IN THE CAPITAL
Li Bai became restless again. He had been talking to his wife about leaving Anlu for some time so that he might have a better chance at entering civil service. At first she was reluctant to let him go, but she soon yielded, realizing that as a poet he needed to see the larger world and meet other literary men. She also understood that it was emasculating for Bai to stay under her family’s roof for too long and that he was eager to found their own home and to secure their livelihood with a regular income. Her father had also been urging Bai to try his fortune elsewhere.
In the early summer of 730, Li Bai set out again. He traveled alone, heading for the capital, Chang’an, which was almost four hundred miles away in the west. By then, Dansha, his pageboy, was married, so he stayed behind. Together Dansha and his wife, a servant maid, were to attend to the household work and the mistress. Bai proceeded at his leisure and stopped here and there along the way. He detoured to Fang Town (present-day Fang County in Henan), where his friend Yuan Danqiu was staying at a temple. Danqiu was not expecting Bai but was thrilled to see him. He loved Bai and always gave his friend a hand whenever he needed it. In his eyes, Bai was an extraordinary genius whose poetry would undoubtedly endure. He often told others that whatever Bai put down on paper sparkled with brilliance and that no one could match his talent. Together the two men traveled to Dengfeng, Henan, and spent more than ten days visiting historic sites. They also went to Longmen (Dragon Gate), said to be the very place where, twenty-seven centuries before, the ancient hero Yu the Great had opened a channel in the mountain to relieve the flood of the Yellow River. Along the way, Li Bai wrote several poems praising the beauty of the landscape and the deeds of the ancient heroes who had passed through before him. About thirty miles north of Longmen lay the city of Luoyang, the second-biggest metropolis in China at that time. Bai and Danqiu went to visit the city but didn’t stay long, because Bai wanted to reach Chang’an before the end of the summer.
The entire trip to the capital took him nearly two months. When he reached Chang’an, it was midsummer.
With a population of more than half a million, the city was the largest in the world at the time. It was also a commercial center, a hub on the Silk Road. Bai was amazed by the high city wall that surrounded the capital. It was more than fifty feet thick, thirty feet high, and about ten miles in length. Armored soldiers on horses moved along the top of the wall. Bai stopped his horse and gazed up at the gate in front of him, above which were the words “Bright Virtue Gate.” He had been told that there were twelve gates to the city and that five of them were similar to this one, composed of three entryways. He saw that pedestrians went in through the left and came out through the right. Both of the side entryways were narrower than the middle one, which was for vehicles. Having entered Bright Virtue Gate, he was struck by the wide street stretching north. This was the famous Red Bird Avenue leading to the center of the city. He had read that Chang’an had eleven north–south streets and fourteen east–west streets, which together formed more than one hundred blocks. Passing through a marketplace, he saw foreign merchants among the Chinese, hawking their wares and haggling with customers. The street was lined with stalls and shops, some of which specialized in jewelries, musical instruments, wines, fabrics, candies and pastries, tools, and sporting goods—even polo equipment and big kites were on display. Some owners of the shops were Persians and Kucheans wearing turbans of various colors. Their headwear reminded Bai of the men he had met in his childhood, back in Central Asia. Then he caught sight of an inn and went toward it. He had to find a place to stay, lest he break curfew when it got dark.
The next morning he went to find the home of his relative Xu Fuqian, who was a distant cousin of his wife’s and a minor official in the palace, in charge of a catering section. Before Bai had left Anlu, his father-in-law had written to Fuqian, asking him to introduce Bai to consequential men at court. Fuqian received Bai cordially. He told him that he supervised only the supply of some foodstuffs in the palace and had no direct contact with high-ranking officials, but he would see what he could do. At the moment, most of the courtiers had left for their summer retreats in the countryside or in the mountains, but the catering department was still busy, preparing to celebrate a prince’s birthday, so Fuqian suggested that Bai stay with him for the time being. Bai eagerly accepted the arrangement.
When Fuqian began to explore the possibilities, he found out that Chancellor Zhang Yue was regarded as the man most active in recommending talents to court and that many young men had started their official careers under his aegis. The old chancellor was not only an expert in solving thorny legal cases but was also, like many of the courtiers, fond of classics and the arts. Moreover, he was deeply trusted by the emperor because he had, seventeen years earlier, presented His Majesty with a dagger, signaling that the emperor ought to take action without delay to wipe out an enemy faction headed by Princess Taiping (665–713), the emperor’s aunt. The emperor acted on his advice, put the court in order, and seized the throne. However, lately Chancellor Zhang had become ill and was seldom seen at the palace. The heartening news was that he had three sons, all well versed in classics, poetry, arts, and music—particularly the middle son, Zhang Ji, who was already a powerful figure at court, married to a daughter of the emperor’s and holding the third rank, a full minister. The emperor was very fond of this young son-in-law and often granted him favors.
