five Gallants, etc.[4] The Story of the Stone feels particularly flat on me. I also read other fictions, such as The Western Chamber and The Plum in the Golden Vase.[5] I had no idea of what influence I had drawn from these books, but I was certainly not spurred to engage in robbing and womanizing.

After middle school I went on at Zhengyi for half a year of high school and then transferred in 1926 to the newly founded High School Affiliated with Shandong University. The president of Shandong University, Wang Shoupeng, once won the title of Number One of the Highest Imperial Examination in the early Qing Dynasty (1616-1911) and was currently head of the provincial department of education. He advocated reading Confucian classics. I had two high school teachers who taught Confucian classics; one of them used to be a member of the Imperial Academy or a successful candidate in the Highest Imperial Examination, and another was styled "Big Qing Country," an old diehard. I have forgotten the names of both teachers. They did not bring textbooks to class but could thoroughly memorize them as well as the notes, whey they taught The Book of History and The Book of Changes. It was even said that they could recite them backwards. My teacher of Chinese was Mr. Wang Kunyu, a classical literary writer of the School of Tongcheng who published a collection of essays and later taught as instructor at Shandong University.[6] I was immensely influenced by him. I remember the assigned topic for my first essay was "A Response to A Biography of Xu Wenchang."[7] To my surprise my composition won kudos from him as he noted, "Direct, precise, expressive and clear." Immediately I took a fancy to the Chinese classical prose. I managed to get and read A Collection of Essays of Han Changli, A Collection of Essays by Liu Zongyuan, as well as writings by Ouyang Xiu and Three Su's, etc.[8] Speaking about English I had the language background obtained from the Shangshi English Society, so I was unrivaled by other students. Another point to make is that I took German lessons too.

As mentioned previously I took the final examinations in the first semester and won the first place of the top category with an average score of more than 95. So I got a prize from Number One Wang. He wrote me a couplet and gave me a fan as prizes, which definitely overwhelmed me with surprise. From then on I started to study hard. My motive, if it is an issue of concern, was not high-sounding, nothing more than saving my face. I simply wanted to keep myself from falling to the second place of the top category. That's it. In all three years of my high school I won six first places of the top category in all six examinations, a "Six-time Champion," which absolutely sated my vainglory.

Did my success change me from a person with no great aspirations? Not necessarily. I remained near-sighted and worldly inclined and never resolved to accomplish meritorious deeds, achieve high ideals, engage in a lifelong scientific career and become somebody as a scholar. What I longed for was graduating from college and landing a dependable job, in the harsh circumstance of living, and leading a mediocre, eventless life through to my last day.

In 1929 I went to the Shandong Provincial Jinan High School, in which I studied for one year. This one year turns out to be a crucial stage in my life, particularly in terms of Chinese. There are a few nationally known writers, Hu Yepin, Dong Qiufang, Xia Laidi, Dong Meikan, etc. The former two used to be teachers of the courses I took. Mr. Hu fervently promoted modern literature and arts, that is, the proletarian literature and arts. Inadvertently I got to read some writings of Marxist theories on literature and arts, which were translated from Japanese. I once wrote an article "The Mission of Modern Literature and Arts," which, I remember, was completed by gathering notes from various writings. To my surprise Mr. Hu loved it and wanted to publish it in the journal that he edited. However, before my proletarian literature and arts dream was turned into reality, he was listed as a wanted man by the KMT reactionaries. He fled to Shanghai and was executed soon. His teaching successor was Mr. Dong Qiufang (with Dong Fen used as his pen name). By this time I shifted to the writing style of the vernacular, which received high praise from Mr. Dong. He considered me, along with another student Wang Lianbang, as the "Top Writers of the School." I was tremendously inspired. I've kept writing for fifty years and even would not put down my pen at an advanced age now. All the inspiration and encourage came from Mr. Dong, which I will never forget.

By now I had finished all courses of Confucian classics, and the Chinese class was also primarily in the vernacular. But I did not slight my learning of classical literary works. I continued to read extensively on a wide range of genres. I read many works by poets and tuned poem writers, Tao Yuanming, Du Fu, Li Bai, Wang Wei, Li Shangyin, Li Yu, Su Shi, Lu You, Jiang Kui and so on, which positively impacted my later works.

