In the winter of 1595, when this essay1 was written, Li Zhi’s son-in-law, Zhuang Chunfu, was living in Macheng with Li Zhi. The two men engaged in regular study sessions with the prefect of Ningzhou, Fang Ziji 方子及 (courtesy name Hang 沆, 1542–1608), who was visiting from neighboring Jiangxi province. In the notebook in which the three men recorded their studies, Li Zhi jotted down this short essay, which is addressed to another friend, Jiao Hong. It seems Li Zhi may have felt that Fang Ziji had been unduly influenced by views expressed in Jiao Hong’s preface to a printed edition of the collected works of the eleventh-century poet Su Shi. In that preface Jiao Hong argues that great art cannot be produced by raw talent alone; formal training is also required. Li Zhi, on the other hand, maintains that training may impede the creative process, and that great art arises from unmediated “chance encounters” with nature.2
Both Li Zhi and Jiao Hong cite the legend of the ancient zither player Bo Ya, who studied for three years under the tutelage of Master Cheng Lian. Although the disciple attained technical proficiency, he was not adept at expressing his feelings. Cognizant of this deficiency in his student, Cheng Lian invited Bo Ya to accompany him to Penglai Mountain to see his own master, Fang Zichun, whose zither playing conveyed deep emotion. When they arrived, Cheng Lian left Bo Ya alone in the wilderness to practice and told him that the teacher would join him shortly. Bo Ya waited patiently for ten days, but Cheng Lian did not return, nor did the teacher arrive. Frightened and alone, Bo Ya craned his neck in every direction, searching for some sign of the teacher, but he could hear nothing but the crashing of the waves and the sad cries of birds. Gazing up at the sky, he called out, “Master Cheng Lian has no teacher! He left me here because he wanted to stir my emotions!” Thereupon, plucking his zither, Bo Ya composed his most moving piece, “The Melody of Water Immortals.”3
Jiao Hong interprets this story to mean that without formal education, Bo Ya would not have been able to produce such extraordinary music. He writes,
[If someone is to produce outstanding music,] he must revere antiquity … follow the score closely, and receive instruction from a great master: just as in the case of Cheng Lian and Bo Ya, the disciple needed to travel to that remote shore, [to dwell in] those deep mountain forests, and [to experience] those hollows from which the seawater rushes forth. [Only once he had had these experiences did he] suddenly grasp the emotive power of the zither and express the landscape in music of surpassing beauty.
But if an ignoramus were by chance to encounter a zither, strum it, and think to himself, “This is music,” such a situation would be akin to asserting that one could dispense with studying the ancients, do away with drawing inspiration from one’s own heart, and instead defiantly do whatever one pleased. How absurd!
Yet Li Zhi endorses just such chance encounters. For this reason he concludes the present essay by hinting that companions in study should help one another to avoid excessive reliance on book learning and should instead encourage one another to engage in direct experience of the world. (RHS)
Jiao Hong, it seems to me that your preface was written for people who claimed to understand but who had not yet fully understood. Someone like Fang Ziji is still in the stage of advancing his knowledge; how could your advice have been appropriate for him? And yet I have heard that a great many scholars claim to understand before they truly understand, so it makes sense that your counsel would be suitable for them. In this world, people easily become mired in reputation and riches. I am old and may die any day; yet I still cannot avoid the burden of notoriety. This is especially so when, in a bustling arena where people conceal their faces behind cosmetics in order to please others, I endeavor to concentrate my mind on matters of life and death, to regard the world’s excesses of pleasure as extremes of sorrow, and to prevent them from increasing my bodily cares. How could I find in this world what I am seeking? And it seems to me that as long as thoughts of life and death are not sprouting in the minds of gentlemen who practice Zen or study the Dao, they, too, are unable to progress beyond this point. How strange, then, that they should turn up their noses conceitedly. Yet I hope that you will not reproach them too harshly. Let’s drop that subject for the time being. Instead, I propose to select some passages from your preface to discuss with you.
You said that the Dao of music is comparable to Zen. This seems plausible. You cited the story of Bo Ya as evidence and said that dispensing with the study of the ancients and the instruction of a master, and instead defiantly doing whatever one pleased, was laughable. But I disagree.
