This self-portrait1 was written around 1578 when Li was serving as a prefect in Yao’an, Yunnan. Here Li Zhi masterfully reworks the traditional biographical literary form and cleverly plays off fact and fiction to express his larger philosophical views. (PCL)
Kong Ruogu2 said, “I am old enough to have met the Recluse Zhuowu and I am able to provide some general comments about him. The Recluse is known by many names. ‘Zhuowu’ is simply one of them. The character 卓 is not pronounced in just one way.3 In everyday conversation the Recluse pronounces it according to the standard reading [i.e., “zhuo”]. When he is serving as an official, and his name is recorded in the official records, fellow officials pronounce it like the standard reading of the character 篤 [i.e., “du”].4 Even in his own birthplace in the countryside, some say ‘Du’ and others say ‘Zhuo’ without coming to any final agreement.”
The Recluse said, “In my local dialect, 卓 and 篤 are pronounced the same. Country folk cannot make the distinction and so refer to me using either pronunciation.”
I responded, “You can change this. Only it will cost you a fortune to have the block engraver down in Ironsmith Alley straighten it out.”
The Recluse laughed and said, “You think so? You want me to exchange something useful for something that’s useless?5 But, now without a doubt I am Zhuo. And I am also Du. But if you address me as ‘Zhuo’ [outstanding], right now I cannot measure up. And if you address me as ‘Du’ [serious], right now I don’t measure up to that either. How would I go about changing one thing I don’t measure up to for something else that I don’t measure up to?”
Li Zhi is still addressed as both “Zhuo” and “Du.” The Recluse was born on the thirtieth day of the tenth lunar month of the dinghai year in the Jiajing reign of the glorious Ming [1527].6 When he was young, his mother (née Xu) passed away and he was orphaned.7 Nobody knows who raised him. When he reached the age of seven years old, he studied under his father, Mr. Baizhai, and learned to read books, chant poetry, and practice ritual ceremony. When he was twelve, he wrote an essay titled “Discourse on the Old Farmer and the Old Gardener.”8 The Recluse said, “At that age, I already understood the point of Fan Chi’s asking about agriculture and why he was classed among those who wield carrying poles and baskets.9 The superior person, Confucius, could not bear to hear such views and so he said, ‘What a petty man is Fan Chi.’ Thanks to Fan Chi’s question, we know at least this about Confucius.”
When he completed his essay, his fellow students praised the work. The multitudes exclaimed, “What a fine son Mr. Baizhai has!”
The Recluse said, “Although I was quite young, I already had realized that my groundless opinions were not worthy of the compliments being paid to my father. Moreover, these compliments were much too vulgar and had nothing to do with the truth of the matter. Those people said I was clever with words and when I grew up I would perhaps be skilled at writing prose and poetry. Through such writing I would snatch the wealth and honors of this world and save us from poverty and low estate. They did not know my father did not think this way and was not like this at all. What sort of person was my father? His height reached to seven feet, his eyes did not wander carelessly about. Although extremely poor, from time to time he would suddenly pawn my stepmother’s earrings in order to help a friend advance the time of his nuptials. My stepmother never stopped him. My father being such a man, could one really offer him compliments in terms valued by the vulgar world?”
When Zhuowu was a bit older, he often found himself confused and unsettled. He studied the commentaries and annotations but did not critically examine himself. He was unable to carve the teachings of Master Zhu10 deeply upon his heart. He blamed himself and wished to abandon his studies. But with a great deal of time on his hands and nothing for him to do to pass the days, he sighed and said, “All this is nothing but playacting. My studies are no more than plagiarizing and superficial reading. Not even the examiners understand each and every detail of Confucius’s teachings!”
And so he sought out the most popular and widely read eight-legged essays11 of his time, and he recited several of these each day. By the time of the examinations he had memorized nearly five hundred essays. When the examination topic was given, he merely copied, transcribed, and recorded what he had memorized. He received high middle honors.12
The Recluse said, “I had unbelievably good luck, just at the time when my father was getting on in years and my younger brothers and sisters had reached the age of marriage.” And so by accepting an official’s salary, he was able to take care of his father and to see to the marriages of each of his younger brothers and sisters.13
The Recluse said, “Upon first requesting an official position, I set my hopes on a convenient place like wealthy and populous southeastern China. I hardly intended to travel ten thousand li to Gongcheng and leave my father to worry about me. Even so, Gongcheng was where the Song-period official Li Zhicai spent his days, and the master Shao Yong called his house there an ‘Abode of Peace and Happiness.’14 Shao, residing in Luoyang, traveled as far as a thousand li to study the Dao with Zhicai. Now that, through me, my father and son have ‘heard the Dao,’ even a separation of ten thousand li will be tolerable. I’ve also heard that Master Shao threw himself into his studies and only late in life attained understanding. At forty, he returned to Luoyang and began to arrange for his marriage. Had he not heard the Dao, he never would have married.
“I am twenty-nine years old and already have mourned the death of my eldest son [in 1555], a grievous loss. I have not immersed myself in the Dao but instead have only wallowed in feelings of grief. When I observe the ways of Shao Yong, I am deeply ashamed!”
The Abode of Peace and Happiness is located up above Hundred Springs on Mount Sumen. The Recluse was born in Quanzhou [the “District of Springs”], a city known for having welcomed the Chan Buddhist master of Wenling [Warm Springs].15
The Recluse said, “Being a follower of Master Warm Springs, I should adopt the style ‘The Recluse of Warm Springs.’”
One day when wandering above Hundred Springs, he said, “I was born in the District of Springs and have served as an official at the Hundred Springs. Spring waters and I are destined to be together!”
And so he refers to himself as “The Man of Hundred Springs” and also styles himself “The Recluse of Hundred Springs.” During his five years in Hundred Springs [1555–1560], he languished and never did hear the Dao. In the end [i.e., in 1560], he was appointed as an erudite to the Academy in Nanjing and departed.
Some months later, he received news that his father, Mr. Baizhai, had died. He observed the traditional rituals of mourning and traveled east, returning to his birthplace. At that time, the Wokou pirates16 were plundering the coasts of Fujian, and the oceans were all in flames. The Recluse had to travel at night and hide during the day. It was more than six months before he arrived at his birthplace. Even so, because of the unrest, he was still not able to devote himself to the business of a filial son. Though in mourning garb, day and night he led his younger brothers and nephews in mounting the parapets and sounding the watchman’s clappers to prepare the guards. At the foot of the city wall it rained arrows and stones. No amount of money could purchase rice or corn.17 The Recluse’s family members numbered about thirty, and they were barely able to survive. [In 1563,] after the three-year mourning period was complete, he brought his entire family to the capital, since he desired to avoid the difficulties in Quanzhou.
He lived in official accommodations in the capital [Beijing] for over ten months but never obtained any official position. His bags by then were emptied of provisions, but he was able to pay for his accommodations by taking in pupils. After more than ten months, he finally received an official appointment [in 1564]. He was honored as an erudite of the Imperial Academy, a position formally of the same rank he had held in Nanjing. Soon afterward, an announcement arrived notifying Li of the death of his paternal grandfather, Zhuxuan. On this same day, the Recluse’s second eldest son also fell ill and died in the official accommodations.
I heard this news, and with a sigh I said, “Alas! Is life not bitter? Whoever said that official rank brings happiness? Didn’t the Recluse suffer even greater bitterness as a result of his service as an official?” I grieved for his losses.
When I entered the house to offer my condolences, I found there was nothing unusual about the Recluse’s expression.
He said to me, “I have something in mind that I would like to talk with you about. My great-grandparents passed away more than fifty years ago. I was not able to give them a suitable burial because I was impoverished and had no means to obtain a plot. This is a great violation of custom. I fear that I will be picked out by Heaven as one who is outrageously lacking in filial piety. A filial son or grandson must find his parents a final place of rest. I never have heard of anyone who was considered filial because he chose first to protect himself from wind and rain. I fear that Heaven and the spirits above will never be willing to leave an auspicious burial plot for one as lacking in filial piety as I. Nothing can atone for my crime. This time, when I return to my natal home, I must find a resting place for all three generations. I would like to leave my family in Henan province and divide the money I’ve set aside for funeral expenses. I intend to use half this amount to purchase a field so that my family can till the land to grow food to eat. I will take the other half and return to my natal home. Then I will have done my duty. There is one thing, though. I am simply afraid my wife will not go along with my plans. If, when I walk in to talk with her, she does not go along with my wishes, I ask you to work at persuading her!”
The Recluse then went home and, pacing back and forth, spoke his mind.
His wife responded, “It’s not that what you say is untrue, but my mother is elderly. She is widowed and lives for me. Now I am willing to remain here, but she weeps for me day and night, to the point that she is blinded in both eyes. If she sees that I have not returned, she will certainly die.”
Before she had finished speaking, her tears came down like rain, but the Recluse remained unmoved. She knew that in the end she would not be able to change his mind.
She held back her remaining tears, changed her expression, and admitting her faults, said, “All right. All right. First, though, when you see my mother, tell her I am as well as ever and in good health. There is nothing to worry about. She will see me another time. I will work hard and help out with matters. I will not return to my parents’ house, and I dare not complain.”
He then packed up his bags and asked a family member to arrange to buy land and plant seeds according to his wishes.
At this time, a powerful but corrupt official was in office. When money wasn’t coming into his hands, he would shake down the wealthy families. Subordinating everything else to canal-digging projects, he used up all the water from the springs to feed the canals and did not permit even half a drop to be diverted. The Recluse went to meet with this individual. Although the Recluse ardently pleaded on behalf of the local inhabitants, his requests were not granted. But because the Recluse himself had only a few acres, the official said he could have water diverted just to his fields.
The Recluse replied, “Alas! Heavens! How could I bear to sit and see the entire city and ten thousand acres of land dry up, and only my few fields irrigated and flourishing! I cannot accept this at all. I beg you to heed my request!”
He then returned to his natal home.
That year’s harvest was extremely meager. The plot of land acquired by the Recluse barely yielded a few bushels of weeds. His eldest daughter had long endured difficult times. She ate the weeds as if she were eating grain. His second and third daughters were unable to gulp down the weeds and soon both, so young, had fallen ill and died.
An old woman came forward with an announcement, declaring, “The people are starving. The officials plan to distribute grain. I hear that the official who will be in charge is the judge Deng Shiyang.18 He has known the Recluse for a long time. You can ask him to intercede for us.”
Zhuowu’s wife responded, “A wife’s business is not outside the home. I cannot ask him. And moreover, if he really is an old friend of my husband’s, why would he wait for me to ask him!”
Judge Deng indeed did send along a portion of his own salary as a vice commissioner. He also immediately wrote and had delivered a letter to a colleague seeking further assistance. In each of these two matters, he took great care and attended to every detail. Zhuowu’s wife took half the money he sent and bought grain. With the other half she bought cotton thread and wove cloth. For three years there was no deficiency in food or clothing, and this was due to the efforts of Judge Deng.
The Recluse said, “My mourning period had then passed. My family’s burial matters were completed, putting the seal on three generations of good fortune, and I was now free of any of the concerns of an official. I turned my head toward the horizon, and nothing was in my mind but thoughts of my wife and children who were ten thousand li away. I then returned to Gongcheng. When I walked through the doorway and saw my family, I was deeply joyful. I asked about my two younger daughters and only then discovered that both had died a few months earlier before I had even begun my journey back to my birthplace.”
At this time, the tears were already at the tips of Zhuowu’s wife’s eyelashes. When she saw the Recluse’s expression alter, she acted according to custom and asked about the burial matters and her mother’s well-being.
The Recluse recounts, “That evening my wife and I sat across from each other the entire night; it was truly like a dream. I knew that my wife’s memories were vivid and her feelings were genuine. And so I corralled my feelings and controlled them. Still today I feel about that night as if one of the teeth on the bottom of my platform clogs had broken off!”19
Once he reached the capital, he took up an official position in the Ministry of Rites. A person remarked to the Recluse, “The poverty endured by a civil servant is even greater than the poverty endured in the Imperial Academy. Although you are able to bear it, are you the only one who has not heard the saying ‘Wherever can one go without coming upon poverty?’”
He felt ridiculed; the man did not know when to stop.
The Recluse responded, “What I refer to as poverty is not the poverty of this world. As for poverty, there is nobody who is more impoverished than one who has not heard the Dao. As for joy, there is nobody who is as happy as one who knows where to rest. For more than ten years I have been hastily traveling from north to south, all for the sake of family matters. I completely forgot the thoughts of peace and joy that I had set my heart on while in Wenling and Baiquan. I hear that the teachers in the capital are excellent. I shall find one and study under him.”
The person responded, “Your nature is too narrow. You often examine your own faults and also frequently examine the faults of others. If you hear the Dao, you will certainly become broader in your outlook.”
The Recluse responded, “That is so. I am surely too narrow in my nature.”
Consequently, he began to refer to himself as “Father of Vastness” and “The Recluse the Father of Vastness.”
During the five springs of the Recluse’s official service,20 he plunged his heart and mind into the mysteries of the Dao. He regretted he was not able to bring Mr. Baizhai back from the land of the dead and longed for him often and deeply. And so he referred to himself also as “The Recluse Longing for Zhai.”
One day he told me, “You have known me for a long time. When I die, could you please write an inscription for me? If I die in the hands of friends, then do as my friends instruct. If I die on the road, then definitely throw me in the waters or cremate me.21 Under no circumstances should you leave my bones for others to take care of. There is no need to write an inscription in the second case. If you could write a short biography, that would be fine.”
I responded, “How can I claim to understand you fully? At some time in the future, a gifted portraitist, someone like Gu Kaizhi,22 will come along and make a true record of you.”
Consequently, I have written this essay offering a general sketch of his life. Afterward, I traveled far and wide and did not see the Recluse for a long time. And so from his time in Nanjing onward, I have not recorded anything at all. Some say the Recluse died in Nanjing. Others say he is still in southern Yunnan and has not yet died.23
TRANSLATED BY PAULINE C. LEE
Li Zhi’s biography of He Xinyin1 is partly conjectural, not to say imaginary: an exemplary life, already in the course of transformation from fact into legend. He Xinyin (1517–1579) took from the Taizhou school of Wang Yangming’s neo-Confucianism the idea that all people were potentially sages. He abandoned the official path for a career akin to both knight-errantry and community organizing, calling lineage and local groups to band together and resist predatory tax collectors. Over the years he made many enemies, reputedly including the prime minister Zhang Juzheng. Arrested on charges of banditry, he died in prison after repeated beatings.2
Li never met He Xinyin. He studied with other thinkers of the Taizhou school. Li’s close associates the Geng brothers knew him well, however, and it was their tacit assent to He’s arrest and death (possibly motivated by a fear of having their association used against them) that eventually turned Li against his friends and former patrons. This biography depicts He Xinyin as a fearless champion of the Way—an identity Li Zhi would have longed to embrace. (HS)
The man who called himself He Xinyin was originally named Liang Ruyuan 梁汝元. I never knew He Xinyin, so how could I have known Liang Ruyuan? So I will simply speak of Xinyin here.