In 1930 I graduated from high school and went to Peking for college. Due to the reasons I discussed above, I was completely rid of the low self-esteem and became rather conceited. At that time getting enrolled into a prestigious university was very difficult since the admission rates were low. In order to increase the admission opportunity, my class of over eighty students each applied to seven to eight colleges. But I only applied to Tsinghua University and Peking University, which both admitted me. After a serious consideration I chose Tsinghua because I believed it offered more opportunities for going overseas for further studies. In deciding on the major I decided on the Department of Western Literature. This department had three specialized directions, English, German and French. A chosen language required four years of undergraduate study, which would be in the major of the student. In fact it was formality because students learned English from the primary school but learning German and French started from scratch, the alphabet. Most of the professors were foreigners, and, no matter which country the professor was from, every one spoke English in class. Even Chinese professors spoke English for most of the time. Most of the courses were also on English literature and all the texts were in English, such as A European History of Literature, Classical European Literature, The Literature of the Middle Ages, Renaissance Literature, Literary Criticism, Shakespeare, British Romantic Poets, Contemporary Fictions, Introduction to Literature, The Literary and Artistic Psychology (Aesthetics), A Western History, Freshman Chinese, Freshman and Sophomore English, etc.

With a major in German I had three professors in four years, two Germen and one Chinese. Despite my gratitude toward them I have to be frank that they lacked passion for teaching. During this course of four years the Chinese professor only spoke Chinese in class, while the German professors spoke English, so German was never a language for instruction. Consequently, my four years of learning German left me with the limited language competence of reading as opposed to that of listening and speaking. My senior thesis was entitled "The Early Poems of HÖlderlin" under the advice of Professor Ecke.

Among all courses I took, I benefited the most, not from those core courses, but from one elective and one audited course: "The Literary and Artistic Psychology" taught by Zhu Guangqian, and "Translated Works from Buddhist Classics" taught by Chen Yinque. These two courses have greatly impacted my later academic career. My research in comparative literature and theories of literature and arts are influenced by Professor Zhu, and my inspirations for studies in the history of Buddhism, Sanskrit and central Asian language of ancient times are certainly derivative of Professor Chen's instructions.

Moreover, I did not give up on my writing of essays at leisure time and continued to publish a few articles in some of the influential journals of the time. Those publications, to my surprise, brought me unexpected offshoots. In 1934 when I graduated from Tsinghua and applied for jobs, I was first not successful. Then I received the invitation with a job offer from Song Huanwu, principal of my alma mater, the Shandong Provincial Jinan High School, to return to the school and teach Chinese. Those few essays I had published turned me into a writer, and an unstated assumption by then was that a writer was able to teach Chinese. I felt on edge thinking, "How could I teach Chinese?" As the autumn was around the corner and there was still no sign of landing a job in sight, I decided to hack it through at all risks with the thought that "you trust me and then I would not turn you down." A college graduate of Western literature, I became a high school instructor of Chinese. With A Comprehensive Chinese Dictionary and a smattering of knowledge of the classics I started to teach. At the age of 23 I had a few students in my class, who were three or four years my senior, and had a background of private tutor schooling in my hometown. I was walking on thin ice.

I taught one year until 1935 when heaven gave me a good opportunity. Tsinghua University signed an agreement with Germany on a student exchange program. After I applied and took the examinations I was accepted. In the depths of the autumn that year I went to the University of Gottingen, Germany, and began my graduate study overseas. I majored in the study of India with a minor in English linguistics and Slavic languages. I studied Sanskrit, Balinese, Russian, Slavic, Arabic, etc. I also took many other courses. The professors who taught me include Sieg, Waldschmidt and Braun.

It was in the deadlock of World War II. Germany was blockaded and no food could be transported into it with alarming shortages of food and clothing. About four or five years I sustained unbearable hunger, as my stomach groaned and airplanes rumbled overhead in bombing raids. I missed my country and family. "As the war has raged for six years, a letter from home is more valuable than hundreds of millions of liang of gold."[9] In fact I had not received any letter from my family. In such adverse circumstances I pressed forward with my learning. In 1941 I passed my oral examination and dissertation defense and earned my Ph.D. with honor. The title of my dissertation is "The Grammatical Gender of Prescriptive Verbs Used in the Rhapsody of Praise in Grand Events."

During these hard times I was deeply touched by my German teachers' dedication to their teaching and their attitude toward Chinese students. Not only did they show no shade of discrimination against me, a foreign student with no local connections at all, but they loved and protected me with all their heart and guided me through my learning. When Professor Waldschmidt was enlisted in the military, Professor Sieg, in his advanced years, took over the teaching. Actually I was the only Ph.D. candidate that he needed to teach. He withheld nothing of his specialty in lecturing to me. He taught me Rig Veda, Panini's Grammar, Patanjali's Mahabhasya and The Adventures of the Ten Princes. In addition he insisted that he teach me the language of Tukhara, on which he was the top authority in the world, and he was a master of this abstruse language. At that time I was up to my neck in working and also suffered from the obsessive-compulsive disorder, both physically and mentally weary. But seeing the old man so warm-hearted I agreed to learn the language from him. Along with me in the study was a Belgian student, Dr. W. Couvreur, who later became a famous professor.