We could say that in Cheng Lian, Bo Ya found a master who taught him systematically; his teaching combined a score with a method; it unified past and present. How could Bo Ya have failed to benefit? But if Cheng Lian had felt that scores and teachers were all that was necessary, he should have spent his days and nights teaching melodies to Bo Ya. Why would he have sent him to a deserted shore, a lonely uninhabited place? And if Bo Ya’s talent had been no greater than that of a “blind ignoramus,” what good would Master Cheng Lian’s instruction have done? What would this Dao have to do with the sea, and why would Bo Ya have attained it only by going to the shore? How extremely odd this all is! It seems that Cheng Lian had Cheng Lian’s distinctive sound; not even Cheng Lian could transmit it to a disciple. And Bo Ya had Bo Ya’s distinctive sound; not even Bo Ya could learn it from Cheng Lian. What we call “sound” is the sort of thing that one encounters by chance and instantly grasps; one cannot obtain it through study or imitation.4
“Blind ignoramuses,” having received no training, resonate immediately upon such a chance encounter. Bo Ya, having been trained, was able to produce marvelous sounds only after he had shed this training. If Bo Ya had not gone to the ocean, or if he had gone to the ocean but Master Cheng Lian had remained by his side, then Bo Ya would never have attained true understanding. It was only because Bo Ya went to a remote seashore, to a wilderness of hollow caves, a place distant from any human trace, that the ancient scores ceased to exist for him and that there no longer was anything to be passed on nor any teacher to be found; in short, when none of the things he had formerly studied were available to him, he attained understanding by himself. Now this Dao transcended the zither’s strings and paulownia-wood body, it went beyond any formal instruction; and yet could Bo Ya have attained it without the instruction of Master Cheng Lian? Those who study the Dao are capable of understanding this. Even by daylight, some forms elude our vision; we recognize them by the shadows they cast. And there are sounds we cannot hear: the striking of bamboo gives rise to a gāthā.5 This is a general rule—how could it apply only to “ignoramuses” and Bo Ya?
I hope that Fang Ziji will be like an “ignoramus” [who intuitively grasps the Dao], and that you will resemble the person on the shore [and cast aside book learning]. For this reason, I am respectfully writing this afterword for you two. It is titled “Journeying with Companions.” The phrase “with companions” means “with study companions.” Esteeming Chunfu as his companion, Fang Ziji undertook a journey so that the two men would be able to study together every day. If they can truly study together, I hope that Fang Ziji will share this essay with Chunfu.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
When Li Zhi was living in Macheng, he made the acquaintance of two young men studying Buddhism, Wang Shiben 王世本, who took the Buddhist name Ruowu, and Zeng Jiquan.1 When in 1596 Ruowu made known his intention to become a monk, his mother, greatly distressed, wrote a letter attempting to dissuade him. In the letter, which Li Zhi quotes at length, Ruowu’s mother pits her son’s Confucian duty to take care of his family against his Buddhist asceticism and urges him to “seek tranquility in his own mind.”
Li Zhi found the mother’s letter both moving and philosophically compelling, for it voiced syncretic ideals he shared. The letter maintains that fulfilling one’s familial obligations accords with the practice of Buddhism; these two duties need not come into conflict.2 The essay ends with Li’s praising the power of Ruowu’s mother’s prose. But his admiration is tinged with self-reproach, for he recognizes that she has expressed their shared view more eloquently and more effectively than he. (RHS)
Ruowu’s mother’s letter said, “With each passing year, I grow older. Ever since you were eight years old I raised you myself. If you had simply abandoned me to leave home and become a monk, I could have tolerated that. But now [in addition to becoming a monk] you want to go far away! Your teacher waited until after his parents had passed away; only then did he become a monk. If you must go far away, it won’t be too late if you wait till I’m dead.”
Ruowu replied, “When I lived near you I was never any help to you, Mother.”
His mother answered, “I have a few aches and pains, but I manage by myself; of course I would not be a source of worry to you. Your mind is at ease and you are not a source of worry to me. Both our minds are at ease and we do not worry about each other. Wherever one feels at ease, one can attain tranquility. Why do you insist on going far away to seek tranquility? What’s more, ever since Uncle Qin Su3 endowed the monastery on your behalf, he has not treated you shabbily. While you are contemplating the Dao, I am thinking of worldly matters. And taking care of one’s worldly needs is also a kind of Dao.