Undaunted by Fuqian’s report on Chancellor Zhang, Li Bai decided to call on the old man himself at his home. Legend had it that for this visit, he designed a card the size of a book, on which he inscribed these words: “Li Bai, Turtle Angler on the Ocean.” When the old chancellor saw Bai’s card, he was baffled by the fanciful courtesy name, Turtle Angler, a nom de plume coined just for this occasion, and his curiosity was piqued. Having seated Bai in the front hall, the host asked him, “The ocean is so vast, with what can you catch turtles?” Bai answered, “I use a rainbow as the fishing rod and the crescent moon as the hook.” This befuddled the old man even more, but he persisted: “What bait will you use?” Bai replied, “Wicked and corrupt men.” Astonished, the chancellor felt uneasy about his guest’s answer. Yet after reading the writings that Bai had brought along as samples of his poetry, the older man couldn’t help but become more polite, because he saw that the young man, though brash and unpolished, was truly gifted. So he told Bai that owing to his frail health, he had stopped handling official affairs, but he would like to have his son Ji talk with him.
In no time Zhang Ji stepped into the hall. He was a dashing, urbane man, even something of a dandy. In his eyes, Li Bai must have looked hopelessly provincial, with his heavy Sichuan accent. But as he read Bai’s poetry, he was surprised by its abundant energy and fresh voice and flowing ease. It was completely different from the mannered and subdued works written by capital poets. Moreover, Bai’s calligraphy was strikingly beautiful, absolutely unique. Beyond any doubt, this visitor was an original. As Zhang Ji grew more courteous and conversed with Li Bai more cautiously, a rush of envy rose in him. By any means he must keep this young provincial away from court or he might become a serious rival. Outwardly he promised to help Bai but left the timeline vague, saying that at the moment the palace was nearly empty and they had to wait for an optimal time. Unfamiliar with the intrigues of the official circle, Bai believed that he had finally found someone who appreciated him. He left the Zhangs’ elated, full of hope.
Two days later, Zhang Ji paid a return visit to Li Bai. He told Bai that he had an idea: Emperor Xuanzong had a beloved sister named Princess Yuzhen, who was a pious Daoist and had become a nun a decade before. She had a villa on Zhongnan Mountain, built for her by His Majesty, and she would go there regularly, staying a month or two each time. She loved poetry and enjoyed discussions about the Tao Te Ching and Chuang Tzu, and so if Li Bai went to the mountain and got to know Princess Yuzhen personally, he would beyond all doubt open an avenue for himself.
Bai in fact knew of the princess—his friend Yuan Danqiu belonged to the same Daoist sect as she. Yet Bai had misgivings about Zhang Ji’s suggestion—since Princess Yuzhen was not a court official, he asked, how could she recommend someone for a position? Ji smiled and explained that if she took a liking to him, she could speak to the emperor directly on his behalf. That would surely expedite the promotion process, because she could circumvent all the overelaborate procedures and formalities. So Li Bai was convinced. He had of course heard of the legendary Zhongnan Mountain, which was the birthplace of Daoism. Lao Tzu (fifth–fourth century BC) had lived there and written the Tao Te Ching there. Happily, Bai agreed to go and stay at the princess’s villa as a close friend of her nephew Zhang Ji. He thanked Ji profusely.
Zhang Ji assigned a servant to accompany Li Bai to Zhongnan Mountain. Bai and Ji’s man started out early the next morning, riding east unhurriedly, and arrived at Zhongnan Town in the afternoon. After a late lunch, they continued south up the mountain, on which stood many shrines, monuments, archways, and villas. Some of the constructions had been there for centuries—evidently this tranquil place had long been a favorite retreat for Daoists and officials. No wonder the area was also known as the Land of Bliss. Princess Yuzhen’s villa was on a slope on the west side of the mountain. The sun was sinking behind a rocky ridge as they approached, so Bai couldn’t see the house clearly from a distance, but he felt that the whole place was supernaturally quiet. From the town to the villa, they had not encountered a single soul.