Some praise Xinyin, others belittle him. Those who praise him do so for three sorts of reasons; those who belittle him have three reasons likewise. Some who exalt him say,
There is no one who does not cherish his own life; he alone did not make much of his existence. He came from a family of great wealth but disdained such concerns, wishing only to live among the wise and virtuous of his age wherever they might be found; in this sense, his way of cherishing his life was unparalleled.3 There is no one who does not fear death; he alone was not afraid, wishing only to brave death and leave behind a glorious name. As he saw it, all men are fated to die, burdened by numberless cares, bent down by worry, suffering in every part of their bodies, calling for death and not finding it. What is the difference between being slaughtered by one’s fellow men or by demons? Is it better to die beheaded or to succumb gradually to one’s ills? Between a poison compounded of a hundred kinds of venom and a single dose of a strong poison, what is the difference? To die gloriously or to die obscurely: which is more honorable? Having reflected deeply on all this, he quite properly no longer feared death.
Another group exalts him, saying,
He was an admirer and follower of Confucius. Ordinarily, those who follow Confucius imitate him only in the respects that are easily imitated. The challenge of the Way of Confucius is this: to take the world for one’s home and to forgo a home of one’s own, to take responsibility for leading virtuous men and to put aside responsibility for one’s own house and fields. So Confucius was able to depart from the ordinary, to be “the one that rises above the rest,”4 in the end becoming the greatest scholar in the state of Lu, indeed the greatest scholar in the history of the world. Only He Xinyin took on this challenge: thereby he rose above the rest, and thereby he incurred others’ resentment. How then could he be spared! Confucius himself had to leave Wei abruptly, was narrowly missed by a falling tree, was nearly starved at Chen, and in fear for his life at Kuang; only by good fortune did he escape these brushes with death.5 If he was fortunate enough not to be killed then, one assumes, he was sure to meet a dignified death; but had he had the misfortune to die then, would anyone have refused him the title of “a good and brave man who gave his life for the sake of benevolence”?6 When death came, He Xinyin did not demur. Did he not fear death? It is not that he had no fear of death, but he took it on without further ado. Now since he lived in this way, how could he fail to die in the same manner? Those who say that he sought death in order to make a name for himself are wrong; if he had to die, he had to die; what could fame offer him that would make death desirable?
And finally, some who exalt him say,
He “came and went as he pleased”7 heedless of precedent. Now Confucius was a Sage, and those who emulate him only make themselves ridiculous; He Xinyin thought they were like ugly women attempting to prance like slender maidens. He reflected that “if people hear what I am trying to do, they are sure to object and persecute me to death, not knowing that Confucius in his day did no differently from me. I should then take Confucius as my exemplar; no one will then turn my words against me.” But while good people suspected him, the bad worked to destroy him, at the end his friends deserted him, and He Xinyin finally had the misfortune to die for the sake of the Way. Loyalty, filiality, purity, justice: for such well-known principles as these, people are wont to give their lives—what is called “dying a death that has more weight than Mount Tai”8; but never has anyone been known to give up his life for the Way. For the Way is “without a name”9; and how could anyone die for the sake of something without a name? Now that He Xinyin is dead, I fear that the memory of his one death will sink without a trace. If you ask the tens of thousands of people who live in Wuchang, you will not find a one who knew him, yet everyone knows his death was an injustice. When they paraded the notice board through the streets to notify the population of his crimes, the people who stood by watching denounced it as a slander, snorting with indignation until they had to turn away; such was the feeling at the time. From Qimen to Jiangxi, and again from Jiangxi to Nan’an and to Huguang, along a circuit of over three thousand li, if people did not know He Xinyin personally, they knew his aims—this was true throughout the three-thousand-li circuit. It was not only those who had offended against Prime Minister Zhang [Juzheng] or who had some cause to resent him who felt this way; even those who sincerely considered Zhang the savior of the dynasty were particularly outraged by this act of injustice on his part, and those who had He Xinyin executed in order to please Prime Minister Zhang were condemned by all as the lowest kind of people. For as to this Way being inherent in the human heart, it is truly like the sun, the moon, and the stars: impossible to cloak with darkness. Although He Xinyin died a nameless death, the feelings of the people were with him: this was surely the doing of the Way—who can suppress it? Moreover, can it be true that He Xinyin had no fear of death? In a time with no Zhang Zifang, who was there to save the life of a Xiang Bo? In a time with no Zhu Jia of Lu, who could rescue a Ji Bu?10 After reflecting on He’s fate, I incline to think that those who preach the Way are liars. Looking on the matter from the present day, I notice that the plain people who still breathe outrage at this wrong never knew He Xinyin personally, but He Xinyin’s intimates and fellow students calmly observed his death as if they were throwing stones down a well. It appears that ordinary people cannot be false but must give way to the sincerity of their thoughts, whereas the moralizers lack honesty and think only to cut down whoever surpasses them. In an age without real moralists, it was inevitable that He Xinyin had to die and “this refinement of his”11 be lost forever. Was He Xinyin’s death not a weighty one? Can it not be considered weightier than Mount Tai?
These three types of responses come from people who are worthies and gentlemen of the age, and it is appropriate that they should join with the ordinary people in sincerity to exalt He Xinyin.
Those who belittle He Xinyin say,
There are five types of human relationships,12 and He Xinyin broke with four of them to live his life among friends, teachers, and other worthy people; his behavior was exaggerated, perverse, and cannot be taken as an example. It is the way of the pliant snake to know how to flatter one’s superiors and intimidate one’s inferiors, but He Xinyin displayed nothing but bold words and bold behavior, which piled up blame and trouble for him. He may have been learned, but not in the art of self-preservation. And anyway, the Way is rooted in human nature and the main thing in study is to make it approachable. Judging people by one’s own overly strict standards will only drive them away; haranguing the ambitious will only cause those on top to be uneasy; using one’s wealth to make friends13 only brings out the greed and competitiveness in people. His own choices led him to his death!
These last three types of blame are typical of exactly the kind of scholar who disgusted He Xinyin.
I find such people unspeakable. They are just the vulgar type of man of the present age, concerned only with feeding, clothes, and sleep, occupied with their bodies and their mouths, with no idea at all about what the Way might be or why a person should study, and if they dare to curse and scold, it is tedious even to argue with them. Only those who exalt He Xinyin seem to have any understanding of him at all, and even they mistake him. I never had the chance to cast my eyes upon him or hear him in discussion and have taken only a cursory glance at the detail of his thought, so that I feel that to blurt something out might be wrong, but to repress it is wrong as well. What if I express my personal thoughts about him, hoping one day to hear from someone who knew him? I take He Xinyin to have been a dragon in plain sight,14 manifesting himself with no ability to hide away. His whole attitude was lofty, whence his fate. But loftiness belongs to dragons; no other thing compares to them. If the dragon lacks loftiness, the yang line at the top of the hexagram will be vacant. This place, however, must not be vacant. The dragon cannot be confined to a less than lofty rank. He Xinyin alone matches this graph; he is the “great man” predicted by the top yang line of “Qian.”15 That is what I have to say about He Xinyin.
TRANSLATED BY HAUN SAUSSY
This essay1 was initially composed as “The Biography of Liu Xiang” and intended for publication in A Book to Keep (Hidden). Throughout that work, Li Zhi frequently reverses traditional evaluations of historical personages and events. Here he overturns the widely held view that the political chaos of the Warring States period (ca. 475 B.C.E.–221 B.C.E.) constituted a departure from the Dao. He adopts instead a position of historical relativism and claims that “The Dao changes in accord with the vicissitudes of each generation.” The implication is that the violence and lawlessness of the Warring States period need not be considered as a deviation from the Dao but can be viewed as an instantiation of it. These ideas oppose those of the influential Return to Antiquity Movement. While members of that conservative group advocated reverence for and imitation of the past, Li proposes that each historical moment must develop strategies suitable for coping with the unique challenges it faces. (RHS)
From reading the Strategies of the Warring States, I learned that Liu Xiang was a superficial thinker.2 After the Spring and Autumn period came the Warring States period.3 Since it was a time of warring states, naturally it gave rise to the strategies appropriate for interstate warfare. The Dao changes in accord with the vicissitudes of each generation. This being the case, [China] could no longer be ruled by the methods of the Spring and Autumn period—much less the methods of the Three Kings!4
[Domination by] the Five Hegemons was an artifact of the Spring and Autumn period.5 But why was it that the Five Hegemons ruled only during the Spring and Autumn period? Probably it is because the Zhou dynasty was already weak and the Son of Heaven was no longer able to exert his power over rites and music or over military expeditions to maintain control over the feudal lords. Thus inasmuch as some feudal lords did not obey orders, the regional earls formed a common front and led other feudal lords in attacking them. Together, those who revered the Son of Heaven formed an alliance, reuniting all under heaven.
It was just as when parents fall ill and are unable to manage their own affairs: the children quarrel among themselves and no one is able to stop them. But if among them there is a worthy son who acts as supervisor, he rises to the challenge and takes upon himself the responsibility of a parent. Thus in name he is a brother, but in fact he is a parent. Although he may seem to have usurped the parents’ authority, in fact his parents rely on him for security, his brothers rely on him for maintaining peace, and his servants, retainers, and others rely on him for stability. Thus he brings great benefit to his family.
Guan Zhong was prime minister to Duke Huan of Qi.6 He has been deemed the first person to act in this way. From then on, the Five Hegemons rose and fell, one more valiant than the next. They propped up the monarchy and shielded the Zhou. That the Zhou dynasty, like “the centipede with its hundred legs,” was able to hold out for more than 240 years is due entirely to Guan Zhong’s meritorious service and the Five Hegemons’ strength.7 The feudal lords were incapable of accomplishing what the Five Hegemons had, so some feudal lords conceived the ambition to swallow up Zhou: in their minds they plotted about how to bring all of China under their control as King Xuan of Qi had wanted to do.8 The Jin split apart into three states, and Lü was overtaken by Tian.9 None of the feudal lords was able to set things right, so the situation inevitably degenerated into one of states at war for thousands of miles in every direction, each with its scheming ministers and strategizing officials. Under these circumstances, the fighting could not stop until the country was unified.
[Five hundred years later] Liu Xiang, at the end of the Western Han, sensed that his own dynasty was about to fall. He could only admire the flourishing era of the Three Kings; he could not fathom what was appropriate for the Warring States. His opinions were always wide of the mark. Bao Biao and Wu Shidao10 were born in the Song and Yuan dynasties, respectively. Their minds were crammed with secondhand opinions and their ears filled with teachings concerning “benevolence” and “righteousness.” Their weak attempts to judge the value of the Strategies of the Warring States are not even worth discussing. Now Zeng Gong was rather conceited; he claimed that all his essays were rooted in the Six Classics. He mocked Liu Xiang for not forming his own opinions,11 charged that Liu ought to have corrected the biased accounts he gathered, and implied that Liu didn’t even know what the Six Classics were but merely filched a few lines of praise and blame, which he then established as an ethical standard. In the end, Zeng Gong’s commentary is to those of Bao and Wu as the state of Lu was to the state of Wei: identical in import.12
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
Originally published in A Book to Keep (Hidden) in 1588, this essay1 also appeared, with slight emendations and under a different title, in Mr. Li’s Discussion of Books. The essay is a subversive commentary on a famous dialogue about political authority from the Analects:
Zigong asked about government. The Master said, “[What is needed is] sufficient food, sufficient weaponry, and the trust of the people, that is all.” Zigong then asked, “If you had no choice but to discard one of the three, which would be the first to go?” “Let weapons be discarded.” “If you had no choice but to discard one or the other of the remaining two, which would go?” He said, “Let food be discarded. From ancient times to now, everyone has had to face death, but without the trust of the people, none can stand.”2
Since before the formation of the first imperial dynasty, the Qin (221 B.C.E.–206 B.C.E.), political theorists had debated whether the perfect ruler was one who enlightened the people, motivating them to perform actions for the common defense and weal, or one who created conditions that indirectly influenced the people to act in a way that benefited the state, without knowing why they did so. Confucius, as represented in the Analects passage, became the figurehead of the first position, Laozi the figurehead of the second. In this essay Li Zhi, embracing an argument for which the examination elite to which he belonged traditionally had little sympathy, argues that Laozi’s way of treating the populace like a mindless beast or like a self-organizing natural system is the more effective and therefore the correct one, and that the Way of the Confucians, dominant in Chinese society since the time of the Duke of Zhou (eleventh century B.C.E.), is an aberration. Li’s favorable portrayal of rule by seduction and indirection (a theme prominent in the Daodejing) thus constitutes a subtle jab at the utopian Confucian ideal of transforming the people through education. (HS; RHS)
At the dawn of the human race, people were like wild beasts, living in caves and dwelling in the wilderness. We subsisted on the fruits we gathered from shrubs and trees. But having no claws or sharp teeth to help us grab or bite, no feathers or fur with which to cover ourselves, we were easy prey for wild animals. Since Heaven gave rise to human beings, we must be more precious than beasts. Yet abandoning people to be eaten would have been worse than not creating them in the first place. So circumstances required that, in order to survive, human beings borrow from and use objects in the natural world. This is how bows, arrows, halberds, spears, armor, swords, and shields came into being. Where there is life, there must be a means of sustaining this life—namely, food; and where there is a body, there must be a means of protecting this body—namely, weapons. In response to the urgent need for producing food, the well-field land-distribution system was established.3 In response to the urgent need for protection, bows, arrows, armor, and helmets sprang into being. Taking the place of claws, sharp teeth, fur, and feathers, these weapons made tigers, leopards, rhinoceroses, and elephants run for their lives and keep a safe distance from human habitation. Isn’t this how human beings came to live in peace and quiet?