“Apart from the fact that you have obligations to me in my old age, you must also care for your two children. When your teacher left home to become a monk, he still looked after his sons in years of famine; surely he did not have the heart to do otherwise. A parent who does not look after his children and instead lets them sink into moral decline will become a laughingstock. Now, although you may seek tranquility, will you be able to prevent yourself from feeling troubled at heart? It is impossible that you would not feel troubled at heart. And if you do feel troubled at heart, you will spend your days agonizing silently, fearful lest people mock you. So which course of action is honest and which false, which commendable and which reprehensible? Not to trouble your heart caring for your children, or to trouble your heart caring for them now? If you care for them now, your actions may seem to issue from a troubled heart, but inside you will be serene, your heart untrammeled. On the other hand, if you do not take care of them, your actions will seem to issue from an untrammeled heart, but inside you will experience pangs of anxiety and your heart will be troubled indeed! Examine your heart closely: there is no other good than the Eternally Abiding One, the Adamantine.4
“So why listen only to what other people say? Simply to heed their words, without examining your own heart, is to allow your perspective to be distorted by your surroundings. And if your perspective is distorted by your surroundings, you will not attain tranquility of mind. But already you don’t dwell in your own mind; you go seeking a place to live in the external world. I suspect that you will find Dragon Lake insufficiently tranquil5 and will want to dwell in a place of Adamantine Resolution.6 But what if you find the place of Adamantine Resolution insufficiently tranquil? Where will you dwell then?
“All day long you want to discuss the Dao; here and now I’m talking with you about the heart and mind. If you don’t believe me, go ask your teacher; he will confirm what I say. If attaining tranquility depends upon your surroundings, you ought to reside in the place of Adamantine Resolution. But if attaining tranquility depends on your own state of mind, you need not travel far. When one’s mind is not at ease, then even journeying beyond the oceans—to say nothing of dwelling in a place of Adamantine Resolution—only further unsettles one’s heart and mind.”
Reading this letter, I was overcome with emotion and said, “How fortunate that in this family there is a wise mother, a true Buddha. Day and night she is guided by her heart and mind. Her voice is as steady as the sound of waves at the ocean, her instructions issue from the marrow of her bones; their strength is irresistible. When I consider what ordinary people of our generation say, I see how unreasonable and ineffective their words are: they speak as if they were trying to scratch their feet without taking off their boots, or attempting to feed someone simply by talking about food. How could words satisfy hunger? Such behavior would attract jeering onlookers. Yet the people of our generation know no shame.
“When I think back on the many letters I’ve written you [Ruowu], I realize that they were all bluff and bluster meant to intimidate a fool; they had nothing to do with my genuine emotions and true intentions. I entreat you: please destroy them immediately by fire or water. Do not let your sage mother see them, lest she say that I have spent my whole life harming people by babbling about the Dao! Also, please hang a copy of your mother’s instructions on the wall so that all people who recite the name of the Buddha or study the Dao may have them constantly before their eyes, and so that, seeing how to worship true Buddhas, they will not dare worship false Buddhas. Whoever has the ability to recite the name of a true Buddha is himself an Amitābha. Even if he has never once pronounced the word ‘Amitābha,’ Amitābha will certainly see to his salvation. Why? Because Buddhists must engage in self-cultivation, the most important practice of which is filial piety. To recite the name of the Buddha but fail to act in a filial manner is tantamount to asserting that Amitābha is a Buddha deficient in filial piety. Could such a thing be? Surely it defies reason! If I seek Amitābha by worshipping false Buddhas, then which Buddha did Amitābha worship so as to become Amitābha? He could only have modeled himself on an ordinary person who exhibits filial piety.
“Your mother’s words express her profound sincerity: they cut to the quick, causing those who hear them to sob with emotion. You must agree with me: no one could possibly hear a mother utter such words without weeping!”
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
This testimonial essay1 poignantly sketches the contours of Li’s friendship with Geng Dingli (1534–1584; jinshi 1570) and charts the tumultuous relationship that ensued between Li and Dingli’s older brother, the successful statesman Geng Dingxiang. Li explains that his acquaintance with Dingli began when Dingli presented Li with an ethical question regarding the balance between self-confidence and arrogance. Li’s startling answer set Dingli thinking, and the two men soon developed a friendship so deep that in 1581, after Li resigned his post as prefect of Yao’an, he moved into the Geng family residence in Huang’an in order to enjoy the daily company of his soul friend.