But the sight of the princess’s villa disheartened Bai. It was vacant as if deserted, its front yard overgrown with grass, among which was a vegetable patch, its green a shade darker in the dusk. Inside the house, furniture was broken and dust blanketed everything. Clearly Princess Yuzhen had not been here for a long time. There was only an old guard at the property, who unlocked a wing of the house for them. Hurriedly Zhang Ji’s servant helped Bai tidy up a room, in which the two of them spent the night. The next morning the man told the old guard to help Bai settle in and to let his wife cook for him from now on. Without further ado, the servant headed back to Chang’an.
For several days Li Bai was restless, wondering if he might have been taken in. The place was dull and he felt lonely, unsure of why Zhang Ji had sent him here. He spoke with the old guard about Princess Yuzhen, who, Bai learned, hadn’t come to this place for more than a year. In fact, she had numerous residences of this kind in and around the capital and this one was not among her favorites. Fortunately, the princess had left here a shelf of books, mostly religious texts, which helped Bai pass the time. As the days went by, he grew less worried. He spent the daytime reading books and copying out ancient folk songs. He also practiced calligraphy and swordsmanship. The old couple were impressed but they were illiterate, and Bai could hardly converse with them at length. Literate people were few at that time, especially in the countryside; it was not uncommon that a whole village didn’t have a single person who could read and write. Meanwhile, Bai’s money was running low, and he began to pawn away his belongings in the town below the mountain. He let the old man take away his clothes and even his books in exchange for wine, which they would drink together. When Bai was drunk, he bragged that he would be summoned to court for a high post at any moment and someday he might become a chancellor in the palace.
In truth, he believed that Zhang Ji would send someone to fetch him soon, since Princess Yuzhen hadn’t arrived. Day after day he waited, and then the rainy season set in. Gradually he lost his patience and felt dejected. Every meal was the same fare, boiled millet or corn with salty vegetables. The old couple could not afford cooking oil, so the food was watery. Bai hadn’t tasted meat for more than a month and had no idea how long this situation would continue. He had no winter clothes with him, and the thought of weathering the cold and snow unsettled him. He wrote two poems addressed to Zhang Ji expressing his unhappiness. The second of the poems shows him no longer holding back his anger, as it ends with these lines:
何時黃金盤 一斛薦檳榔
功成拂衣去 搖曳滄洲傍
Someday I will use a huge gold plate
And offer you a whole hu of betel nuts.
After my success, I’ll leave everything behind,
Floating around in the wildness.
“FOR SUPERVISOR ZHANG, FROM PRINCESS YUZHEN’S VILLA ON A RAINY DAY”
The hu is a container with a narrow mouth and a wide bottom, able to hold a hundred liters. The gold plate and the betel nuts refer to an anecdote from the Nan dynasty (429–589). A poor but capable man named Liu Muzhi married a woman of an affluent family, but the couple’s home had little food, so Muzhi often went to his in-laws’ to cadge meals. For that, his wife’s brothers looked down on him. Once they held a dinner party, to which Muzhi went (though uninvited), and after the courses of food, he began to chew betel nuts. His brothers-in-law ridiculed him, saying that it was common knowledge that betel nuts accelerated digestion, and he should have known to let his meal settle in his stomach first. Muzhi was humiliated and could never get over the insult. Years later when he became a top local official, he gave a sumptuous dinner to his in-laws. After the main courses, he told them that he would like to share something. He motioned for his servants to come into the dining room, and they carried in an enormous gold plate that contained a whole hu of betel nuts. Clearly, incensed though Li Bai was, he could voice his anger at Zhang Ji only indirectly, through an allusion.
Meanwhile, he was still hoping that Princess Yuzhen would come to the villa. He tried to imagine what she was like and even wrote about her. In the poem titled “Lines for Yuzhen, the Celestial Being,” he envisions her as follows:
玉真之仙人 時往太華峰
清晨鳴天鼓 飆欻騰雙龍
弄電不輟手 行雲本無蹤
幾時入少室 王母應相逢
《玉真仙人詞》
Yuzhen is truly immortal,
Frequenting the peaks of Taihua Mountain.
Early in the morning she beats the drum
As she exercises like riding a pair of dragons.
With both hands she gathers all her force
As if floating on white clouds.
When will you fly to Mount Shaoshi
Where you can meet Heaven’s Queen?
All through September Bai indulged in such reveries. When he was drunk, he even bragged to the old couple that he and the princess knew each other, so she would be coming to see him at any moment.