Confucius said, “When food and weapons are in ample supply, the people will trust the ruler.” If the ruler provides the people with sufficient food and weapons, who could doubt that the people will trust and support him?4 In situations in which the ruler “has no choice” but to discard either food or weapons, and yet the people would rather die than relinquish their trust in him, this loyalty may be accounted for by the fact that the ruler previously provided them with ample weapons and food.5 When Confucius said “Let food be discarded” and “Let weapons be discarded,” he did not think these things really ought to be discarded; he [was simply answering the question of what a ruler should do if he] “has no other choice.” When a ruler “has no other choice,” the common people will not lose faith in him since, after all, he “has no other choice.”
Yet Confucians reverse this logic and claim that trust is more important than weapons and food. They say such things because they do not understand the essence of the Sage’s teaching. Is it really a matter of choosing between weapons and food? It is said that without weapons, it would be quite impossible to obtain food. But weapons belong to the “ground of death.”6 The very word “weapons” is ugly. Yet without weapons we would have no means to protect ourselves. So in fact weapons are beautiful. [It’s just that] their beauty is difficult to perceive. And since the word “weapons” is ugly, we do not want to hear it spoken. Since commoners do not wish to hear this word, rulers dare not let it pass their lips, much less command the populace time and again to employ these implements. For this reason, if in peacetime we teach the commoners military arts, they say, “But there’s no conflict now. Why is the ruler bothering us with military drills?” Who would say, “Use my services; I won’t complain no matter how hard you work me”?7
But if we mobilize the army [only] when there is trouble, then people say, “These are dangerous times; how can I avoid being killed?” Would anyone say, “Kill me for the sake of the life-sustaining Dao; even if I die, I will not complain of the ruler who sent me”?8
Words of this kind are misleading, and rulers merely seek to use them in order to throw a deceptive gloss over their arts of rulership. But don’t they know that the ruler “uses the Dao to remold the people”? How can [a ruler] go against the Dao, even if by doing so he wins the praise of the populace? What is needed is the wisdom to enlighten the people so that they conform to his purposes: they act rightly without waiting for a reward and spontaneously accomplish the same ends without grumbling,9 although they do not understand why. This is the consummate achievement of sages who are reverent yet reserved.
The rulership of the Three Kings was grounded in that of the Five Emperors, of whom Xuan Yuan was the greatest.10 Xuan Yuan was a ruler who fought seventy battles to gain control of all under heaven. Though he killed Chi You in the wilderness of Zhuolu and fought the Yan Emperor in the plains of Banquan,11 he took pains to protect the lives of his people and poured out his heart to sustain them. Xuan Yuan thought that since the people were exceedingly gullible, he could appeal to their sense of self-interest; and since he, as ruler, was shrouded in mystery, they could not admonish him.
So he plotted the land into fields shaped like the character 井 and distributed eight parts [out of nine] so as to ensure that the people all understood that the ruler was providing for them. Then, if the spring hunting ritual were not performed, would not harm befall their tender crops? [Lacking game], how could they sacrifice to the God of Agriculture to pray for a good harvest [the following year]? Thus, as long as the people labored in the fields in all four seasons, there were sacrifices in all four seasons, and as long as there were sacrifices in all four seasons, there was hunting in all four seasons. This hunting, in fact, was undertaken for the sake of [ensuring the productivity of] the fields; that is why we speak of “hunting in the fields.”12 For the same reason, the state never incurred the expense of raising an army, yet every family enjoyed a portion of game. The rulers never officially enforced military training, yet everyone was a hunter skilled at cornering prey.13 The people did not wait for the ruler to supply them with aggressive implements like halberds and spears or defensive ones like helmets or suits of armor. They did not wait for the emperor to teach them but [of their own accord] became nimble on their feet and skilled with their hands, adept at long-range shooting with lances and arrows. They did not wait for the ruler to train them; children and white-haired men alike practiced the skills of mortal combat. They regarded catching ferocious beasts as no different from snagging a rabbit in a field. So what difficulty could they have had in battle? At home they treated one another amicably, and away from home they called out to one another. In illness, they looked after one another, and in trouble they took care of one another. They did not wait for the ruler to “teach the people human relationships.”14 When turning a corner, their formation was as regular as a T square, and when rounding a bend, it was as constant as a compass.15 Whether encamped or on the move, advancing or retreating, they always performed each action flawlessly. They did not wait for the ruler to instruct them in ritual propriety. They feasted merrily, beating drums and dancing late into the night. They did not need the sovereign to recognize their prowess by bestowing upon them yak-tail flags and bronze drums, nor did they need to present the captives of war along with the severed left ears [of the slain enemy soldiers] before they rejoiced in their hearts.
The people were divided into eight administrative units and deployed according to eight battalions. In the midst was the central command.16 There were eight vanguards and eight rear guards, whose powers corresponded to one another. They did not wait for these principles of organization to be set down in diverse forms of writing or to be established through precise calculations before they understood. These skills are associated with the Six Arts;17 they are the means by which the ruler protects the people’s lives. But in the beginning no sages instructed the people in the Six Arts: literary matters and military preparations arose together without anyone’s waiting for a local school to be established or for filiality to be expounded—such elaborate provisions for educating the populace as we find in the Mencius are just a case of “improving the drawing of the snake by giving it legs” [i.e., they are superfluous additions].18 Before the age of fifteen, [the ancients], on the other hand, were experienced and adept in the skills [of war], but they were perfectly unaware that their training had been orchestrated by the ruler; they assumed that the ruler’s task was to provide for them. Families willingly went to war and people became soldiers simply as needed. [Among them], rituals and music shone forth, and human relationships flourished. Even now, several thousands of years later, people are still unaware of this. How much less did people back then understand it!
Superb! The sages had the skill of making ten thousand people dance to a drum beat. Since they could “make the people obey,” they made them share the 井-shaped fields. And since they “could not make them understand,” they did not disclose the essence of the Six Arts or the practices of filiality and loyalty.19 Confucians have not investigated this; they erroneously believe that the sages took advantage of gaps in the agricultural calendar to instruct the people in military affairs. But hunting and planting take place in the fields in all four seasons. What gaps could there be? Moreover, since these activities are concerned with subsistence, how could they ever have been labeled as “military”? How could anyone have referred to them as “military affairs”? Fan Zhongyan said, “Ever since Confucians established the doctrine of classifying by means of names [i.e., moral philosophy], who has had any dealings with weapons?”20 Consequently, no one recognized the importance of weapons. Zhang Zai21 wanted to buy a parcel of land and call it a well-field plot. But he did not even know what the well-field system was; he only used this term because he admired antiquity. How utterly absurd! Lord Shang,22 who understood the importance of weapons, passionately pleaded for permission to advance: he concentrated on winning battles and divvying up the spoils to “reward the good and punish the bad.”23 To be sure, he swiftly strengthened the state of Qin, but when he was drawn and quartered, the people of Qin did not mourn him. Lord Shang’s error was that he desired to make the people understand what they should not understand. Hence the saying, “The Way of the sage lies not in enlightening the people, but in hoodwinking them.”24 And further, “The fish must not be allowed to leave the deep; the instruments of power in a state must not be revealed to anyone.”25 How extremely profound! For generations this teaching has been treasured. Grand Duke Wang practiced it,26 Guan Zhong cultivated it,27 and the Archivist28 made it manifest. But ever since Ji Dan,29 Confucian teachings have occupied the mainstream. Confucians have strived by every means possible to indoctrinate the people with their trifling and petty arguments, through oaths and protestations. Meanwhile, Xuan Yuan’s governance falls into decay.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
One of Li Zhi’s most striking essays1 on the subject of metaphysics, this essay opens with Li’s accepting central Confucian concepts. He then reorganizes the ideas to support a bold vision of a social world and cosmos celebrating abundance and embodied reality. Li begins with the Five Relationships (wulun 五倫): ruler and minister, father and son, husband and wife, elder and younger brother, and friend and friend. He then challenges the traditional ranking, making the spousal relationship primary. (In other writings, and perhaps by implication in this one, he identifies the friend-friend relationship as central. See “On Friendship,” pp. 207–8, and “Mr. Li’s Ten Kinds of Association,” pp. 135–37.) Li’s adversaries are the adherents of the School of Principle, the Cheng-Zhu school of Confucianism, the pedantic “gentlemen of the Way,” who see the world as founded upon a pure and undefiled One or a barren “nothingness of Nothingness.” This essay was written in 1588 in Macheng. (PCL)
Husband and wife are the origin of humankind. Only on the basis of husband and wife can there be father and son; only on the basis of father and son can there be elder and younger brother; only on the basis of elder and younger brother can there be superior and subordinate. If the relations between husband and wife are properly established, then among the myriad things, nothing will fail to find its proper state. This is how husband and wife are the origin of all things.
To begin with the most fundamental, Heaven and Earth are husband and wife. That is, Heaven and Earth had to exist before the myriad things. So we can see that all things under Heaven are born from Two, and not from One.2 Still, there are those who say that One can give birth to Two,3 that “Principle” [li 理] can give birth to “substance” [qi 氣], that the “Supreme Ultimate” [taiji 太極] can give birth to Yin [陰] and Yang [陽].4 How could that be?
When humans first came into existence, there were simply two forces—Yin and Yang—and two destinies, male and female; in the beginning there was no so-called One or Principle; certainly there did not exist a Supreme Ultimate! Looking at the matter today, as for this so-called One, indeed, what is this thing? And what is referred to as Principle: where does it reside? And what we call Supreme Ultimate: what does it refer to? If Two come from One, then where does One come from? A one and another one make two. Principle and qi are two; Yin-Yang and the Supreme Ultimate are two; the Supreme Ultimate and the Ultimateless [wuji 無極] are two. No matter how many times you look at the matter, there is nothing that arises without its paired term. Yet some who have never seen this so-called One nonetheless hastily and rashly speak of it!
So I have investigated the origin of things and see that husband and wife are their very beginning [zaoduan 造端].5 For this reason I speak only of the two: husband and wife. That’s all. I surely do not speak of One; I also don’t talk about Principle. As I do not speak of One, I certainly do not speak of Nothingness.6 Since I do not speak of Nothingness, I certainly do not speak of the nothingness of Nothingness.
Why? For fear of chaos and confusion in this world; “too much talk leads to exhaustion”7 and even increasing bewilderment among the people. Better along with others to forget and together dwell where there are no words.8 Then, with Heaven, Earth, humans, and the myriad things, find one’s beginnings in the relation between a husband and a wife; once there, find nourishment and rest, and share in talk with others.
In the Classic of Changes it is said,
Great is the great and originating power of qian [乾]; all things owe to it their beginning.
Complete is the great and originating capacity of kun [坤]; all owe to it their birth.
Providing origin and nurturing life, the changes of kun and qian know no limit.
Preserving in union the conditions of Supreme Harmony, all things in this world will find their own nature and purpose.9
The “nature and purpose” of things is to attain Supreme Harmony. The union of Supreme Harmony is found in the union of qian and kun. Qian is the husband, kun the wife. When each thing comes to find its own true nature and purpose, then nothing that exists will be out of place. Now, what indeed must the relation between husband and wife be like? What indeed?
TRANSLATED BY PAULINE C. LEE
Written in 1592, this essay1 has exerted a profound influence on Chinese views of literature and art from the late Ming to the present. Throughout we find Li insisting that truly great art is unrepressed self-expression flowing from an original childlike heart-mind. (PCL)
Bowing to the Moon2 and The Story of the Western Wing3 are works of Nature [化工]. The Lute4 is a work of an artisan [畫工].5 Artisans think they can seize heaven and earth’s creative powers, but who among them understands that heaven and earth have no skill or technique? People see and delight in what heaven gives life to, what earth nurtures, and the varieties of vegetation found everywhere. But when they search for heaven’s skill, no matter how they search, they cannot find a trace of it. Could it be that they lack the wisdom to discern Nature’s workmanship?
One should know this: the Creator6 is without technique. Even people who embody a sagelike spirit7 are unable to discern where Nature’s skill resides, so what ordinary person could understand it? Having considered our topic at some length, we can say: although artisanship may be clever, it has already sunk into the state of being secondhand.8 Throughout the ages, the work of writing emerges from the pain within a writer’s heart, alas!9
I have heard it said: If you seek a horse whose hooves fly like the wind, a horse that chases after lightning, you will not find it by looking specifically for a yellow or black coat, a stallion or mare;10 a sage whose voice genuinely responds and whose qi immediately attracts others11 will not be found among pedantic scholars counting the number of lines written and measuring the ounces of ink used; writing so effortless that it moves like wind over water12 does not depend on the use of this or that word or outstanding phrase. If a work possesses a tight structure, if the couplets are perfectly aligned, if the writing is grounded in solid logic and is in harmony with established models, if the beginning and end echo each other, and the abstract and concrete elements are in balance—all these various illusory criteria13 are used to discuss literature. But such criteria cannot be used to discuss the most exquisite literature under heaven.
Variety plays14 such as The Story of the Western Wing and Bowing to the Moon are first-class. But where in these can we find evidence of techniques? Now, no work is as skillfully executed as The Lute. Indeed, this scholar Gao [Ming] exerted all his efforts in exhibiting his skillfulness and reached the very height of his talent. Because he spared no pains to achieve the utmost of cleverness and skill, when his words come to an end, their meaning and flavor likewise dissipate and vanish. In the past I have picked up The Lute and plucked its tunes: one strum and I sighed, a second and I was moved, a third strum and I found I no longer felt anything.15 What is the reason for this? Could it be that the play seems genuine but is not, and so its tunes fail to impress themselves deeply upon the human heart? Even though the cleverness of the techniques is sublime, its power is sufficient only to penetrate no further than between the skin and the bone marrow.16 Is it any wonder, then, that its ability to move people is nothing more than this?
The Story of the Western Wing and Bowing to the Moon are not like this. When I think that within the vast universe there exist such delightful people, the skill and cleverness that went into making them appears simply unfathomable, like the marvels of Creation itself. Among the truly great writers of the world, none begins with the intention to create literature. Their bosoms are filled with such and such indescribable and wondrous events. In their throats are such and such things that they desire to spit out but dare not. On the tip of their tongues, time and time again, they have countless things they wish to say but no one to whom to express them. They store up these feelings to the bursting point until, after a long time, their force cannot be stopped.