However, during the several years Li spent at the Geng home, differences of opinion surfaced among Dingli, Li Zhi, and Dingxiang. Although all three men were proponents of the Taizhou school, Dingxiang held that the essence of Confucian teachings could be expressed in a single phrase from the Mencius; Dingli, on the other hand, emphasized a passage in the Doctrine of the Mean. Li Zhi’s preference for Dingli’s interpretation had serious implications.
After Dingli’s untimely death in 1584, the philosophical differences between Li Zhi and Geng Dingxiang mushroomed into an acrimonious controversy.2 The two men flung insults at each other, and Li published a series of open letters publicly excoriating Dingxiang for hypocrisy. (See “Li Zhi and Geng Dingxiang: Correspondence,” pp. 34–62). However, by 1595, when this testimonial was written, the two men seem to have reconciled their differences, for the essay ends on a note of genuine contrition. (RHS)
The gentleman’s given name was Dingli [定理], his courtesy name Ziyong [子庸], and his sobriquet Chukong [楚倥]. Scholars nicknamed him “Mr. Eight” [Ba xiansheng 八先生].3 All scholars knew of this Mr. Eight except for Dingli himself, who at first was not aware of his reputation. So why am I calling this essay a “Record of Master Geng Dingli”? Well, records serve to record. And although at first Dingli did not expect anyone to record his life, yet here I am recording it. Why should I do this? It’s precisely because he did not at first expect anyone to record it that I truly cannot bear not to record it. I noticed that the gentleman possessed virtue but did not draw attention to it because he did not want to flaunt his virtue. He possessed talent but did not take office because he did not want to restrict his talent to official matters. Not to draw attention to one’s virtue is to attain great virtue; not to engage one’s talent deserves to be called true talent.4 How could such a life go unrecorded?
Moreover, the gentleman made studying the Dao his life’s work. Although he studied the Dao, this fact was not outwardly perceptible; for days on end he scarcely spoke of the Dao. But those who observed him could discern that the Dao resided within him. As the saying goes, “He was permeated by the Dao but not dripping with it.”5
Zhuang Chunfu6 once reported to me that Mr. Eight had said, “I started out as a disciple of Fang Yilin’s [方一麟],7 but Yilin did not understand how to study; he enjoyed a hollow reputation for scholarship, so I left him. Ultimately I obtained the essence of all practical wisdom from Deng Huoqu8 and learned to direct my sight and hearing inward.9 From He Xinyin, I learned that the mind is opaque and self-contained.10 Only then did I begin to experience complete self-content, to feel deep faith, and to doubt no more. But I could not articulate these insights to ordinary people, so to the end of my days I never spoke of them; I discussed them only with my older brother, Master Geng Dingxiang, in the privacy of our home. Thus I came to regard Dingxiang as my teacher, and he himself averred: ‘Although I have attained a certain level of understanding in my studies, I rely heavily on the strength of Dingli.’”
Dingli once asked Dingxiang, “The Great Learning, the Doctrine of the Mean, the Analects, and the Mencius are all similar in that they deal with study, but I have yet to determine which phrase best encapsulates the meaning of these writings.” Dingxiang said, “The single phrase ‘The sages embody the perfect attainment of human relationships’ is the best.”11 Dingli replied, “But in the end that phrase is not as good as ‘a state of equilibrium, before any emotion has stirred.’”12
When I heard this, I found their exchange revealing. For “the perfect attainment of human relationships” is precisely “a state of equilibrium, before any emotion has stirred.” How could one who has not experienced this state of equilibrium attain perfection in human relationships? Perfection is attained when the Dao achieves equilibrium. Hence it is said “equilibrium is the perfection of virtue,” and it is also said “[the operations of Heaven] are perfect, having neither sound nor smell.”13
In the year renshen [1572], Dingli traveled to Nanjing. At that time, I was quite ignorant, though I took delight in intellectual discussion. A man of few words, Dingli simply asked me the following question: “In study, it is important to trust oneself. [This is illustrated in the Analects, which] states, [when Confucius instructed his disciple Qi Dan to take office, Qi Dan replied,] ‘I do not yet trust myself with this responsibility.’14 At the same time, we must beware of self-confidence, for it is also said that ‘it is not possible to embark upon the path [Dao] of Yao and Shun with an arrogant person.’15 How would you venture to characterize the difference between trust in oneself and arrogance?”