In the light of their work my German teachers are all models of passion, seriousness, meticulousness and rigorousness. When writing articles they would repeatedly go through considerations, revisions and peer reviews before publication. German scholars are well-known for their "thoroughness" (Grundlichkeit), which profoundly impressed me. I have paled by comparison in my later work, due to the working circumstances, for which I feel ashamed as one of their students.

From 1937 I began teaching as an adjunct instructor of Chinese in the Department of Chinese at the University of Gottingen. The department was located on the second floor of an instructional building, a quiet place where nobody ventured around. The department library, famous in Europe, held a large collection of books, and many Sinologists came to do research. I had bumped into some of them, such as the well-known British scholar Arthur Waley and others. In this library I read a great deal of Chinese books, particularly in the areas of fictions and Buddhist Tripitaka, broadening my horizon of learning.

I had stayed at the University of Gottingen for ten years, until at the turn of the winter of 1945 I left there for Switzerland, in which I hung around for half a year. Toward the end of the spring of 1946, after almost a decade of living abroad, I returned to my country in the summer via France, Vietnam and Hong Kong.

My overseas graduate study, as well as the complete student life of mine, came to a close. I was thirty-five years old that year.

In the autumn of 1946 I came to Peking University, started to teach as professor and, at the same time, assumed the position of department head of Eastern Languages. I was recommended, by my teacher Chen Yinque, to Hu Shih, Fu Sinian and Tang Yongtong, for this position. By that time Peking University had regulations that returned Ph.D. holders from abroad should be granted the position of associate professor. Certainly I was not exceptional. Probably thanks to the articles I published in the journal of the Gottingen Institute of Sciences, I was soon notified by Mr. Tang that I was promoted to the position of professor. Since then it's been forty-two years and I have never left the university. During this period I worked thirty years as department head and five years as deputy president of the university. In 1956 I was elected member of the China's Academy of Sciences. In the Cultural Revolution I was whisked away and denounced at torture sessions, which was certainly "complying with the current trend." Now at my late years I'm going on with teaching, researching and participating in social work, moving closer to but not quite there at the Babaoshan Cemetery. I have talked about some uneventful experiences of mine in the previous sections, which are not some heroic deeds to be touted about. Then I should stop here.

To my mind a few magazines and newspapers have solicited for my memoir for the purpose of letting me write about my experiences of teaching and research. What kinds of experience do I have to offer about my sixty years of learning and research? In general terms there are tons of them; but a specific recall gives no ghost of them to me. In a nutshell I may have some pedestrian discoveries to offer, but certainly not up to a caliber of a groundbreaker. No matter what pair of the mandarin ducks I have embroidered, I have done my best in accomplishing my mission, even though the tools of embroidery that I used for my work were far less phenomenal, those bronze and iron embroidery needles instead of the golden ones.

I remember a joke told by Lu Xun in one of his writings. A man loudly hawked his bedbug-eliminating formula in a fair. One buyer purchased from the seller a thickly wrapped wad of paper with the formula written inside. When he opened it, he found the formula written in two words, "Keep catching." Don't you claim the formula is wrong? Yes, it is correct. But it says nothing. My experience has asked me to condense the gist to two words, "Work hard." If you want to be more specific, I would say, "Seize the minute and seize the second and never slack up." It is true that inspiration strikes from time to time, but it is not inbred. Perspiration breeds inspiration.

The previous section highlights a generalization. In the following I will elaborate a few specific issues. I believe scientific research requires four accomplishments: (1) theory, (2) broad knowledge, (3) foreign languages, and (4) Chinese. Liu Zhiji (661-721) of the Tang Dynasty (618-907) postulates that a historian should have talent, learning, and knowledge. Drawing on his idea I am blending it into my topic that theory relates to knowledge, broad knowledge to learning, and foreign languages and Chinese to talent. I will discuss them in detail in the following.