As fall deepened and crops were gathered in, Bai grew more anxious. He feared that he might not be able to survive the winter if he was stranded here for too long, so he returned to Chang’an. He went to Xu Fuqian’s home, but to his dismay, his wife’s cousin no longer welcomed him. A footman told him that the master was not in and handed him a small sum of cash. Displeased though Bai was, he accepted the money and turned away to look for cheap lodgings.
He did not expect to be received by Zhang Ji either, because the old chancellor, Ji’s father, had just died, so instead of calling on the young dandy, Li Bai mailed him the two poems he had composed. He thought he might hear from Zhang Ji nonetheless, but no word ever came. Soon Bai realized that Ji had wanted nothing more than to wash his hands of him and would never contact him again. It would make no sense for him to wait in Chang’an any longer, so before the first snow, he left the capital.
Bai went to Binzhou (modern Shan County, Shaanxi), about a hundred miles northwest of Chang’an. It was something of a frontier town, where Bai faced a vast desolate landscape; he likely was drawn there by a subconscious longing for the far-flung land of his childhood. He wrote poems that attempted to evoke the sentiment of the borderland, where the sun looked more distant, the mountains more solemn and immense, even the geese crying more gutturally and sending down a heavy note of sadness to travelers’ hearts. The open expanses made him miss a sense of home, and he yearned to return to his wife.
The prefect of Binzhou, Li Can, was a hospitable man who kept an open house for a wide range of visitors. He received an annual salary of two thousand dan (one dan is approximately one hectoliter) of grain, which was unusual and similar to the yearly earnings of a circuit governor or a full minister, and he could afford to throw dinner parties for his guests every two or three days. Musicians, dancing girls, singers, and acrobats often performed in his hall until midnight. When he met Li Bai and heard his predicament, he was sympathetic. Considering that they shared the same surname, it was possible that they were blood relatives—a connection Bai openly claimed, calling the prefect a cousin of his. Li Can saw Bai’s talent and, though it was impossible to recommend him for any post at the moment, wanted to keep tabs on him. He didn’t mind feeding an extra mouth, so he invited Bai to stay in his residence. Bai, eager to find a place near the capital, accepted the offer.
For two months Li Can held frequent parties and banquets, at which Li Bai accompanied the guests. They watched dances, listened to songs, and composed poems as they feasted. Bai enjoyed the food and wine and the merriment in the beginning, but soon began to feel he was merely wasting his time. If he continued to live like this, he might ruin himself with nothing accomplished. So he began to write poems addressed to the host or honored guests to convey his longing (while at the same time heaping praises on them). Nonetheless, he couldn’t help drawing a contrast between his own plight and Li Can’s privileged life. One of his poems reads:
忆昨去家此为客 荷花初红柳条碧
中宵出饮三百杯 明朝归揖二千石
宁知流寓变光辉 胡霜萧飒绕客衣
寒灰寂寞凭谁暖 落叶飘扬何处归。。。
《豳歌行，上新平長史兄粲》
When lotus flowers were pink and willows green
I left home and have become a guest.
At night I go out downing three hundred cups,
Dreaming I will be paid two thousand dan of grain.
By now I am familiar with the light in guestrooms
And also the frost and chilly winds of the frontier.
Who can warm the cold ashes and melt my loneliness?
Or tell me where the leaves are heading in the wind?…
“SONG OF BIN, FOR BROTHER LI CAN PREFECT”
Bai’s claim of “downing three hundred cups” a day is not a groundless boast. In addition to high-alcohol wines, low-quality wines, which contained little alcohol and were mostly home-brewed, were also available, and so it was not entirely implausible for one to consume such a large quantity.1 In addition, the cups were small and usually each held only two or three ounces.
The poem, mild as it was, provoked mixed feelings in Li Can when he read it. What Bai said made good sense, but he seemed also to complain that Li Can had not helped him enough, and as a consequence, he was stranded in Binzhou.
This made Li Can reassess Bai’s case. He began to suspect that the poet might be essentially ungrateful, with deeply entrenched character flaws; otherwise, how else could Bai have encountered one setback after another for so many years? Now Bai even coveted his benefactor’s kind of salary, two thousand dan of grain annually. Li Can saw Bai’s extraordinary ambition, which to some extent unnerved him, so he decided to let Bai go. The sooner he got rid of this recalcitrant fellow, the better. He sent for Bai and told him that Wang Song, a councilor at the government of Fangzhou (modern Huangling County, Shaanxi), needed an aide and that Bai should go there to seize the opportunity.