Without hesitation, I replied, “With an arrogant person, ‘one cannot enter upon the path of Yao and Shun;’ but with a person who lacks arrogance, ‘one cannot enter upon the path of Yao and Shun’ either.” Dingli burst out laughing and departed. He probably took profound pleasure in recognizing that I might eventually enter upon the path myself. After this, I could not stop thinking about Dingli and missing him. I also regretted not having met Dingxiang.
In the year dingchou [1577], I went to Yunnan,16 and my route took me through Tuanfeng.17 There I left my boat, climbed ashore, and as soon as I reached Huang’an, met with Dingli, saw Dingxiang, and conceived the intention to forfeit my official post and take up residence with the Geng brothers. Dingli observed that I barely had enough to live on, so he urged me to return to officialdom. Heeding his advice, I left my daughter and my son-in-law, Zhuang Chunfu, in Huang’an, and because I had made an agreement with Dingli, I said, “Wait three years for me. When I attain the salary of a fourth-level official,18 I will return and provide for my own living expenses. Then together you and I can climb to the other shore.”19 Geng Dingli held fast to my words and rigorously instructed Chunfu in the study of the Dao. In every respect, Dingxiang, too, treated my daughter and son-in-law as if they were his own.
Alas! How dare I forget Dingxiang’s kindness for even a single day? After three years, I returned [to the Geng residence] as planned. But sadly, just a few years after this gathering, Dingxiang was summoned away [to assume high office in the capital].20 And abruptly, Dingli’s days came to an end. I felt sorrowful and mirthless. Dingxiang, for his part, tenaciously set his heart on the phrase “The sages embody the perfect attainment of human relationships.” He constantly feared that, in relinquishing worldly affairs, I had committed an error. For my part, I tenaciously insisted on the phrase “a state of equilibrium, before any emotion has stirred” and feared that perhaps he had failed to perceive the origin of things or to investigate the source of their principles. We debated back and forth, never pausing, and our debate turned into a quarrel that continues even to the present day.21
Thankfully, heaven has led me by the heart and induced me to abandon the phrase “a state of equilibrium, before any emotion has stirred,” and Dingxiang has also forgotten all about the phrase “The sages embody the perfect attainment of human relationships.” In this way, we have come to understand the Dao of study: when each person relinquishes his own position, he learns from following the other; when each person insists upon his own position, he finds fault in the other: this is how things inevitably turn out. But when each person relinquishes his own position, he forgets about any differences separating him from the other. These differences having been forgotten, the two parties join together as one, and there the matter ends.
Thus, inhibited neither by my advanced age nor by the cold weather, I went directly to Huang’an to meet Dingxiang in the mountains. When Dingxiang heard I was coming, he went wild with joy, [since he understood that] it was by no mere coincidence that we cherished the same aspirations and shared a common path; [rather, this reconciliation had come about through sustained effort]. If Master Dingli had still been alive, a few words from him would have decided the matter; a single phrase from him would have possessed the providential power to turn us from our dispute. Then this conflict would not have cost me more than ten years of misery, during which time neither Dingxiang nor I would budge, until at last we became aware of our errors.22 What if I had died suddenly during that ten-year period? Would I have missed the chance to reform? Would I have forfeited the opportunity to reconcile with Dingxiang?