(1) Theory

Today speaking of theory often leads to a topic of Marxist theories. Such consideration is by no means incorrect. But a few notes must be relevant. First, Marxism is developing through history and should not be taken as the dogma. Second, Marxism should not be prescribed as something mysterious and daunting; it can be criticized and rebutted. Personally I believe the quintessence of Marxism is materialism and dialectics. The approach of materialism is based on the seeking of truth from facts. Seeing yellow as yellow is a materialist perspective; seeing yellow as black instead of yellow is an approach of metaphysics. Things are so simple and straightforward. Philosophers have their legitimate rights to explore and elaborate theories. We laymen should not necessarily feel bound with the same mission. With respect to dialectics a new perspective can be helpful. Issues should not be viewed in an isolated, stereotyped fashion; inter-relations of the multi-facets should be taken into account and laws of evolution should be analyzed. Such understanding of the developments of things, as elementary as that of kindergarteners, probably paints a picture closer to reality.

Apart from Marxism it is beneficial to read works written by philosophers, as well as their approaches of perceiving things, of the frequently derogated metaphysics of ancient times in the history of China and other countries. I have a strange idea that there is no pure materialistic philosopher to a one hundred percent degree, nor such a metaphysical philosopher, in society. It is like the impossibility of obtaining a vacuum because an absolute vacuum does not exist on the earth. One ancient Chinese saying goes like this, "The wisest man may outline one thousand schemes but at least one of them must be flawed," which just keeps to the point. Therefore the often disparaged metaphysical philosophers have quite a few worthy ideas that we should study. We should never take the same simplistic and dogmatic approach as we did in the past and tag them with the label "metaphysics," without purification.

(2) Broad Knowledge

Probably no one is opposed to the idea of broad knowledge. It is because your research area can be very narrow and specific, but you cannot be far-sighted and your research cannot go to the depth of discovery unless you have laid a foundation with broad knowledge. It is common knowledge, unnecessary to be elaborated with proof. Here what I want to say is that we, workers of liberal arts and social sciences, should also be acquainted with science and technology and it would even be better to excel in one area of them. The current academic development is increasingly blurring the watersheds among disciplines, and marginal and cross disciplines are mushrooming. The conventional closing-up and keeping confined to one's own subject, as "Close neighbors do not contact each other though their cocks' crowing and dogs' barking can be heard," will certainly bring one to a dead end. In addition an open-arms embrace should be maintained in learning and research toward different schools of thought being currently popularized in the West, no matter how odd and absurd they appear to you, at least to keep contact and attain a general understanding, instead of indiscriminately accepting or rejecting them.

(3) Foreign Languages

The importance of foreign languages can never be over-emphasized. If a research note were presented here, I would be doing something like drawing a snake and then adding feet to it. I'm only stressing one point. Today's world situation has shown English is the most important foreign language and has become de facto a language of the world. We mush have a good command of it, not only able to read and translate but also able to listen, speak and write. Today if one is only capable of writing papers in Chinese he or she will not be able to go abroad and communicate with scholars of other countries. The inability to listen and speak English deprives one of opportunities for attending international conferences. With this urgent situation pressing on us we cannot but seriously take the issue into account.

(4) Chinese

Bringing up this topic may give rise to some considerations of the intention as invalid or absurd. "Am I unable to speak Chinese?" "Am I unable to write in Chinese?" Yes, you're able to speak and write in Chinese. But when looking closely you must admit the public command of Chinese is quite unsatisfactory. A glance over any newspapers of any day and magazines published will surely show misspelled words and faulty sentences. I more and more feel that it is not an easy job to write a correct, clear-cut and vivid essay. To achieve this goal will definitely take some painstaking commitment. I even believe it will be more difficult to take one step forward upon mastering the intermediate Chinese than to learn a new foreign language. Only when we see this reality can our command of Chinese be improved and our writing gradually be cleared of misspelling and erroneous sentence structures.

The four issues I talked about above are rehashed topics, hackneyed and unoriginal old sayings. However, doesn't greatness often stem from mediocrity? My ideas, pretty much like the joke of "keeping catching" in Lu Xun's writing that I mentioned earlier, look bland but are actually at once practical and feasible. I thought I should share my humble opinions with the reader instead of keeping a hoard of thoughts to myself. So I'm writing about it like no more than an old country loggerhead showing himself off.

In the following I will talk about guidelines for scientific research. Seventy years ago Hu Shih proposed, "Liberally postulate theories but rigorously proceed with evidence." I believe it is an irrefutable and universally correct idea, which holds up in the history of both sciences and social sciences. In the past prevailing periods of dogma and metaphysics, this guideline underwent years of endless denouncement. I was totally confounded. Can any scholar get rid of postulating and proving with evidence? To be liberal means overstepping the boundary of the predecessor, challenging the authority, casting views beyond, sweeping stretched out waters of concern, seeing with the vision of innovation, hacking through untraveled paths, proposing one's own postulates, or even necessarily fantasizing and producing bizarre thoughts. Without such grit one would only slip into a conventional groove, be stuck in a rut, see in the eye of the near-sighted mouse, and rehash others' sentences, with no chance of breaking fresh ground and making advances in research. Isn't this point self-evident and does it need a further backup of evidence?