Li Bai had no choice but to leave for Fangzhou, which was about seventy miles north of Chang’an. Like Li Can, Wang Song was fond of company and of songs and dances performed in his residence. He treated Bai decently, inviting him to dinner parties now and then. He introduced him to his other guests, some of whom later became Bai’s friends. As before, Li Bai composed poems to please his new host and to impress the guests, but from time to time he could not help alluding to his own predicament in the hope that Wang might recommend him for a suitable position at the local government. Wang Song, like his friend Li Can, didn’t make an effort to help Li Bai’s career, unsure of the poet’s character and afraid of becoming implicated if Li Bai caused trouble. Moreover, as a mere councilor at the prefecture’s administration, he had little power—people respected him mainly as a figurehead.
When Bai saw the true situation he was in, he decided to leave. Out of courtesy Wang gave him a handsome amount of cash for his travel expenses, which Li Bai badly needed. He calculated that with this money he would be able to stay in the capital for quite a while, so he decided to head back to Chang’an.
Wang Song’s parting generosity touched Bai. Before leaving, he wrote a poem to express his gratitude and reiterate his aspiration: “I hope to help a righteous lord. / After I succeed, I will return to my old woods. / Why did I come west all the way? / To make true friends while bearing a long sword. / Birds love green mountains far away / And fish dive into ocean vast and deep.” The poem ends with the hope that Wang Song and Bai will one day visit each other so that they can stay on a mountain and enjoy the music of the lute (“Farewell to Councilor Wang Song”).
During this time Bai missed his wife back in Anlu, but he could not return to join her without any achievement to show in his quest for office. Instead, he kept working on a group of eleven love poems addressed to his wife, collectively titled “To the One Far Away.” It is believed that Li Bai mailed some of these poems to her in his letters home, which she perhaps never received since mail was unreliable. These poems are uneven and a few seem unfinished, but some of them express the love and attachment between him and her:
六
陽臺隔楚水 春草生黃河
相思無日夜 浩蕩若流波
流波向海去 欲見終無因
遙將一點淚 遠寄如花人
《寄遠》
6
Your terrace is beyond the Chu water
While spring grass spreads along the Yellow River.
My thoughts of you torment me day and night
Like the river’s tumbling waves
That are flowing toward the ocean
And fading from view in an instant.
All I can do is gather some tears
For the one like a flower blooming far away.
We can see that Li Bai could hardly say anything original about his feelings for his wife. He even romanticizes the recipient of the letters as an ideal, unavailable lover, as Poem 10 states that he writes in a foreign script for the lover who lives far away at the western frontier. By nature he was not a family man, and though he undoubtedly missed his wife, his poems for her seem generic, spoken in conventional tropes. He labored to complete those poems and make them original, and yet they don’t stand out among his larger body of love poems.
In the spring of 731, Li Bai started out for the capital. He no longer had a foothold there: his wife’s cousin, Fuqian, would surely shun him, and inns in the city were expensive. By now he had spent a good part of the cash Wang Song had given him, so he passed Chang’an without entering it. He went farther south to Zhongnan Mountain, where he had once stayed in Princess Yuzhen’s abandoned villa. This time, however, he lodged at a local temple, where he could always find a bed. He called the place Secret Lair of Pines and Dragons. He also went to visit a local friend, a farmer named Husi. Li Bai was very fond of this man and his farmstead. Bai’s lodging place, the temple, was on the southern side of Zhongnan Mountain, but Husi’s home was on the northern side. We know nothing about the circumstances in which Li Bai had befriended Husi, whom he affectionately called “Mountain Man,” but evidently he cherished their friendship and loved the farmer’s home. In a poem, Bai describes the idyllic beauty and the tranquility of the place:
暮從碧山下 山月隨人歸
卻顧所來徑 蒼蒼橫翠微
相攜及田家 童稚開荊扉
綠竹入幽徑 青蘿拂行衣
歡言得所憩 美酒聊共揮
長歌吟松風 曲盡河星稀
我醉君復樂 陶然共忘機
《下終南山過斛斯山人宿置酒》
At dusk I descend the green mountain,
The moon following me all the way.
As I turn to see the road I walked
The endless woods stretch like emerald swells.
My friend takes me toward his farmhouse
Where his kids open the bramble gate.
Along the bamboo we stroll on a quiet path
As turnip leaves flap against our clothes.