As soon as such a writer sees a scene that arouses his feelings or encounters something that catches his eye and sets him sighing, he snatches away another’s wine cup and drowns his accumulated burdens. He pours out the grievances in his heart, and for thousands of years after, people are moved by his ill fortune. After spewing out jade, spitting pearls, illuminating the Milky Way, and creating the most heavenly writings, he listens to no one but himself, goes crazy and howls loudly, sheds tears and moans with sorrow, and is unable to stop. He would rather cause his readers and listeners to react passionately—to gnash and grind their teeth with the desire to slice him up—than hide his writings in a famous mountain17 or consign them to destruction by fire or water.
When I read such a work I can begin to imagine what sort of person the author was. In his time, he must have harbored great aspirations that were frustrated by rulers, subjects, and friends; and so this writer expressed his feelings indirectly by using the device of the fated meetings and partings between a husband and a wife. In his script he rejoices over women of great beauty, commends Student Zhang for his remarkable encounter with Yingying,18 and compares human society to the sudden changes of clouds and rain, inasmuch as people today value friendship no more highly than dirt.19 Some may think it most laughable that a slight tale of romance should include comparisons—and favorable ones at that!—to the great works of Zhang Xu, Zhang Dian, Wang Xizhi, and Wang Xianzhi.20
Shao Yong said, “For the sage-king Yao, ceding the throne to Shun was no greater a matter than offering three cups of wine; and for Tang and Wu, conquering a dynasty was little more than a game of chess.”21 Now conquering a dynasty and ceding the throne are serious matters; but if one regards them merely as situations involving a single cup of wine or a single round of chess, how very trivial they are!
Indeed! Heroes past and present all tend to be of this sort. In the midst of what seems small, they see the vast, and in the midst of the vast, they miss no tiny detail. By lifting the tip of a feather they can erect a Buddhist temple; from atop the smallest mote of dust, they can turn the great dharma wheel of the universe. This is a universal truth and not just a comment on play scripts. If you doubt this, sit in the middle of a courtyard under the moonlight when in the stillness of autumn the leaves are falling, or alone in your study with not a soul to rely upon; try picking up the “Heart of the Lute” [Qin xin 琴心] section of The Story of the Western Wing.22 Pluck it, then strum it. The inexhaustible treasures it contains are beyond the understanding, although the author’s skill and craft are within the understanding.
Ah! Will I ever meet an author of this sort!
TRANSLATED BY PAULINE C. LEE
Closely related to “On Miscellaneous Matters,” this is Li Zhi’s most famous essay, written around 1592.1 “Explanation of the Childlike Heart-Mind” is at the same time an aesthetic and an ethics, centered on the idea of genuineness. Taking the opposite tack from the sophistication sought by most of his contemporaries, Li praises what is unpremeditated, simple, and authentic and thereby sets a cardinal value for writers and critics of the following century. Pushing on, as always, from paradox to provocation, he asks, “What need do I have of the Six Classics, Confucius and Mencius?” and closes with a paraphrase of the Daoist philosopher Zhuangzi, seeking to have a word with the kind of person who has forgotten all words. We offer two translations: one more meticulously annotated, one (the next chapter) in a freer style. (HS)
In the concluding remarks to his preface for The Story of the Western Wing,2 the Mountain Farmer of Dragon Cave stated, “It is acceptable that those who know may not say that I still possess a childlike heart-mind.”3
The childlike heart-mind is the genuine heart-mind. If one considers the childlike heart-mind unacceptable, then he considers the genuine heart-mind unacceptable. As for the childlike heart-mind, free from all falsehood and entirely genuine, it is the original mind4 at the very beginning of the first thought. If one loses one’s childlike heart-mind, one loses the genuine heart-mind. Losing the genuine mind is losing the genuine self. A person who is not genuine will never regain that with which he began.
A child is the beginning of a person; the childlike heart-mind is the beginning of the mind. How can the beginning of the mind be lost? But then, how can the childlike heart-mind suddenly be lost? From the beginning, sounds and sights enter through our ears and eyes. When one allows them to dominate what is within oneself, then the childlike heart-mind is lost. As one grows older, one hears and sees the “Principles of the Way” [i.e., moral teachings]. When one allows these to dominate what is within oneself, then the childlike heart-mind is lost. As one grows older, the “Principles of the Way” that one hears and sees increase day by day; what one knows and senses thus also increases daily. In time one comes to believe it is desirable to covet a good reputation and one endeavors to enhance one’s reputation; one’s childlike heart-mind is then lost. One believes that a bad reputation is to be disdained and endeavors to conceal such a reputation; one’s childlike heart-mind is then lost.
The “Principles of the Way” that one hears and sees all come from extensive study of books and familiarity with moral principles. Could it be that the sages of antiquity did not study books? But even if they did not study books, their childlike heart-mind was secure and at ease; when they did study extensively, they simply protected their childlike heart-minds from being lost. They are unlike those scholars of today for whom the more they read books and become familiar with moral principles, the more they obstruct their childlike heart-mind. Now, if by reading extensively and familiarizing themselves with moral principles scholars in fact block their childlike heart-minds, why would the sages have written books and established teachings that would hinder these scholars? Once the childlike heart-mind has been obstructed, one loses the ability to put into words one’s innermost feelings, one’s efforts to participate in government prove unsuccessful, and one’s written compositions fail to express the truth. When beauty does not emanate from within and when brightness is not born from true sincerity,5 any attempt at uttering words that express virtue will fail.6 Why should this be so? Because when the childlike heart-mind is obstructed, then the Principles of the Way, which come from outside the self, become one’s heart and mind.
Since the heart-mind is made up of what one sees and hears and Principles of the Way, what is spoken then are words that derive entirely from what one has seen and heard and from the Principles of the Way; one’s words do not flow directly from the childlike heart-mind. Though these words may be artful, what do they have to do with oneself? How could such a situation lead to anything other than phony people speaking phony words, performing phony actions, and producing phony writings? Once a person is a phony, everything he does is phony. As a consequence, if one speaks phony words to a phony person, the phony person is pleased; if one talks about phony matters with a phony person, the phony person is pleased; if one discusses phony literature with a phony person, the phony person is pleased. When everything is phony, everyone is pleased. And when the entire theater is filled with phonies, how can a short person in the audience discriminate between real and fake?7
So even the most exquisite writing in the world can be buried by phony people and never even seen by later generations. Is this all that rare? Why does this happen? All the most exquisite literature in the world flows directly from the childlike heart-mind. As long as the childlike heart-mind is preserved, the Principles of the Way will not be endlessly perpetuated, what one hears and sees will have no authority, no period will lack great literature, no person will lack literary talent, and not a single pattern, genre, or word will fail to be genuine! Why must verse necessarily conform to aesthetic standards from antiquity or from the Selections of Refined Literature?8 Why must prose necessarily resemble models written in the pre-Qin period? Writing evolved through the ages; it developed into the literature of the Six Dynasties, then changed and became the new regulated verse of the Tang, then transformed into fantastic tales9 and play scripts,10 which developed into Yuan comedies, and those in turn evolved into The Story of the Western Wing and The Water Margin;11 now they have become the eight-legged essays12 of today: in each case, the transformation produced the most sublime writings of the age, which can never be understood through a discussion of historical contexts, precedents, or influences. And so, I am moved all the more by writings that immediately flow from the childlike heart-mind. Why speak of the Six Classics? Why speak of the Analects or the Mencius?
As for the Six Classics, the Analects, and the Mencius, if they are not words of overdone reverence from official historians, they are phrases of bloated praise from loyal subjects. If not one or the other, then they are what misguided followers and dim-witted disciples wrote down of what they recalled their teacher had said. What they wrote had a beginning but was missing an ending; or the followers remembered the conclusion but forgot the introduction. These disciples put down in writing whatever they happened to see. Later scholars did not scrutinize these writings. They simply declared that these words came directly from the mouths of sages and decided to establish them as great classics. Who knows whether more than half these writings are not words from the mouths of sages?
Even if these words are those of the sages, still, they were uttered in response to a specific situation. This is much like the case of prescribing a medication for a particular illness, applying a specific remedy depending on the circumstances in order to cure this dim-witted disciple or that misguided follower. The medicine prescribed depends on the illness; surely there is no fixed and unchanging prescription. Given this, how could we hastily accept these writings as the perfected doctrine for endless generations? And so, the Six Classics, the Analects, and the Mencius have become nothing more than a crib sheet for those belonging to the School of Principle, a fountainhead for phonies. It would be utterly impossible to describe such writings with the label of “childlike heart-mind.”
Oh! Wherever can I find a genuine great sage who has not yet lost his childlike heart-mind and have a word with him about writing?13
TRANSLATED BY PAULINE C. LEE AND RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
As an experiment and an invitation to imagine a different way of translating Li Zhi, we offer a second, freer-style version of “Tongxin shuo.” (HS)
“… and, despite the freshness and simplicity of the work itself, I hope that the reader will not suspect the editor of simple-mindedness.”—that’s how the Denizen of Dragon Cave closes his preface to The Story of the Western Wing.
But simplicity is nothing other than authenticity. Someone who is afraid of being taken for a simpleton is afraid of truthfulness. A simple mind is pure of artifice; it is the mind of our first thought. When simplicity goes, authenticity goes; when the mind has lost its authenticity, the authentic person vanishes with it. When we lose our authenticity, nothing is left to set us straight again.
We begin as children, in simplicity. The child’s mind is the beginning mind, the mind everyone has necessarily shared. But somehow this mind is lost: how indeed? It must be that impressions and sensations, crowding in through the ears and eyes, come to dominate the inner life and suppress the original mind. Then words and ideas learned from without come to dominate, suppressing the original mind. These external influences multiply with time. Eventually we become aware of the beauty of a good name and desire to acquire it; the ugliness of bad repute, likewise, we strive to avoid, and the simple mind is lost.
And then through reading we take in more words, ideas, impressions, and sensations. Can it be that the sages of old refused to read books [and thus preserved their simplicity of action]? But whether or not they were reading books, they maintained their childlike simplicity and did not let it stray. In this they were unlike the scholars of today who pile up terms and concepts from books in an effort to quash the original mind. Given their use of book learning and verbiage to subdue the original mind, what sage can hope to use writing or speech to suppress these scholars’ misguided action? Once the original mind has been vanquished, its expression in language can only be indirect and superficial; its action in governing will be without deep roots, its writing style will be weak. You will see none of that “strength and clarity,” the “flashes of genius,” the “weighty word craft” [that the ancients prized]. So what then? Once the original mind has been lost, only impressions, words, and concepts are available to fill the gap.
Once impressions, words, and concepts replace the missing mind, speech will be drawn from these impressions, words and concepts alone—nothing like the simple mind uttering its direct speech. Sophisticated words, perhaps, but what do they offer us? What will result but artificial language and artificial deeds, artificial speech spoken by artificial people? When the person has become artificial, everything else is artificial too. Then make artificial speeches for artificial people; these artificial people will find everything to their taste. Perform artificial deeds for artificial people; they will be delighted. Write artificial essays for artificial audiences; they will applaud you. Nothing but artifice, and nothing but approval; but can anyone see beyond the false stage set? Even if somewhere someone writes a masterpiece that goes straight to the point of things, it will be buried in artifice and denied to posterity—is this not a pity? What then? For every masterpiece of writing flows from simplicity of mind. Where the childlike mind prevails, no ideas or words can have currency, no outer impressions can take its place; with the childlike mind, no time and no individual will be devoid of artistry, indeed no type or style of writing will be unartistic. Poetry need not be sought in the ancient Classic of Poetry and Anthology; prose need not be modeled on the age before the empire arose. The artistic mind broke out in the Six Dynasties to create recent-style verse form; it broke out again in Tang tales of the fantastic; again in the Yuan to make libretti and zaju opera; again in our time to make The Story of the Western Wing and Outlaws of the Marsh and the masters of the essay form. What I respond to is the direct expression of those who have retained the childlike mind. What need do I have of the Six Classics, Confucius, and Mencius?
As for the Six Classics, Confucius, and Mencius, where they are not exaggeration, they are flattery, or the inaccurate notes of muddleheaded students who tried to set down in books what they could not remember themselves. Subsequent scholars, purblind, mistook them for the actual words of the sages and elevated them to the rank of classics, despite their ramshackle composition. Or where the actual words of a sage are recorded, how are we to know whether the words refer only to some specific occasion or are addressed to the failings of this or that ignorant disciple, like a medicine prescribed for one disease but useless to cure another? Such occasional prescriptions can hardly be handed down as the timeless wisdom of the ages. And yet the philosophers of our time talk of nothing but the Six Classics, Confucius, and Mencius, that limitless resource of hypocrites. Nothing could be farther from the direct language of the childlike original mind, you see! Oh, where can I find a genuine sage who has not lost his childlike mind, so that I can exchange a word with him?
TRANSLATED BY HAUN SAUSSY
The Heart Sutra is unique among Buddhist sutras in its brevity and multivalence.1 Before leaving Yunnan in 1581, Li wrote this sutra out for a friend,2 appending to the manuscript his own thoughts in the form of the commentary translated here. The word tigang (hub) in the title of Li’s commentary refers literally to the point on a net where all the strands meet and are bound together, but the term is also lexicalized in Chinese as “outline” or “summary”—a short piece of writing intended to communicate the heart of a matter.