In a nutshell I would like to hammer home the message: (1) postulate ideas, and (2) be courageous. Success cannot be achieved without taking either of the two actions.

But, in postulating audacious theories it is also recommended to prove them with rigorous evidence. A postulate, once put forth by anyone, can never completely fit into real circumstances; it usually needs a process of revision. We all have such experience that we suddenly hit upon an idea, believably "a divine stroke" and "a spark of talent," and are overjoyed. However, it may not be reliable. Its validity counts on the backup of evidence. Searching for evidence is done with care and objectivity, and impatience is not to be accepted and rashness is even more a greasy mark to be wiped off. Efforts should be made in multi-dimensions and from different approaches so as to test the soundness of the postulate or examinate the degree to which it is valid or the parts of it that are true while the rest is untrue. In achieving these goals one must seek truth from facts and eliminate any flare of selfishness and vestige of deviation from reality. Once one postulate is falsified by the evidence, it must be immediately discarded without delay no matter how wonderful and stimulating it first appears; if one part is incorrect, then that part should be discarded; if all parts are incorrect, then all of them should be discarded. This issue is concerned with academic integrity and should be treated with sincerity. Unfortunately there are still people who hang on to their "wonderful" postulates with fabricated evidence and clipped papers; they retain those sections they consider useful to their purpose and ignore, or hide, those parts they find useless and unfavorable in their interest. All of the behaviors are "immoral" and, to my mind, should be eliminated. Meanwhile plagiarizing others' ideas and information without citation is the doing of a pickpocket and even more contemptible.

In summary I'm highlighting my points, (1) prove the postulate with evidence and (2) proceed with care. Work cannot be completed without either of them.

I just expounded the idea of "academic integrity," a phrase borrowed from Zhang Xuecheng.[10] He explained that "academic integrity" was the "heart's thought." What I have talked also relates the "heart's thought" but is a little different from Zhang Xuecheng's definition, for an extension. The main thrust of my idea is not to deceive oneself and the reader. Behaving this way is upholding integrity, while behaving oppositely is lacking integrity. A writer should count on one's own writing. If one does not believe one's own writing as true but expects the reader to believe in it, isn't that behavior one of immorality? What I have said is not concocted and delivered at random. I have proof of the facts. I'm writing about these issues from an old man's perspective in an attempt to share them with young scholars.

Now I would like to turn to the topic of data collecting. In doing scientific research date collecting is a necessary step to take. It is obvious. But date collecting can be completed in a variety of ways. The most common one is to use index cards and write notes on them and then sort them out in categories and keep them in a file. This is not the only way. Mr. Chen Yinque wrote his notes at the top of a page of the book; he wrote a few of them today and the following day; the data was gathered to a huge amount until one day he could write one article, moving those notes from the book to his paper. One typical example is that his annotated notes on the book pages of Biographies of the Eminent Monks: the Biography of Kumarajiva are a few times longer than the original writing. I myself have seldom used index cards and never written notes on the margin of the book. Instead I write my notes on a regular piece of paper. Sometimes I stumble into some useful material; I would pick up something at hand and write on it, such as a note of announcement, invitation card, an envelope, or a scrap of paper; I write on them and keep them in a classified file. I have noticed that some others also gather data this way. Mr. Xiang Da used to write notes on the cigarette box. Writing on a larger piece of paper has an advantage of recording all information needed, equivalent to Mr. Chen's use of the book page. The index card has limited space and cannot hold much note. After the data are gathered caution should be used in keeping them. The best way to do is to sort them out and place them into folders or manila envelopes. Otherwise something may be lost, even if it is a slip of paper, due to carelessness, which may be the most important information you need, and your writing will be impaired and you will have to scratch out your writing once again. It is needless to say that nothing should be brushed off, big or small, and efforts should not be spared even to drain the pond to get the fish. Nevertheless it is impossible to be one hundred percent complete in gathering materials. We should guard against the temptation of setting to write a long essay with a smidgen of data. Such writings obviously tend to produce unreliable conclusions. Another relevant concern is that attention should focus on the currency of the scholarship, keeping close track of the most recent publications and heatedly debated topics. Otherwise when one theory has already been published and you are still keeping your nose to the grindstone in formulating it, it will surely look ridiculous. We should be on the alert.