Happily we chat, completely relaxed
And raise our cups now and again.
We sing loudly with the wind in the pines.
When we’re done, stars turn sparse.
The host grows more delighted, seeing me drunk—
Together we have forgotten this world.
“DESCENDING ZHONGNAN MOUNTAIN AND STAYING AT MOUNTAIN MAN HUSI’S HOME, WHERE WINE FLOWS”
Such a bucolic poem is rare by Li Bai, since he was not fond of the rustic life. We can see that the poem echoes the spirit of Tao Yuanming’s poetry about nature and farmwork. It celebrates a harmony, albeit momentary, between humans and their surroundings. To some extent, it also speaks of the ideal space to which Li Bai imagined retiring if he ever succeeded in his political ambitions.
Li Bai was good at relating to common people, capable of understanding their lives, joy, pain, and suffering. During this time, when he traveled to and around Chang’an and when he actually stayed in the capital itself, he wrote other poems about common people; some of them are in the form of folk songs and are among his best. Here are two poems from his “Midnight Songs” composed during this period:
三
長安一片月 萬戶搗衣聲
秋風吹不盡 總是玉關情
何日平胡虜 良人罷遠征
四
明朝驛使發 一夜絮征袍
素手抽針冷 那堪把剪刀
裁縫寄遠道 幾日到臨洮
SONG 3
The moon shines on the City of Chang’an,
Where ten thousand households are beating laundry.
The autumn wind blows endlessly,
Always sending over feelings from Jade Pass.
When shall we subdue the barbarians
So our men can stop battling far away?
SONG 4
The emissary will start out tomorrow morning,
So we are busy tonight sewing robes for our men.
Bony hands are pulling cold needles
And it’s hard to handle scissors for a whole night.
What we’ve made will travel a long way
Though we have no idea when they will reach Lintao.
Jade Pass and Lintao, far west of Chang’an, were the frontier areas where the Tang army often fought the tribal forces that troubled the borderland. The persona here is a collective female voice, speaking from the perspective that of the women left behind by the soldiers on the expedition. These poems have completely shed the decadent sentiment of singing girls and courtesans present in so many of Li Bai’s early poems about women. The dignified folk songs embody the new depth and maturity of his art, conveying a historical drama that is often absent in his earlier poems with female personae. His frustrations and suffering in the Chang’an area must have made him a more compassionate man, and his poetry benefited from that.
At the end of the winter, he returned to the capital, planning to enjoy springtime in the city, which was said to be gorgeous, but Chang’an disappointed him yet again. He spent plenty of time at restaurants and taverns, believing that he might encounter powerful men there and even accomplished poets. But now he kept running into hoodlums, who were mostly from rich and influential families, good for nothing and only abusing the poor and the weak. Several times he even fought with them, since he was skilled with the sword and always ready to meet challenges. Once he was nearly beaten up by a band of gangsters, but a new friend of his summoned the police and rescued him just in time. Yet during this stay, Li Bai also made several genuine friends who were in a similar situation and had come to the capital to seek office. Together they reveled and vented their discontent and anger. At parties and restaurants he saw that some insolent young officials were actually ne’er-do-wells, incapable of office work and unable to use arms. They held positions largely because they were knowledgeable in irrelevant subjects such as ball games, cockfights, dogfights, cricket fights, even running kites—“expertise” that was apparently appreciated by some top officials and lords. These upstarts had mansions, land, businesses, packs of bodyguards. They would bully people at random and have pedestrians driven aside when they passed through the downtown. Their horses and carriages threw up dust and upended vendors’ stands while their lackeys beat gongs and barked at people.
The more Bai encountered such parvenus, the more outraged he became. He composed a set of poems titled “Hard to Travel,” which allegorically expressed the impossibility of men of humble origins to advance through society with honesty. He chanted one of these poems at a party: “It’s hard to travel, hard to travel! / There’ve been so many forks and wrong turns / That I no longer know where I am…./ The road is broad like heaven / But I alone have no way out.” At another party, he wrote a poem that ends with these lines: “What I enjoy is a jar of wine when I’m alive. / Why should I need a name of ten thousand years after I’m gone?” His friends all shared his misery and could not see a ray of hope. The capital was full of young office-seeking scholars like them, all desperately trapped in such an impasse. Bai realized that he must not mingle with those derelict souls for too long, because that would only lead to despair.
In the spring of 732, he decided to leave Chang’an and head home.