The Heart Sutra is itself designed to communicate the heart of a matter: it distills the essence of the teaching—and indeed the literature—of Prajñāpāramitā, or Perfect Wisdom.3 “Perfect Wisdom” refers to the wisdom required to attain buddhahood, a wisdom that rejects the independent reality of subjects (or agents), objects, or actions. It is concerned with mastery of the doctrine of emptiness (kong 空, Skt. śūnyatā), which holds that all dharmas—all things perceived, all organs of perception, and indeed all means of perception—are empty of self-nature and have no independent existence.4 Although the sutra presents core doctrinal ideas, its form is unique, its text compact, and it closes with a mantra. Some have argued that it is not even properly a sutra: it functions also as an incantation (dhāraṇī), and indeed the text has played diverse roles in Buddhist practice.5
Li’s commentarial essay is but one of many works aiming to elucidate The Heart Sutra; it is his summary of a summary, distilling what he sees as the heart of the heart of Perfect Wisdom. Not only is this piece a response to a text at the heart of Chinese Buddhism, it is to Li Zhi also most deeply concerned with the heart’s function as the seat of consciousness (xin 心, often translated as “heart-mind,” is rendered below simply as “the mind”). Li’s emphasis on the potential of all individuals to achieve buddhahood by using this mind—by making use of their own unique capabilities of contemplation—is an individualistic twist both on the Chan notion that all human beings can achieve buddhahood and on the Taizhou school’s conviction that sagehood is within reach of even commoners. Also of note is that Li ties the Buddhist nonduality of subject and object to the original nonduality of existence and nonexistence. This colors his interpretation with a style of apophasis distinctly reminiscent of Zhuangzi—a feature not obvious in The Heart Sutra.6 (DL)
The Heart Sutra is the shortest way to what the Buddha said about the mind. The mind is fundamentally nonexistent, and yet people blindly take it for an existent thing. It is also not nonexistent, yet scholars insist it is nonexistent. When existence and nonexistence divide, subject and object take root.7 Consequently, [one encounters] snagging and hindrance, fear and distress, inversion and reversal.8 How can one achieve self-realization? Is it just that we don’t reflect on our Self-Realized Bodhisattva?9 “Coursing deeply in the wisdom” [of Perfect Wisdom], he arrived at the other bank of self-realization. At this time, his insight revealed of itself that the five aggregates—form, feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness—are all empty.10 There is fundamentally no life or death to be had, therefore one can escape the Bitter Sea of [Cyclic] Life and Death,11 traversing it and there casting off all suffering and distress. This is the main point of the whole sutra. The lines that follow, shattering [illusion] over and over, all make this clear. And so [the Bodhisattva] then called out to him, saying,12
Śāriputra!13 Don’t think that when I speak of “emptiness” I’m just attaching to [some reified] emptiness! When we say “form does not differ from emptiness,” or when we say “emptiness does not differ from form,” these are just to say that the two things are no different. Still, we have these two things in opposition, and even if we could merge them as one, we’d still have the one thing. In fact, whenever we speak of “form,” we are speaking precisely of “emptiness”; there’s no emptiness beyond form! Whenever we speak of “emptiness,” we are speaking precisely of “form”; there’s no form beyond emptiness! Not only is there no form, there is also no emptiness: this is True Emptiness.14
So then [the Bodhisattva] again called out to him, saying,
“Śāriputra! These are all marks of the emptiness of dharmas.”15 And since there is no emptiness to be named, how much less are there arising or extinguishing, defiling or purifying, increasing or decreasing, names or appearances? Therefore, form fundamentally doesn’t arise;16 emptiness fundamentally isn’t extinguished. To speak of form is not impure; to speak of emptiness is not pure. In form there is no increasing; in emptiness there is no decreasing. There’s no imagining it: in emptiness there is fundamentally no “it” [to reify]!
Therefore the Five Aggregates are all empty: there are no forms, feelings, perceptions, volition, or consciousness. The Six Sense Roots are all empty: there are no eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, or mind.17 The Six Dusty Sense Fields are all empty: there are no sights, sounds, smells, tastes, sensations, or mental elements.18 The Eighteen Realms are all empty: there is nothing from the realm of sight on up through the realm of consciousness.19 The same is even true of birth and old age, sickness and death, knowledge and ignorance, the Four Noble Truths, wisdom and actualization, and all the like—there is nothing to be attained.
This is the Self-Realized Bodhisattva, through wisdom and reflective illumination, reaching the shore of nothing-to-be-attained. In this way, since what is to be attained is nothing, it follows naturally that there can be now neither snagging nor hindrance, neither fear nor distress, nor any inverted dreamlike thoughts. The cycle of life and death [is revealed], and one completes nirvana.
How could this be [achievable] only for the Bodhisattva? Although the buddhas of the Three Ages, past, present and future, all reach the other shore by this wisdom, and all together attain Unsurpassed Perfect Enlightenment, there are assuredly no sentient beings on the Great Earth that are not buddhas. And moreover, know that this Sublime Wisdom of True Emptiness, with
This great spiritual incantation,
This great illuminating incantation,
This unsurpassed incantation,
This unequalled incantation,
enables one to escape the Bitter Sea of [Cyclic] Life and Death, traversing it and “casting off all suffering and distress.”
It is real and not vacuous.
And yet it has long been difficult to explain “emptiness.” Those who grasp at form are mired in it; those who explain emptiness are obstructed by it, and they arrive at the conclusion that the two don’t depend on anything. This is also to reject the doctrine of cause and effect for all things, and to disbelieve the truth so clearly praised by the sutra:
“Emptiness is form”—what emptiness is there really?
“Form is emptiness”—what form is there after all?
There is no emptiness and no form, so how can there be anything having existence or having nonexistence to snag or hinder our attaining self-realization?
And so you who are reflective need only persist in using your own unique wisdom in reflective illumination, and the other shore will be reached of itself. Why should the Bodhisattva be someone other than you?! It just takes a single flash of insight to reach it—that’s all! All people are the Bodhisattva, yet they do not themselves realize it. So as to [being] the Bodhisattva, all men are as one—there are no sages or simpletons. As to the Buddhas of the Three Ages, ancient and modern are as one—there’s no first or last. What can be done about the fact that so many people can be made to follow but not to understand?20 Those who can be made to understand become the Bodhisattva; those who can’t become common men, birds and beasts, rocks and trees, in the end expiring and returning to the turbulent depths.
TRANSLATED BY DAVID LEBOVITZ
In the year 1581, while Li Zhi was in Huang’an, he wrote “Notes on ‘The Hub,’”1 a short piece that reveals the circumstances under which he composed “The Hub of The Heart Sutra.” The “Notes” warn of the inherent unreliability of language and the dangers in placing too much faith in the core texts and exegetical writings of canonical traditions: without the right guiding intellect, sutras, scriptures, canons, or classics—all referred to by the single term jing—are only imperfect guides to the Way; explanation of these core texts is likewise liable to lead one astray. And so Li Zhi’s “Notes on ‘The Hub’” not only serve to explain his explanation of The Heart Sutra but also address the problems inherent in all explanation.
Apparently as a foil to his own exegetical choices, Li Zhi chose to publish this piece alongside his Laozi Explained, a commentary on the Daodejing. (DL)
The Way is fundamentally great, but since the Way [is presumed to] rely on scriptures, one cannot clearly make it out. [Moreover], when seeking to clarify the Way by clarifying the scriptures, one can’t discern the Way because of [the attached scriptural] explanations. Thus scriptures are robbers of the Way and explanations are barriers to the scriptures. So what use are they?
Despite all this, good scholars penetrate the scriptures while bad ones are stuck clinging to them. Explanations enlighten the capable and mislead the incapable. And so it is that [scriptures and explanations] should serve as robbers and barriers. So when our forebears lectured on the scriptures and those who followed explained them, even the ones who weren’t especially capable just traversed that same path; the incapable, [however], can’t be given the Way.2
While I was in central Yunnan, a friend asked me to copy out The Heart Sutra, and when I had finished writing it, I inscribed a few words at the end, calling them “The Hub.” Although I didn’t call it an “explanation,” how could it be anything else!
The Huang’an magistrate has already had “The Hub” printed. Let’s append this to my notes on the Book of the Way and Virtue [Daodejing] and print the two together. When we reflect on its heart, have I penetrated the scripture? Have I avoided clinging obstinately to it? Do my explanations not mislead? I write it out in order to see.
TRANSLATED BY DAVID LEBOVITZ
This essay,1 written in Macheng in 1589, reads like a companion piece to “Self-Appraisal” (pp. 138–39), written the previous year. Both essays function as ethical self-portraits in which the author feigns to present himself in an extremely unflattering manner. Yet this brusque, unattractive exterior is shown to encase—or even mask—a sterling character.
The present essay opens with the assertion that Li loves loftiness. But almost immediately the author begins heaping disapproval on himself: he describes himself as arrogant, short-tempered, intolerant, and unyielding. Gradually, however, the essay reveals that these critical remarks do not in fact represent Li’s true self-assessment. He is merely repeating the aspersions cast on him by others. Because Li fled officialdom, took up residence in a remote monastery, and refused to admit visitors, his behavior earned him the reputation of a misanthrope. Li repeats these accusations but indicates no contrition. Instead, he decries his accusers for failing to understand that he was driven into solitude against his will by the hypocrisy of contemporaries who cared only for wealth and power. The essay concludes by praising two visiting monks from Huang’an, whose insight, Li feels certain, will enable them to empathize with him in his solitary struggles. (RHS)
By nature I love loftiness. Since I love loftiness, I am arrogant and incapable of accommodating other people. Or more precisely: I will not accommodate the type of people who cozy up to wealth. If people have a speck of goodness in them, even if they are base and servile, I’ll readily honor them.
By nature I love cleanliness.2 Or more precisely: I am short-tempered and intolerant. But the only people I can’t tolerate are the type who flock around the powerful and flatter the rich. If someone possesses a speck of goodness, even if I were a prince or duke, I’d readily treat him with reverence.
Accommodating others is a sign of humility. People who are humble are receptive to a wide array of influences; and drawing widely from diverse sources is a mark of even greater loftiness. So the people in this world who are capable of accommodating others are precisely those who most love loftiness. Am I, then, not right to love loftiness?
In recruiting [officials, the ruler] must take care not to exclude people. When no one is excluded, everyone has a chance. And when everyone has a chance, there are no dirty dealings. So the people in this world who know how to include others are precisely those who most love cleanliness. Am I, then, not right to love cleanliness?
These days, the unwashed all think I am short-tempered and intolerant, arrogant and unwilling to give others a chance. They say I went of my own accord to Huang’an, where I’ve locked the door all day and made quite a laughingstock of Fang Danshan for [saying that I] seek friends everywhere.3 [People say that] ever since I moved to Dragon Lake, I’ve turned guests away even when I have not locked the door, or, [that] even if I’ve greeted them, I’ve not adhered to proper ritual. [They claim that] although I may have received one or two people with respect, I soon cast them off in disgust. This is the customary way in which people speak of me.
But what they don’t realize is that although I keep the door closed all day, I will yearn, to the very last of my days, to meet someone whose heart’s aspirations surpass my own. For a full year I have sat alone, and for a full year I have endured the sorrow of not meeting a soul friend. It is difficult for me to talk with people who make such accusations. Even the people with whom I thought I could converse took me for a man with no eyes, incapable of understanding other people, so in the end I was deceived. They thought I was biased and unfair, so in the end I was unable to maintain relations with anyone. They claimed that they had “brushed apart the fur to see the skin beneath” and “blown aside the hairs to see the pores below,”4 and indeed they had. But in fact the differences between them and the unwashed were negligible—a matter of nothing more than “fifty paces.”5 How could such people merit discussion?
Hearing footsteps in a deserted valley or even seeing a face that looks as if it might belong to a countryman inspires delight.6 Yet they say that I do not wish to see anyone. How could this be? I just regret that so far no one resembling a human being has stopped by. Even if a shadow slightly resembling that of a human being paid a call, I would immediately greet it with respect, giving no heed to whether the person was of lowly status. I would run toward him, giving no heed to whether the person was of noble rank. In every case, I would perceive his strengths and overlook his shortcomings. Not only would I overlook his shortcomings, but I would also, with the utmost respect, honor him as my teacher. All the more so if I am “biased” in favor of such people!
Why would I behave this way? Because good friends are hard to come by. If I did not treat such a person with the greatest reverence and sincerely honor him as my teacher, how could an intelligent and worthy gentleman be willing to consider me his friend? If I wish to have him as my friend, I have no choice but to treat him with extreme respect. But in this world, very few people possess genuine talent and intelligence. Time and again I exert myself to the utmost serving them with sincere respect, but in the end those “men of intelligence” and “men of talent” prove false. In these situations, I have no choice but to separate myself from them. If they are not only insincere but also treacherous, I have no choice but to distance myself from them day by day. For this reason, the multitude says that I lack eyes. But if I truly had no eyes, I would certainly not be able to distance myself from them permanently. If I truly were biased and unfair, I would certainly shield them from their shortcomings and remain friendly with them for life. Thus the accusations that I am biased and have no eyes may seem compelling, but they are false.
Now that the two monks of Huang’an have arrived,7 people will certainly say I am biased. The two monks have a lifelong commitment to me; they surely will not allow me to endure [the insult of] being labeled a person with no eyes. The two monks truly understand the bitterness I suffer inside; they truly understand that words cannot express my loneliness; they truly understand that I yearn to form relationships with others more keenly than others desire to associate with me. I do not prize the two monks on account of their talent but truly on account of their virtue; not on account of their intelligence but truly on account of their sincerity. The virtuous are sincere and the sincere virtuous: what need have I to worry about the two monks? The two monks are disciples of Li Tao’an.8 Tao’an is a disciple of Deng Huoqu’s. Deng Huoqu is as resolute in his aspirations as a diamond; his courage is as vast as the heavens; in his studies he follows his mind to enlightenment, and his wisdom surpasses that of his teacher.9 For this reason his students resemble him, and his students’ students resemble his students. Because of this, I predict that the two monks will be quite capable of expressing their indignation on my behalf. Thus it is for them that I have composed this treatise on loving loftiness and cleanliness.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
Outlaws of the Marsh, also known in English as All Men Are Brothers and The Water Margin, is a vernacular novel about a group of 108 bravos driven to banditry.1 The main cause of their lawbreaking is the feckless policy of the Northern Song government, which allowed China to be invaded and conquered and left the ordinary people at the mercy of rapacious officials. Gathered at Liangshan Marsh, the outlaws form a sizable resistance army. In the end they are granted amnesty by Emperor Huizong and sent on campaigns to resist foreign invaders and suppress rebel forces. The novel went through many editions, and its authorship is debated. Li Zhi’s preface refers to a hundred-chapter edition dating from the mid-sixteenth century, attributed to two authors, Shi Nai’an 施耐庵 and Luo Guanzhong 羅貫中. Li composed this essay in 1592 while residing in Wuchang. (HYC)
The Grand Historian says, “‘The Difficulty of Persuasion’ and ‘The Loner’s Indignation’ are works of wise men and sages that were written to express their indignation.”2 From this we can see that if the ancient wise men and sages weren’t indignant, then they simply didn’t write. Writing when you aren’t indignant is like shivering when you’re not cold, groaning and moaning when you aren’t sick. Although you could write something, would it really be worth reading?
Outlaws of the Marsh is a work written to express indignation. Once the Song royal house lost its strength, the world went topsy-turvy: the most worthy men were in the lowest positions, and the least worthy in the highest positions; things even got to the point where the barbarians were on top and the Chinese were subservient to them.
At that time, the emperor and ministers were like birds building nests inside a burning building without even noticing the blaze. The Song government paid tribute and made itself a vassal to barbarians, willingly bowing before dogs and goats.