In the meantime I would like to talk about the usefulness of materials. In strict terms none of the materials is useless. It matters only to the kind of person and time concerned. The usefulness varies from time to time even to the same person. Probably we all have such experience. On the one hand, with one particular research topic in mind, you may think all materials applicable, such as critical points noted in books, archaeological findings from unearthed artifacts, and discoveries drawn from social investigations. To amass these materials is not difficult, and periodically they leap into your eye. On the other hand, if you do not have this particular research topic at hand, all related materials appear like junk. But a person usually is not sure of what the next research topic is and at what time he or she will start to work on that topic. One ponders on numerous issues in a life; when topic A is on the agenda, one material relevant to topic B is useless to you; but the time may arise in the future for considering topic B, when you know you had run into that material in the past; but now you find yourself lost in mist and it is impossible to locate it. I've gone through the kind of vexation for countless times in life and have the empathy to understand others' too.

Then what should we do? The best way to do is not to confine yourself to one concern; consider a few at the same time and keep thinking about them and never let your mind grind to a halt; always turn something over in your mind. In this way you will have a large circumference of contacting and gathering useful materials and have fewer fishes slipping through your net. You will surely be able to collect a bountiful amount of data. Maintain an army for one thousand days in peace only to use it for one hour in the war. By the time of composing your essay you will do the job with ease.

Finally I will discuss the allocation of time. Time is life, which is a cliche, and time is a constant, equivalent to everyone. No one lives one second or two extra in a day. To us scholars, time is extremely precious. But circumstances vary from person to person. For some people it becomes an issue of utilizing "leftover bits." I have coined this strange term. Time is not seeable and touchable but comes as a whole. How can it be cut into "leftover bits"? This is a graphical expression. In an ordinary day of work we are not disturbed by visitors or distracting businesses. You can concentrate on your work and take it easy. If you want to relax more you may take sips on a cup of the Dragon Well tea and smoke three "Clouds" cigarettes, [11]grooving like a celestial being. You have all the time at your disposal with no concern over the issue of "leftover bits." But how many of us could have such working serendipity of life? Doltish and undistinguished as I am, I've never been favored with such a stroke of fortune. Since the founding of new China I have had incalculable social activities and attended innumerous meetings; each day countless visitors came to see me, distracting and dismaying, leaving me with not knowing whether to laugh or cry. In retrospection I became one of the untouchable during the Cultural Revolution and, except being destined in the Cow Shed, scared away visitors at home too. However, the eight-volume translation of Ramayana was completed in this period. Is it true that one has to be untouchable or a Rightist in order to read and write? Once the upheaval was over my courtyard was switched back to a marketplace thronged with visitors. I had to attend meetings of all sorts, unable to free myself for a single minute from daily routines. I once read Mayakovsky's "A Meeting Addict" and Zhang Tianyi's Mr. Hua Wei and found the characters very amusing but did not expect myself to turn into one of them now.[12] What a shame! However, one can figure out ways of wringing out time from a desperate situation. Since I do not have large chunks of time for research I will do my best to utilize the "leftover bits" of the time before and after meeting or even at the meeting by laying out the structure of or composing the essay. At meetings, speakers more often than not rambled away with tedious government slogans and banal, unrelated talks and gave no useful information. The speaker was not down to the earth and businesslike, disrespecting the audience and demoralizing himself; he did not mean what he spoke and repeatedly uttered hogwash like "this," "that," "ah," "oh," etc. It was a sheer waste of time on the audience. At this time I usually listened with one ear, or half an ear, to catch whatever useful information can be gleaned, while focusing my attention on composing my essay. Of course, I took advantage of traveling by air, train and bus and even riding my bicycle and strolling in cranking out the message and style of my essay. This is what I mean by using the "leftover bits" of time. As time went on I fell into a "pernicious habit"; whenever my bottom hit the seat in a meeting room and whiffs of hollow talk assailed me, I was delighted as thoughts of my paper topics started to gush out of my head, "flares of talent" glittering continuously; streams of creativity sprang up and quickly delineated a layout in my mind shortly before a brief essay was whipped out amid the closing applause of the meeting. It even didn't hinder me from honoring the speaker with my share of applauding. It even didn't hinder me from honoring the speaker with my share of applauding. If, for days without a meeting, my brain would wind down almost to a standstill, a "gifted writer" presumably drained of "all talent." Then I would sigh with regret, wishing a meeting would soon be convened. What an incurable character!

I have talked and strayed on my autobiography of the past seventy years. Generally it is an uneventful one of an ordinary man without clashes and quakes. I have gained a haul of research experience from the idea of "keeping catching," matte and cheesy. Presumably if you see some pricy stuff it is the crazy commentary. An ancient saying goes like "Write with honesty." I have not lied, which puts my mind at rest and does not let others down.