Shi [Nai’an] and Luo [Guanzhong], the two authors of Outlaws of the Marsh, lived in the Yuan dynasty, but their hearts were in the Song. Though born in the Yuan, they still felt indignant about events that had occurred during the Song. They were indignant about the two Song emperors being held captive in the north by the Jin, so in order to express their indignation, they wrote [in chapters 83–89 of their novel] about [the bandit leader Song Gongming] defeating the Liao to the north.3 They felt indignant that the Song emperor [Gaozong] had retreated to the south in search of peace [and begun there the dynasty of the Southern Song], so they wrote [in chapters 90–99 of their novel] about [the outlaw army] quelling the Fang La rebellion. They wrote all this in order to vent their indignation.
And through whom do they vent this indignation? It’s through the outlaws who sent out the call to gather at the Water Margin. You couldn’t call them anything but loyal and righteous. That’s why Shi and Luo wrote their story, and that’s why they named it Loyalty and Righteousness at the Water Margin.
Why do the loyal and the just gather at the Water Margin? The reason is obvious. And how is it that each and every one of the many who are at the Water Margin is loyal and just? It’s equally obvious how this came to be. The proper principle is that “princes of little virtue are submissive to those of great, and those of little worth to those of great.” If those of little worth rule over those of great worth, will the more worthy ones willingly consent to being ruled without feeling ashamed? It’s as if the weak tried to push the strong around—would the strong take that lying down? Such a situation drives the empire’s strongest and most worthy to its edges—to the Water Margin. That’s how it came to be that those whom we call the “Outlaws of the Marsh” are all the strongest and the most worthy, the loyal and the righteous.
Yet there’s never been anyone as loyal and righteous as Song Jiang, the hero of The Water Margin. Now, taking a look at the 108 outlaws, they share the spoils in victory and the blame in defeat, they live and die as one—but even their loyalty and righteousness couldn’t possibly compare to Song Jiang’s. Song Jiang is the only one of those living at the Water Margin who still cares about the dynasty. He wholeheartedly wishes to be enlisted; he single-mindedly seeks to serve his country. Finally, [when the emperor sends him and his outlaws on campaigns against rebels and invaders,] Song Jiang and his outlaws meet with great disaster and great success, after which he drinks poison and the others hang themselves—dying together and not daring to part.
Such an intense sense of loyalty and justice is truly enough to earn the obedience of the 108 outlaws; and that’s why he is able to become the leader of all 108, binding them together into a sworn brotherhood at Mount Liang. In the end, he leads them south to put down the rebels of Fang La, where over half of his 108 men die in battle. However, [not all are so loyal]: [in chapter 99] Lu Zhishen leaves for the Pagoda of the Six Harmonies, where he dies; Yan Qing weeps and runs away from his leader; and the two Tong brothers plot with [the pirate] Li Jun and stay behind [instead of serving the government with Song Jiang].
It’s not that Song Jiang doesn’t know about such plans and schemes. He simply sees them as weak attempts at self-preservation made by small-minded, opportunistic men—definitely nothing worthy of someone who is loyal to his leaders and faithful to his friends. That is Song Jiang. That is loyalty. How could his story not have been written? How could his story not be read?
That’s why the one who runs the country can’t afford not to read it. If only he’d read it once, then the loyal and righteous wouldn’t be out at the Water Margin anymore—instead they’d be right back beside the ruler. The wise prime ministers can’t afford not to read it. If only they’d read it, then the loyal and righteous wouldn’t be out at the Water Margin anymore—instead they’d be right back at court. The chiefs of staff and the field commanders, they can’t afford not to read it either. If only they’d read it someday, then the loyal and righteous wouldn’t be out at the Water Margin anymore—instead they’d be back in the cities to serve and protect the homeland. However, if it isn’t read, then the loyal and righteous won’t be beside the ruler, or at court, or in our cities. Where will they be? At the Water Margin. This is the indignation expressed by the Water Margin.
If meddlesome people use this book as mere material for conversation, and people who command troops only borrow tactics from the book, then everyone’s just taking what he can put to his advantage—and then no one will be able to see the loyalty and righteousness that this book contains!
TRANSLATED BY HUIYING CHEN AND DREW DIXON
Su Che 蘇轍 (1039–1112), whose sobriquet was Ziyou 子由, is perhaps best known as brother to the great poet Su Shi 蘇軾 (1037–1101).1 Both were among the Eight Masters of the Tang (618–906) and Song (960–1279) periods. Su Che wrote a commentary on the Daoist classic Daodejing, attributed to the mythical Laozi. Li’s preface, composed in 1574 in Nanjing, exhibits a perspective that both finds its source in Su Che’s commentary and resonates with trends in late-Ming thought. The preface begins with the analogy of the Dao to food: one nourishes the body, the other the spirit. And just as physical nutrition can be derived from a variety of foodstuffs, so can spiritual edification come in diverse philosophical forms. Developing this line of reasoning, Li advocates the functional equivalence of Daoism and Confucianism, a relativistic stance concordant with late-Ming religious syncretism. Moreover, the earthiness of the analogy of the Dao to food, along with the casual, anecdotal style of the preface as a whole, evinces Li’s debt to Wang Yangming’s Taizhou school followers, who believed that teachings on the Dao must be presented in language that is simple and easy to grasp. The preface was published in Jiao Hong’s Commentaries on the Laozi as well as in Li’s A Book to Burn. (RHS)
All foods are alike if they fill the belly. Southerners like to eat rice, while northerners like to eat millet. Northerners and southerners have never envied one another on this account. And yet if a northerner and a southerner were to switch places and each were to taste the other’s food, they would not go so far as to reject [the unfamiliar fare]. The presence of the Dao in the teachings of Confucius and Laozi is like rice in the south and millet in the north. When there is enough of this, even if one doesn’t covet that, could one actually reject it? Why not? Because each is satisfactory for filling the belly. And when one is truly starving, one does not distinguish between them.
Once I was studying in the north and ate as a guest in somebody’s home. The weather was cold, and it rained and snowed heavily for three days. I had not eaten any grain for seven days. I was so cold and hungry I could no longer stand up. I gazed yearningly toward my host. He pitied me and cooked me some millet. I gulped it down in big mouthfuls to my heart’s content, lacking the leisure to distinguish what I was eating. Pushing aside the utensils, I asked, “Could that have been rice? How could it have tasted so delicious?” My host laughed and said, “That was millet. It’s just as good as rice. Moreover, the millet you ate today is no different from the millet you’ve eaten in the past. It’s only because you were especially hungry that it tasted especially good; and only because it tasted especially good did you feel especially full. From now on think no more of ‘millet’ and ‘rice.’”
When I heard this, I sighed with emotion. If my eagerness to study the Dao resembled my yearning for food on that day, would I be at leisure to choose whether to study Confucius or Laozi? Ever since then, I have concentrated on studying the Laozi, and at all times benefited from reading Su Che’s Explication of Laozi. Many people have interpreted the Laozi, but Su Che is the best. Su Che cites the Doctrine of the Mean: “When pleasure, anger, sorrow, and joy have not yet been aroused, we call this equilibrium.”2 This “state when emotions have not yet been aroused” is “the inner sanctum of the myriad things.”3 Song-dynasty Confucians from Cheng Hao onward4 transmitted this teaching from one to the next and frequently reminded their disciples to evaluate their own bearing by it. But Su Che alone grasped the import of the subtle phrases scattered throughout brief and incomplete chapters. This is why he was able to bring out the hidden message of the Laozi and make the meaning of its five thousand characters gleam as brightly as the sun.5 Scholars must absolutely not allow this book to leave their hands for a single day.
When the Explication was complete, Su Che showed it to Daoquan,6 and Daoquan approved of it. He then sent it to Su Shi, and he too approved. Now more than five hundred years have passed since the time of Su Che.7 I doubt that there will ever be another interpretation as outstanding as his. Alas! Only when one truly hungers for understanding is one able to attain it.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
In this essay,1 Li Zhi defends “the prose of [his] time”—the eight-legged essay. Citing a well-known passage in the Zuozhuan that establishes “patterned refinement” as the criterion for judging literature and enabling it to “travel far” in both space and time, Li argues that the eight-legged essay, the formulaic genre used for selecting examination candidates in Ming China, met these aesthetic criteria.
Li’s defense of the eight-legged essay seems somewhat out of place, for many leading intellectuals in the following generation attacked this genre for its stifling rigidity. Both formally and ideologically, the essays were indeed highly regulated: each section or “leg” was required to set forth a thesis that was then challenged in a counterargument. This tightly balanced, antithetical structure, repeated within individual “legs” and amplified on the level of the essay as a whole, encouraged students to make predictable, well-rehearsed arguments that regurgitated orthodox interpretations. Individual interpretation was strongly discouraged.2
Given the conventions of the genre, one wonders why a staunch individualist like Li Zhi would endorse it. One possible answer has to do with Li Zhi’s historical relativism, his belief that in each era new genres and styles develop to address the particular concerns of the day. Unlike adherents of the powerful Return to Antiquity Movement, who advocated writing in imitation of ancient models, Li championed a theory of literature characterized by constant innovation. He therefore lent his support to the eight-legged essay and maintained that this form, a creation of the Ming, did indeed have the power to “travel far.” (RHS)
The prose of our time, the eight-legged essay, is the literary form used in official examinations in our time. It is not an ancient form. When we consider the ancient from the standpoint of the present, the ancient is surely not the present. But when we consider the present from the perspective of the future, the present will indeed become ancient. It is said that the superiority or inferiority of literature depends upon the times. Assessing superiority or inferiority is called judging. Once a standard of judgment becomes established in a period, its luminous essence is passed down to later generations. How could it be otherwise?
From ancient times to now, ethical values are unchanged, [the purpose of] writing is unchanged; what differs is nothing more than the style of each period. Thus in the heyday of pentasyllabic poetry, quadrisyllabic poetry was considered ancient. In the heyday of Tang regulated verse, pentasyllabic poetry was in turn considered ancient. Just as, according to the standard of contemporary “recent-style poetry,” Tang poetry is considered ancient, [so too] ten thousand generations hence will our contemporary poetry be considered as ancient as that of the Tang. All the more so the eight-legged essays we use to select our scholars!
Those who say that the prose of our time—the eight-legged essay—can be used in examinations but will never “travel far” not only fail to understand literature, they also fail to understand history.3 For there has never been a form of literature that could be used for selection but had no wider relevance. Scholars of national repute do meritorious deeds and compose writings that manifest their integrity; these works shine forth to this day. Are such authors not selected for office on the basis of their eight-legged essays? Compositions issuing from three days spent in the thorny examination halls determine these men’s lives. If their writings cannot travel far, it must be because their words lack pattern and refinement, and therefore the authors do not deserve to be selected for office. But the eight-legged essays selected by Censor-in-Chief Li4 will travel far. I hope that scholars will examine them closely.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
This essay1 constitutes one of Li Zhi’s several contributions to the flourishing late-Ming discourse on friendship. Framed as a letter to an unidentified recipient, the essay rebuts the claim that Li withdrew from all social relations after he resigned his post as prefect of Yao’an. Writing from Huang’an in 1583, Li lays claim to a wide network of associations, which he arrays before the reader and ranks according to quality. The theme of ranking characterizes many Ming-dynasty essays, yet here the criteria by which Li classifies his companions strike readers as quirky and eccentric. Lurking just below the surface lies a criticism of the superficial basis on which many of his contemporaries formed associations. The essay thus demonstrates Li’s unconventional and highly critical perspective on a subject heatedly debated among his peers. (RHS)
Someone said to Mr. Li, “You are fond of friends. But for roughly the past two years [since you resigned your post in Yunnan] I haven’t seen you associating with anyone. Why is that?”
Li said, “You simply do not understand. I associate with all sorts of people. I daresay if you compared me with anyone in the world, no one would have as broad a range of associates as I. My associations with others are of ten kinds, and these ten exhaust all possible associations.
“What are these ten? The most important is the association between friends who eat and drink together. Next is the association between friends of the marketplace. In his exchanges with people, Mr. Hè is fair and levelheaded. Mr. Min does not vary the price of oil based on the customer to whom he is selling. You associate with them. I too associate with them. Although you may not be aware of it, they have gradually become part of your daily life. The third kind of association is between friends who go on outings together. And next is the association among friends who engage in idle chatter. When we go on outings, if we’re going far, we take a boat, and if we’re staying nearby, we just talk and laugh. We ‘chaff and joke’ but are ‘never rude.’2 And when we guess what’s on one another’s minds, we’re ‘often right.’3 Although as people, these outing companions need not be remarkable, I can still enjoy myself with them so thoroughly that we forget when it’s time to go home. And when we part, we miss one another.
“If you wish to associate with men of skill, there are master lute players, archers, chess players, painters, and others. Or, if you prefer technicians, there are prognosticators, geomancers, astrologists, fortune-tellers, and such. Yet among such people you cannot easily find an accomplished or brilliant scholar. But since these men’s arts are refined, their spirits thrive. They are certainly of a level that limited, vulgar, or lowly people cannot reach. So taking an excursion with these outing companions makes one’s spirit soar. Isn’t this a more worthy pursuit than poring over old books, discussing ethics, or debating benevolence and righteousness?
“Then come literary associations—associations between friends as intimate as one’s own flesh and blood, friends whose hearts beat together as one, friends who would live and die for one another. One associate is not enough. How could anyone say that I have no associates! And how could anyone simply look at one of my associates and hope, from him, to gain insight into the others!
“As for the kind of associate to whom I could sincerely entrust my life and death, I have roamed the world for more than twenty years and not yet encountered such a person. If we’re talking about someone I trust with all my heart, I think only Zhou Youshan of Guting fits that description. As for someone I consider as intimate as my own flesh and blood and expect never to abandon me, this is how I feel toward my friend in life and death, Li Weiming.4
“In the field of poetry there is Master Li; and in calligraphy there is Master Wen,5 and that is all. But must we necessarily attain their level of mastery? If we can amuse our minds with brush and ink and become known in literary circles, if we can let ourselves roam freely like unbridled horses that will not tread the beaten track, then we can entertain ourselves together till old age overtakes us. When there is someone at hand with whom to drink and eat, I associate with him. And when there is not, I don’t. But he must love virtue and delight in guests; if poor, he must be dignified; if rich, he must be clean.6 Only if he meets these criteria will I associate with him. Delighting in guests is most important; appreciating virtue is next; after these come dignity and cleanliness. Wine and food are the most basic elements of life. Only wine and food are essential to me; I consider banqueting an indulgence. This sort of associate is bound to me by food and drink, not by any other means. So if he delights in guests, if he loves them for their qualities, if he is dignified and clean, I’m willing to associate with him. There’s no one I’m not willing to associate with! And therefore there’s no one I’m not willing to befriend. And how much more joy do I take in associating with close friends with whom no medium is even necessary—[when we are together] even water tastes rich. Enough!
“Today I have spoken plainly of matters of drinking and eating so that you may understand what I take to be the most important kind of association. Other people scorn those who drink and eat together. I would very much like to associate with you. I hope you will not cast me aside.”
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
Written in Macheng in 1588, likely in response to Geng Dingxiang’s stinging criticism of Li earlier that year, this arresting essay1 exudes irony as if from every pore. From the outset, Li poses as a thoroughly objectionable individual, an arrogant, vulgar hypocrite. Pouring invective on himself, he bolsters this image with a series of recondite classical allusions. Yet these scholarly allusions effectively undercut his claim to boorishness. The repeated use of paradox throughout the essay unsettles readers and prompts them to question the sincerity of Li’s self-appraisal. The essay’s inconclusive ending illustrates Li’s skeptical stance and his simultaneous embrace of incongruous identities. (RHS)
He was by nature narrow-minded and he appeared arrogant. His words were vulgar, and his mind was wild. His behavior was impulsive, his friends few, and his countenance ingratiating. When interacting with people, he took pleasure in seeking out their faults; he did not delight in their strengths. When he disliked people, he cut them off and sought to harm them for the rest of his life. His ambition was to keep warm and well fed, but he professed to resemble Bo Yi and Shu Qi.2 Fundamentally deceptive like the man of Qi,3 he claimed that his belly was filled with the Dao and virtue. Not the type to give anything away lightly, he nonetheless praised himself as another Yi Yin.4 He would not even pluck a single hair from his head, but he cursed Yang Zhu for harming the practice of benevolence.5 His actions deviated from social norms, and the words he spoke conflicted with the feelings in his heart. This is the sort of person he was. The people in the village all hated him. In ancient times Zigong asked Confucius, “What if all the people in the village hate a person?”6 The master said, “One cannot judge him yet.” As far as this reclusive scholar, Li Zhi, is concerned, perhaps one can!
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
This satirical essay,1 which blends fact with fiction, narrates an encounter between the mandarin Liu Xie (courtesy name Hongyuan 宏源, fl. 1570) and a pretentious young man posing as an orthodox Confucian gentleman. In their humorous exchange, Liu, an official from Macheng who was known for his unconventional bearing and fondness for banter, as well as for his unsurpassed intelligence and extraordinary literary skill, uses sarcasm to expose the affected gentleman’s phoniness and superficiality. The exact date of composition is unknown, but this essay was likely written in the late 1580s and exemplifies a theme central to Li’s work—unrelenting mockery of the pedantic, conventional, unimaginative, hypocritical scholar-officials of his day. (RHS; PCL)
There once was a gentleman from the School of Principle who wore dignified platform shoes and walked with large strides. He dressed in a generously long-sleeved robe with a wide sash. Wearing the obligations of morality as his cap and the principles of human relations as his garments, he sprinkled his writings with one or two phrases picked up from the classics, and on his lips he always had several passages from orthodox texts. On this basis he claimed that he was a true disciple of Confucius. One day this gentleman came across Liu Xie. Liu Xie was a clever man. He saw the gentleman from the School of Principle and said with a wry smile, “This man does not know that I am Confucius’s older brother.”
The other suddenly changed color, rose up, and said, “If Heaven had not given birth to Confucius, then the ancient period would have been like one long night. What kind of person are you that you dare to declare yourself Confucius’s older brother?”
Liu Xie replied, “No wonder, then, that ever since the primordial time of Fu Xi and the Yellow Emperor, sages have walked around all day lighting candlewicks!”
The other was speechless and came to a halt. But how could he truly understand the supreme wit of Liu Xie’s words?
Mr. Li heard of this and praised Liu Xie, saying, “Those words are simple and yet fitting, terse and yet rich—words that can break through the web of uncertainty and light up the sky. From words like this, we can comprehend the man who uttered them. In my opinion, although his words were spoken in jest, the ultimate truths they contain will endure for generations upon generations.”
TRANSLATED BY PAULINE C. LEE
This short essay,1 composed in Macheng in 1589, takes as its central conceit the animating force of friendship, whether between humans or between humans and things. Punning on “square shaped” (fang 方) as a descriptor for the physical attributes of the bamboo and as a metaphor for the forthright virtues of a gentleman, Li playfully envisions a scene where humans assume the qualities of things and things come to embody the highest ideals of human behavior. Behind the wordplay, however, Li reflects on the ways in which one’s persona is ultimately predicated on recognition and acceptance from an “other.”
The essay interlaces two sets of themes. The first is how to judge character and recognize “spirit” (shen 神), a concern that can be traced to the collection of anecdotes and character sketches from the Wei-Jin period A New Account of Tales of the World (Shishuo xinyu 世說新語), compiled and edited by Liu Yiqing 劉義慶 (403–444). The essay begins by citing from the New Account the story of a scholar who treated bamboo plants as equals and companions, yet Li Zhi gives the tale a new twist: whereas in the New Account Wang reveals his obsessive love for bamboo, Li argues that the bamboo recognized Wang’s worth and fell in love with him first.
Like many intellectuals of the late Ming, Li Zhi was an avid reader and ardent advocate of the New Account. He wrote a commentary to the Supplement to “A New Account of Tales of the World” (Shishuo xinyu bu 世說新語補), compiled by He Liangjun 何良俊 (1506–1573), and reworked by Wang Shizhen 王世貞 (1526–1590). Li’s own Upon Arrival at the Lake (Chutan ji 初潭集) extracts episodes from the New Account and from Jiao Hong’s焦竑 (1540–1620) Jiao’s Forest of Anecdotes (Jiaoshi leilin 焦氏類林). Li’s Upon Arrival was widely popular in the late Ming, and its influence can be seen in many of the prominent Shishuo xinyu imitations from the period.
Li’s essay is also a work of ekphrasis, eulogizing a painting of bamboo by his friend and patron Deng Shiyang 鄧石陽. In this respect, Li Zhi draws on the vocabulary of a series of earlier colophons and poems dating back to the Song-dynasty poet Su Shi 蘇軾, who praised literati painters for their ability to invest their paintings of bamboo with elements of their own personality. As the essay progresses, Li’s focus shifts from Wang’s vaunted friendship with his bamboo to Deng Shiyang’s relation to his painted subject matter, and finally to Li’s personal friendship with Deng as Deng takes leave of Macheng for Sichuan. (TK)
There was a fellow of ancient times who loved bamboo plants2 and referred to them as “gentlemen” on account of this affection. It was not so much because they resembled refined men that he treated them as gentlemen; it was rather that he felt depressed and there was no one for him to converse with. He was thus of the opinion that the only ones he could take for company were the bamboo, and it was for precisely this reason that he struck up close ties with them and addressed them in such a manner. He himself was unaware that it had reached this point.
Someone said, Wang spoke of the bamboos as “gentlemen,” and so it must also have been the case that the bamboo regarded Wang as a “gentleman.” Just as those gentlemen are squarely built and pliant, that gentleman also held a foursquare stance and yet was flexible. It is not uncommon for one to have a pliant disposition, but those who can sustain their rectitude are rare. Because they differed from the common and uncommon, they regarded one another as gentlemen. Being of the same breed, and therefore equals, they treated one another as close associates.
And yet it was not that Wang loved the bamboos. The bamboos themselves loved Wang. For when a man such as Wang gazes upon mountains and rivers, or earth and rocks, they all spontaneously start to radiate their charms. How much more would this have been the case with these “gentlemen”!
Moreover, all things between heaven and earth possess a spirit, so how could anyone suppose that these looming, empty-hearted gentlemen lacked an inner core?3 There is a saying: “For a true soul mate, a squire will exert himself; for an admirer, a lady will adorn herself.”4 These gentlemen were much the same. As soon as they encountered Wang, their lofty bearing and marvelous aspect would naturally have exuded a distinct aura, and their intractable stance, firm amid ice and frost, would have drifted away with the fluty ballads of phoenixes. All this was born of their desire to adorn themselves for the one who truly loved them. For how could they have stood isolated, year upon year softly swooshing with the wind, harboring their regrets at not having met a soul mate?
If we look at the matter from this perspective, then we see that the white crane soared on high because of Wang Zijin,5 and the gleaming violet Ganoderma grew in order to satisfy the hunger of the Four Hoary Heads of Shang Mountain.6 No wonder, this: after all, the dragon horse bore the Yellow River Chart on its back;7 the Luo turtle revealed an auspicious omen;8 the phoenix pranced before Shun9 and sang to King Wen;10 and the unicorn presented itself to be captured by Lu.11 All these events occurred because of a thing’s love for a person. From antiquity it has been like this, and who can gainsay it?
As for the bamboo lovers of today, well, I am a little confused by them. They are certainly of a different breed from Master Wang. Their haughty attitude and disdain are detestable, and the affection they have only resembles a love for bamboo. Although they might be fond of bamboo, the bamboos certainly show no love for them in return. How can they love bamboo when the bamboos care nothing for them? It is precisely because of this state of affairs that I can’t stand this sort of person’s purported affection for bamboo. Why? Because they are only imitators and do not belong to the same class as Wang. Shiyang’s love for bamboos, however, is on a par with Wang’s, and the bamboos truly admire that gentleman. Shiyang went to study sutras on Lushan, a mountain resplendent with square and upstanding bamboos. He came to love them and sketched and painted them; he felt that such square, upright bamboos were seldom seen in the whole world. When Shiyang was about to return home and he and I were parting, he brought [his paintings] to me and asked what he should do with them. I said that “these gentlemen” were surely already accompanying him back to Shu. How could they ever be separated?
TRANSLATED BY THOMAS KELLY
This essay,1 written in 1583 in Macheng, pays tribute to Wang Ji 王畿 (1498–1583), whose sobriquet was Longxi. One of the most renowned and controversial students of the influential mid-Ming thinker Wang Yangming, Wang Longxi was wary of cleaving too rigidly to any doctrine. Instead, he endorsed flexible practices that varied “in accordance with the times” and allowed for individual difference. However, these methods garnered criticism from Qian Dehong 錢德洪 (1496–1574), a more conservative disciple of Wang Yangming’s, who charged that by daring to deviate from the master’s way, Wang Longxi was actually harming the legacy of Wang Yangming.
Li Zhi heaped praise on this figure, who he believed embodied many of his own values. Indeed, throughout this tribute, Li Zhi treats Wang Longxi as more than an individual whose death deserves to be mourned. Wang comes to symbolize the depth and sincerity of scholarship and self-cultivation Li finds lacking among his colleagues, whose only concern, Li maintains, is the superficial quest for profit and reputation.
In this tribute, as well as in a biographical essay Li dedicated to Wang Longxi in Another Book to Keep (Hidden),2 Li applauds Wang Longxi’s commitment to principled action. As Li implies, throughout his long life Wang Longxi lived according to ethical principles, and in so doing he exemplified Wang Yangming’s ideal of “unifying words and action.” Li’s only regret is that many who came in contact with this master failed to understand him and mistook his words for the essence of his philosophy. Li’s insistence that words alone are mere husks of meaning resonates with the Chan doctrine of “not establishing words” as well as with Daoist ideas about the unreliability of language. Moreover, his criticism of contemporaries’ inability to appreciate lived experience echoes opinions he expresses in “On the Childlike Mind” (see pp. 111–13). The essay concludes with Li’s implicitly contrasting himself with those unskilled interpreters and expressing the hope that Wang Longxi would have recognized Li as a man of insight. (RHS)
This leading Confucian of our great dynasty possessed the compassionate vision of a bodhisattva, which extended to both the celestial and terrestrial realms. He was like a flawless piece of translucent jade, like gold refined a hundred times. But now he is dead. To whom can his followers turn? I have heard that in his youth the master studied under Master Wang Yangming, and later, owing to his extraordinary achievements, he ascended to the master’s seat just as [the faithful disciple] Zixia carried on for Confucius; to the end of their days, these students never abandoned their masters’ teachings. In sum, Wang Longxi “delighted in friends visiting from afar and was unperturbed when others failed to recognize his abilities.”3 He truly grasped the essence of Confucius’s praise of Yan Hui that he never “transferred his anger or made the same mistake twice.”4 Indeed, he desired to make people believe the sages’ teachings based on their own understanding and was not lenient toward those who had not yet attained this understanding. He truly conformed to the Confucian principle of “studying tirelessly and teaching indefatigably.”5 He practiced self-cultivation and lived in accord with the Dao until he was nearly ninety years old; and for sixty years he sprinkled his teachings like rain wherever he went. For this reason, throughout China there are old people who still hold fast to classical texts, and nearer the capital many carry on his work.
Thus he exposed the deep mysteries of innate knowledge and caused them to be clearly manifest as if in broad daylight. He made the Zhu and Si Rivers, sources of Confucian learning, resemble the mighty waters of the Yangzi and Yellow Rivers overflowing their banks as they rushed toward the four oceans.6 Because of him, not only will “this culture of ours”7 not die out; it will flourish because his actions truly exemplified the great enlightenment of our Dao. This was the gentleman’s most outstanding accomplishment.
I remember that Wang Gen’s disciples used to cover the entire earth.8 How they thrived! They were without rival. But now I observe that what issues from Wang Longxi’s source flows even farther and lasts even longer. How could anything match it? And yet I regret that people who study the Dao suffer from the malady of loving themselves more than they love the Dao. Because of this, they do not comprehend the value of the wisdom entrusted to them by the ancients. Instead, they scheme only for their own profit and interest. Their sickness is that they respect reputation but do not respect themselves, and so they disregard the painful fact that their sons and grandsons are sinking into moral decline. Instead, they consider it their chief responsibility to steer clear of suspicion and slander. Alas! Establishing their hearts and minds in such a manner diminishes the Dao, it does not transmit it. Through such actions they forfeit their true selves; they do not actualize themselves. How could Wang Longxi have tolerated this? Alas for him! His greatest concern was the deafness and blindness of the present generation. For this reason, even if he had been able to “present the Dao without stirring from his seat,”9 he would not have condescended to explain his thoughts to those who ridiculed them. Always concerned lest his disciples fall into danger, Wang Longxi behaved like the natives of Wu and Yue, who, when a storm blew up while they were traveling together by boat, thought nothing of risking their own lives to rescue one another.10 This is how strong Wang Longxi’s sense of mission was: there was no stopping it. And this is why I, his junior, immediately acknowledged him as an extraordinary person.11
Although I was born long after him and lived far away from him, his actions left me transfixed, my spirit captivated, my heart inclined to listen to his teachings in awe. Now the master is dead. To whom can I now turn?