Completed on October 26, 1988

The previous writing was completed in 1988. Now it's been ten years. In a life of one hundred years a decade is not a short period. Time strides ahead and tides shift. Today I'm not the one I used to be. The Press of the Party School of the Central Committee of CPC contacted me for the publication of my Random Recollections of the Cow Shed and requested I add an autobiography so that the reader can have an understanding of Ji Xianlin as a person. It suggested I submit the previous version of autobiography and expand a little. So I did accordingly and have finished it. I thought it was a good idea and accepted it.

With hindsight, I found a problem. The previous autobiography is written with introduction and conclusion. If a cut is made at the end of a wretched writing and replaced with a tacky addition, it will look like neither fish nor good red herring, not a complete work at all. After long musing I decided to keep the original but add the following. The combination of the two will also appear complete.

What did the year 1988 look like? By then the policy of reform and opening up had been implemented for ten years and remarkable success had been achieved, the economy robust and people happy. The intellectuals, as a social population who had suffered in each political movement since the liberation, were particularly jubilant after the shackles binding their body were broken; they were rejuvenated; the academia and literature and arts were prosperous. I myself also felt breezes of the spring. Though I was already over the age of retirement, the university let me stay and I felt proud of myself and full of vigor, forgetting about my age and ambitious to achieve more on borrowed time. Despite the fact that I had quit from all administrative positions, my social work and activities showed no sign of decreasing; I was elected president or honorary president to lead seven or eight national academic organizations. As for becoming a member of a society or association, it was uncountable; I was chosen as advisor, in fact having never contributed any advice, to a hundred organizations or book writing committees; I was editor-in-chief of three or four series of up to a few thousand books; I was frequently interviewed by TV stations, photographed and type-recorded, which brought in visitors to pack my afternoon schedule to the full; every day I received letters of various kinds, raising surprisingly odd questions. Some young boy and girl students from border regions of the country wrote me letters that gave me a lot of joy, and, deep down inside, I truly appreciate their trust in me. A noted writer said in his article that I replied to each of his letters written to me. That caused me disaster. How could I reply to each letter? Even if I hadn't had any other business I could not have been able to do that. I had to let my assistant and students write my replies on my behalf. His overstatement later disappointed many male and female teenagers. I felt guilty but found myself not in a position to do otherwise.

Why am I writing about all of this? I've only one purpose, that is, letting readers know about my current life and work. If I have done anything inappropriate I would appreciate their consideration and understanding.

Speaking about my academic contributions some people say I have treated myself cruelly. It's true that I'm close to ninety; though I still have a strong physique, I am losing my eyesight and hearing and walking a little haltingly. But I make sure that I wake up before dawn, switch on the first electric light in Langrunyuan and get down to my unfinished writing assignment, continuously and assiduously.[13] Don't I know that taking a stroll to Yuanmingyuan or Summer Place or, even further away, hiking in the Fragrance Hills, is a more enjoyable experience? Do I have ambitions for more material gains and reputation? No, these are not what I desire. I know strolling is enjoyable. But I understand I do not live for taking a few more strolls. That should not be a goal to achieve in life. As for material gains and reputation they are rolling in each day unexpectedly; with a mediocre fame for writing, my royalties give me another steady income. In other words I enjoy an abundance of material gains and reputation, and a glut of them would load the dice against me. Then why am I persisting in reading and writing? I would not like to lie and preach at readers with the merits of serving the country and people. I'm doing what I want to do in an effort to obtain an inner tranquility; a one-day lapse without reading and writing would pummel me with twinges of guilt at night that I have lived one day in vain. Habit makes comfortable. I'm addicted to work and will not be able to rid of the habit until the next life.

According to my calculation, each of the past few years has seen far more of my production than any of my earlier years. The two longest and most arduous works were completed in my late years. One of them is the 0.8 million-word A Trace of Cultural Exchange: A Chinese History of Cane Sugar. The other one, also about hundreds of thousands of words long (it is hard to count due to some parts of it written in English), is A Translation of a Play of the Smiling Bodhisattva's Conference, which is originally written in the language of Qarasahr, Dialect A of Tukhara. As a writer of all subjects I write and publish in my areas of academic interest. Unfortunately some readers are confused in this regard, thanks to some reasons, and have sent their letters for me to various departments, such as the Department of Chinese, History, Philosophy, Western Languages, or even Sociology, indicating their understanding of me. After the two major works of mine are published, I believe the confusion will be declining. But to me I've never been confused about my academic directions.

The above sweeping account is about my last ten years' life and can be considered as an "autobiography."

How have I reflected on the ten years of turmoil during this period? In reality I haven't forgotten about it since the day when I got to tear off its extremely delicate and graceful veil and view its extremely cruel and tragic nature. But I waited and kept waiting until in 1992 when I decided to write Random Recollections of the Cow Shed. In this year, 1998, the book has finally appeared. I'm at last satisfied and complacent, which I recounted in "Preface" and will not reiterate. I think I have finally done something worthy for the offspring of the Chinese nation. Now I have another expectation, hoping there will be some people interested in it as well.

Written on March 11, 1998

[1]A List of One Hundred Surnames, a classical rhyming poem composed in the early Song Dynasty; The Thousand-Character Essay, a literary text written by Zhou Xingsi (?-521) in the reign of Liang of the Northern and Southern Dynasties (420-589); The Three-Character Classic, a children's reading and rhyming poem believed to be written in the thirteenth century; "The Four Books," referring to The Analects of Confucius, The Book of Mencius, The Doctrine of the Mean and The Great Learning.

[2]Intrigues of the Warring States, a collection of essays collected and edited by Liu Xiang in the late Western Han Dynasty.

[3]Guwenguanzhi, an anthology of classical Chinese literary writings first published in 1695.

[4]The Creation of the Gods, a Chinese epic fantasy novel written by Xu Zhonglin in the Ming Dynasty; Tales of the Tang Kingdoms, a Chinese novel of the wars and warlords in the late Sui (581-618) and early Tang (618-907) Dynasties, written by unknown author and published in the Qing Dynasty; Stories of Yue Fei, a Chinese novel about Yue Fei (1103-1142), military general and patriotic hero in the Southern Song Dynasty (1127-1279), in his fighting against the north invasion of the state of Jin; The Legend of Ji Gong, a Chinese fiction about Ji Gong (1130-1209), a Buddhist formally named Li Xiuyuan in the Southern Song Dynasty, who redresses the wrongs of the weak and brings outlaws to justice; Tales of Peng Gong, a Chinese novel, written by Yang Yidian and published in 1892 in the Qing Dynasty, about the protagonist Peng Gong or Peng Peng's deeds of getting rid of bullies and bringing peace to people; Three Heroes and Five Gallants, a Chinese fiction, written by Shi Yukun (1810-1871) and published in 1879 in the Qing Dynasty, about a plot in the Song Dynasty.

[5]The Western Chamber, a Chinese novel, written by the Yuan Dynasty (1206-1368) playwright Wang Shifu (1260-1316) on a Tang Dynasty lover story; The Plum in the Golden Vase, a Chinese novel, written by Lanling Xiaoxiao Sheng in the late Ming Dynasty.

[6] The School of Tongcheng, a group of writers from Tongcheng, Anhui, developing their particular literary style in the Qianlong's reign (1736-1796) of the Qing Dynasty.

[7] Xu Wenchang (1521-1593), named Wei, a literary writer in the Ming Dynasty.

[8]A Collection of Essays of Han Changli, essays written by Han Yu (768-824), with courtesy name of Tuizhi and publicly styled Han Changli, Chinese classical essayist and literary writer in the Tang Dynasty; Liu Zongyuan (773-819), with courtesy name of Zihou, Chinese literary writer and thinker in the Tang Dynasty; Ouyang Xiu (1007-1073), Chinese literary writer and historian in the Northern Song Dynasty (960-1127); Three Su's, referring to Su Xun (1009-1066), with courtesy name of Mingyun, and his two sons, Su Shi (1037-1101), with courtesy name of Zizhan and also called Dongpo, and Su Zhe (1039-1112), with courtesy name of Ziyou, all three of them being Chinese literary writers in the Northern Song Dynasty.

[9]Liang, a Chinese unit of weight, equivalent to 1.7637 ounces. The author writes this line of poem on the basis of the line of the poem, "The Spring of Hope," by Du Fu, Chinese poet of the Tang Dynasty (712-770), which goes, "As the war has raged for three months, a letter from home is more valuable than ten thousands liang of gold."

[10] Zhang Xuecheng (1738-1801), Chinese historian and literary writer in the Qing Dynasty.

[11] Dragon Well Tea, famous Chinese green tea produced in Zhejiang, China; "Clouds," a famous Chinese brand of tobacco.

[12] Zhang Tianyi (1906-1985), contemporary Chinese fiction writer. His short fiction Mr. Hua Wei was published in 1938.

[13] Langrunyuan, one of the faculty residential areas on campus at Peking University.