Alas! “Accomplishing deeds while remaining silent and being trusted without speaking are intrinsic to virtuous conduct.”12 The master expressed his teachings in language, but whenever scholars recited his words, they mistook these words for the master’s essence and did not realize that words were merely the dregs of his philosophy.13 They were of no value to him. Through his actions he exhibited his beliefs. But scholars continually regarded his actions with suspicion and surprise and deemed them inessential. They did not realize that his spirit was in his actions; they were what Wang Longxi esteemed. As I think back on the ancients, none of them really compares to the master. So when I heard the news of his death, my thoughts circled again and again back to him alone. The master’s spirit now roams through the Eight Directions; his Dao crowns the ages; he makes no distinction between the newborn and the centenarian; life and death are all one to him.14 Although Wang Longxi has died, I know that something of him remains. He surely must consider me someone “skilled in interpretation”!15 He surely must regard me as someone who understood him!
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
This intensely personal testimony1 commemorates the life and thought of one of the most influential members of the Taizhou school, the itinerant teacher Luo Rufang 羅汝芳 (1515–1588). Luo, who went by the sobriquet Jinxi, exuded an air of simplicity and directness and welcomed students from all social classes and walks of life. Li admired Luo’s egalitarian spirit and, although the two met only once, regarded this elder teacher with the utmost respect. In the present essay, written in Macheng in 1589, Li expresses his intense grief upon learning of the master’s death.
The essay opens with Li’s narrating the shock he experienced upon receiving the news of Luo’s death. Stunned, he could find no words to express his sorrow. Li’s uncharacteristic silence puzzled the monks with whom he was residing. The abbot, Wunian, questioned him closely as to the reason for this silence and remonstrated with Li by recollecting how, in times past, Li had frequently praised Luo’s teachings. Chided by these recollections, Li set about composing a biographical sketch of the master next to whom Li hoped to reside. Li’s esteem for Luo is everywhere apparent, as is his desire to preserve and transmit the master’s teachings. Among the salient themes in this essay are the intimate bond between masters and disciples and the fear—which Li both raises and repeatedly attempts to quell—that Luo may have died without an intellectual heir. (RHS)
On the twenty-fourth day of the eleventh month of the year wuzi [1588], word of the death of Master Luo of Nancheng arrived. But the gentleman’s death had actually occurred on the second day of the ninth month. Only a small river separates us from Nancheng. It never takes a traveler more than ten days to get here from there. Yet the news of the master’s death took more than eighty days to arrive! How very slow! Could the delay have been caused by the fact that Dragon Lake is located in a remote place and few people come here? Or perhaps, although many people come here, only a few knew the master? But I have heard that the master had at least as many students as Confucius—if not more. I think his students outnumbered half the population of Lu!2 So it makes sense that many people knew the master. But what are we to make of people “intensely devoted to studying,” who, even after becoming his disciples, still failed to grasp their connection to the universe and all under heaven? If they tarried in transmitting the news of the master’s death, the reason must be that they did not hold him in high regard. Since [they cared so little], I bitterly regret the master’s death and strongly believe that he ought not to have died.
The person who informed me of this death said, “On the first day of the ninth month, the master was about to take leave of the world and ‘roam afar.’ To this end, he imparted words of farewell to his many students. The students were overwrought, unable to bear the master’s departure. So the master remained in this world for one more day, conversing with them. When they had finished conversing, he died. Now the master is gone, and nothing can be done about it. The students wiped away their tears and choked back their grief. Together, they printed the master’s parting words to show them to the scholars of the world. In the matter of ‘attaining rectitude in death,’ our teacher was in no way inferior to Zeng Shen.3 Leaning on a staff, he wandered free and easy; if compared with Confucius, our master would have nothing to be ashamed of.4 Not only did he not begrudge death; he was skilled in the art of dying. This is how truly accomplished the master was! Because his students were so happy for him, they wanted to print his words so that they would be passed on.”
Alas! Our teacher lived to the advanced age of seventy-four, an age that even Confucius did not live to see. Since antiquity it has been rare for people to live to the age of seventy. Even a commoner who lived to such an age would not begrudge death; how then could anyone say that the master begrudged death? And how could his students have rejoiced in his not begrudging death? The commoners of the marketplace work industriously their whole lives and earn nothing more than a few strings of cash or paper money. Even so, when death approaches, they recoil from it; they revive themselves and reopen their eyes, fearful that they will have no one to whom they can entrust their meager earnings. Had they such a person, they would gladly close their eyes.
What about the master’s life? How could he have looked at his robes and alms bowls—his teachings to be passed on to future generations—and not have wondered who would inherit them? Why did he remain in this world for that one additional day? Perhaps he, too, feared that he had not found anyone to whom he could entrust his teachings. Had he found such a person, he would have fared well even if he had not been skilled in the art of dying. Lacking such a person, he would not have fared well even if he had been skilled in the art of dying. So how could anyone praise the master on account of his skill in dying?
I say that when the master was on the verge of death, just as he wanted to cry out but dared not, he conceived the desire to persevere one more day in the hope of finding [an intellectual heir]. But in the end, he couldn’t find such a person. A thousand years hence, when people hear this story, they will still cry their hearts out over it. When they look back on his death, they will still shed tears over the unendurable pain the master suffered. How could anyone say that the master was ungrudging in his attitude toward death? Indeed, no one begrudged death more than the master did! I am afraid that the master begrudged death even more than his many students begrudged his passing.
Why? “Since Heaven has abandoned me, I abandon Heaven!”5 When the father dies, one looks to the orphaned son. When the son dies, all hope is lost. The pain and despair of such loss are the same for all. If what has just been said is true, then the spiritual heritage of a thousand sages is really not equal even to a commoner’s string of cash. Commoners in the marketplace can’t abide dying without an heir. But this is what the master did. What a master he was!
When I heard the announcement of the master’s death, the monk Wunian Shenyou was at my side and praised him, saying, “You should immediately make an altar tablet to honor the master’s spirit.” At that time I was silent and made no reply. Eventually, the twelfth month came and the year ended. Then it was the new year, Wanli yichou [1589]. The first and second months came and went, and soon the vernal equinox was upon us. Shenyou said, “I have been studying with you for nine years. The name Master Wang Longxi is always on your lips, followed by that of Master Luo Rufang. In the winter of the year kuimo [1583], news of Master Wang’s death arrived. You immediately wrote an essay memorializing him and embellished it in accordance with ritual etiquette.6 You did not wait for an official edict. I remember that you told me, ‘In Nanjing I had the opportunity to meet Master Wang twice and Master Luo once.7 After I moved to Yunnan province, I got the chance to see Master Luo again in Longli.’ But those events all took place before the year dingchou [1577]. Ever since then, not a year has passed when you have not read books by these two masters, and never have you opened your mouth without speaking of their teachings. When I heard you speak of them, I found their teachings intimate and arresting, clear and compelling. If, during one of these discourses, someone skilled at writing had picked up a brush and taken dictation at your side, he would surely have sprained his wrist and shrieked in pain. For you would not have been able to limit your praise to ten or a hundred pages; even a thousand pages would not have sufficed! Why now, for the first time, are you silent?
“In spring of the year bingxu [1586], I traveled to Nanjing begging for alms with my metal staff. Again you instructed me that I must urgently go up the Xu River to visit Master Luo. At that time Wang Longxi had already died. In the summer of the year wuzi [1588], I returned here from Nanjing to inform you that Master Luo had written a letter expressing his desire to go to Nanjing. The letter said, ‘Let’s take advantage of the fact that there is an imperial examination this autumn. Scholars from all over the empire will convene in the capital. As soon as they arrive, let’s plan to gather our friends together.’ You immediately wrote a letter to Jiao Hong saying, ‘When Master Luo comes this time, let’s be careful not to miss the opportunity to see him! I fear he is getting on in years; it may be difficult to meet with him in the future.’ Later, on several occasions, you sought out people who lived near the Xu River, and they periodically mentioned Master Luo’s illness. When they spoke of his illness, you became somewhat concerned. You told me, ‘If Master Luo is indeed unwell, he will not be able to travel south. But I do not think Master Luo is actually severely ill. I have observed that his bones are strong and his life force is in harmony; his spirit is undiminished and his intentions firm. In these ways, he resembles Master Wang. Master Wang enjoyed eighty-six years of life. Even if Master Luo does not live to one hundred, he’ll certainly live to ninety!’
“But I secretly scrutinized you, and it seemed to me as if—even if you didn’t say so—you suspected that Master Luo might die after all. I tried to ask you about this matter several times, but all you would say was, ‘The master will not die. He absolutely will not die!’ Now Master Luo is indeed dead. Why are you so silent?”
Alas! I was silent and did not reply. I did not know how to respond. Ever since I heard the news of the master’s death, I have felt as if I’d been passing my days in a dream. Only now do I understand that the phrase “True grieving expresses no grief; true weeping sheds no tears” is not just empty words. I now struggle to calm my anguished thoughts. Looking back on the past, how ridiculous it seems! Could anyone say I did not think about the master? Indeed I did think of him. Could anyone say I did not understand him? Indeed I did understand him, deeply. Could anyone say I was incapable of speaking about the master? Indeed no one was more capable of speaking about him than I! And yet my lips were sealed, my mind a blank; I was paralyzed, unable to lift my brush. Even I do not understand the reason why. Is this really the moment to call out, “Heaven has abandoned me, I give up on Heaven”? “Fatherless, on whom can I rely?”8 Am I really in the position of a son or orphan to him?
Now I, too, am old. Although I never formally studied with the master, I hoped to buy a field, build a hut, and live beside the master. This intention was constantly on my mind, but now that the master is dead, what am I to do? Since I never formally studied with the master, I could not befriend all the master’s disciples or find out who was the most outstanding student. I almost hope there is no such person, since I would be disappointed not to have met him. They say that as soon as the master was of an age to go to school, he threw himself wholly into his studies, and when he sat for his examination at the Ministry of Rites, his name circulated in the examiners’ halls. But for a long time he desired to leave the world and become a recluse. This thought consumed him. He set his sights on the Dao but feared isolation from teachers and friends. So he journeyed in all directions, entered into discussions with people of all sorts, and, having consulted them extensively, followed them on the path of rectitude. He was content to drink from rivers and return home empty-handed.9 He spent ten years in this manner, and then in the year guichou [1553] he appeared at the imperial court [to receive his jinshi degree], shedding the clothes of a commoner to don those of an official. While he was in charge, lawsuits were scarce and tranquil joy abundant; civilized discourse replaced implements of torture, and people spoke their minds without contention. He was on familiar terms with subordinates like clerks and runners. Even after becoming an official, he continued to study, and his studies—not his official title—were the basis of his greatness.10 If he acted this way at court, we can infer how he must have acted in daily life. He behaved in this manner both as an official and in private life: outside the hall, drums were beaten and songs sung; young and old thronged together, and friends sat side by side.11 This was how the master spent his seventy-four years of life.
Traveling to Buddhist temples and scenic spots both south of the Yangzi River and north of the Yellow River, he joined hands with his fellow travelers, and crowds formed wherever he went. The master’s writings spread even to the remotest regions of the south: Dong Ou, Luo Shi, Gui Guo, Nan Yue, Min Yue, Dian Yue, and Teng Yue—places where only birdcalls are heard12 and where human footsteps rarely go. He took his students from among shepherd boys and woodcutters, old fishermen, street urchins from the marketplace, officials from the yamen, peddlers and retailers, weaver women and plowmen, reputable Confucians who might “steal grass sandals,” and great bandits wearing caps and robes. If only they “had the right mind-set,” the master did not inquire into their origins.13 He cared not at all whether his followers were poor scholars wearing threadbare clothes, hermits who lodged by streams and cliffs, pale-skinned young students, xiucai degree holders14 wearing green-collared robes, Daoists wearing yellow robes and feathery accoutrements, Buddhist clergy wearing black garments, or Confucian officials wearing the red silk girdles and vermilion slippers of office and holding ivory tablets. For this reason, wherever his cart went, people came running out to greet him. Clapping his hands, the master would sit down to chat and laugh with them. Commoners looked up to the master on account of his elegant bearing, and scholars delighted in his down-to-earth manner. They loosened their robes and let the eight winds [of his teachings] waft over them. The master was as magnanimous as Liu Xiahui, but I’ve never heard of his lacking dignity;15 and he was as kind as a Buddha, but I’ve never heard of his acting inappropriately. Although he mingled with people from all walks of life, he harbored “great aspirations,” and his accomplishments were “visible for all to see.”16 Like a skilled salesman, he hid his wares, [awaiting the right buyer]. While readily approached, he was difficult to know.17 Although on easy terms with everyone, he was no “gossipmonger.”18 He embodied the true spirit of equality: his love and toleration extended to people of all kinds. He possessed both the strength and the skill to hit the mark.19 None could match him. And his wisdom and teachings were both marvelous and transformative. Who could have comprehended them fully? It seems that the master brought deliverance to both himself and others through these means. For more than seventy years he traveled north, south, east, and west but never went anywhere in vain. He weathered wintry nights and summer mornings, but never lived a day in vain. His acquaintances included worthies and fools, young and old people, poor invalids and wealthy nobles, but he never interacted with anyone in vain. His teachings were so focused and enduring that I doubt any student who came to his door could have left without understanding. Fortunately, the master had this satisfaction.
Although I am old, I am still able to exert myself on his behalf. For the master’s sake, I must not hesitate to trek high and low searching for someone among his disciples who truly possesses understanding and scholarly accomplishment. When I find this person, I will commemorate the master by burning incense, and I will utter words intended to reassure his soul: “From now on, I will know that you died without regret [as one who has ‘heard the Way’]; now you need not begrudge death [for you have someone to carry on your teachings]. It is truly not hypocritical praise to say that you ‘had a good death.’” Then will I finally be released from the deep regret I have been feeling over the master’s death. What Confucius said to the lord of Lu [about Yan Hui], I apply here: “Now that he is dead, I have yet to hear of anyone who is truly fond of learning.”20 Those who leave no sons behind have nothing more to hope for; but the master was not one of these.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