With these thoughts in mind, on the very next day, I went with Dingli’s [eldest] son Runian 汝念 to pay my respects at his [Dingli’s] grave. The trees by the grave were already bowed with age. Deeply pained that he could not return from the underworld, I decided to compose this record of his life and copied it out three times as an offering. The first copy I submitted to Dingxiang to signify the joy I took in our friendship. The second copy I gave to Runian and [Dingli’s second son] Rusi 汝思 so that they could recite it and burn it at the gentleman’s grave site; this copy represents my regret over Dingli’s death. The third copy I sent to Dinglih23 in the capital; it signifies both my joy and my regret, my regret and my joy. Dinglih extended to me his love for his older brother, and this love knows no bounds. So I have written this record to record my feelings and to console him.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
In A Book to Burn, Li Zhi included seven petitions, a genre of prayerful supplications beseeching help from various buddhas or gods. Three of these are addressed to the Medicine Master Lapis Lazuli Radiance King Buddha (hereafter “Medicine Buddha”). The 1593 supplication1 translated here intermittently beseeches, cajoles, and attempts to reason with the Medicine Buddha in hopes that the 120-day ritual program of recitation and penitential offerings organized at the Cloister of the Flourishing Buddha will move this buddha to cure Li’s breathing ailment. This ritual began in the tenth lunar month not long after the end of the monastic “rains retreat,” a period ideally dedicated to intense meditation and study.
That Li would reach out to the Medicine Buddha is not in the least unusual and follows a long ritual tradition of religious reliance on the power of a buddha’s vows. When still a bodhisattva, this buddha took twelve vows, including vows to heal physical deformities and cure the illnesses of those who hear his name. Ritual procedures developed to entreat the Medicine Buddha to exercise his healing powers often include recitation of The Medicine Buddha Sutra, a practice adopted by Li and the monks at his monastery. (JE)
These past two years I have suffered greatly from illness.2 In the calculation of allotted life spans, others my age have already reached their time of death. Since my time of death is upon me, to allow me to die would be in accordance with correct principle. How is it that I am not granted death but, to the contrary, illness is visited upon me? The reason given for bestowing the pain of illness is that my number is not yet up and for the time being there is a desire to keep me in this world. For this reason, I am tormented by illness, making it difficult to spend my days in carefree happiness. As for me, I deserve to die: I have lived to an age “rarely seen since antiquity;”3 this is the first reason I can die. I am of no benefit in this world; this is the second reason I can die. Among the living, perhaps there are some who have not yet accomplished what they need to do here. As for me, I absolutely have nothing left to do; this is the third reason I can die. For these three reasons I can die. Yet death does not come; instead, I am greatly tormented by illness. Why is this?
Having heard that in the east resides the Medicine Master Lapis Lazuli Radiance King Buddha who took a great vow to save sentient beings suffering from disease and cause their sickness to lead to nirvana, Monk Zhuowu publicly notified the great assembly to avail themselves of this 120-day ritual of sutra recitation and penitential offerings at this monastery.4 The ritual will begin on the fifteenth day of the tenth month and commence by reciting The Medicine Buddha Sutra in a cycle of forty-nine repetitions for the sake of entreating [the buddha] to offer relief from my illness.
I think your vows are vast and deep and absolutely without fabrication. Given the power of your vows, if I do not beseech you, I am at fault. If when I beseech you, you were to ignore me, then you would lack compassion. If I beseech you but you are unaware of this, then you would lack intelligence: you would be no buddha. I know this is absolutely not the case. I hope for my sake that the great assembly will sincerely recite. Each month, on the first and fifteenth days, they will recite this sutra. This will result in a total of nine intervals, during which the sutra cycle will have been recited nine times. Indeed! Reciting the sutra cycle nine times will be nothing less than exhaustive. The great assembly’s attentiveness will be nothing less than devout. After all this, it is inconceivable that there would be no response. I am willing to die, but I cannot bear to be sick. I earnestly beseech you a million times over and hope that you, [Medicine] Buddha, hear me!
TRANSLATED BY JENNIFER EICHMAN
At the end of the 120-day ritual period discussed in the preceding essay, Li must have been elated to find himself cured. The 1594 petition1 translated here mentions that during the 120-day ritual, Li adopted a meatless diet, a practice that became part of the recovery process. How long he adhered to this dietary choice after the conclusion of the ritual is unclear. In a surprising turn, Li not only praises the Medicine Buddha for help in his own recovery but also petitions this buddha on behalf of a monk at his monastery, Changtong 常通, who was suffering from a painful ulcer.2 Unfortunately, the ritual supplication presented here did not produce the desired result.
In 1594 Li wrote yet another petition on Changtong’s behalf. The second petition (not translated here) describes in vivid detail this monk’s physical suffering. Doctor consultations, medicines, and Buddhist rituals all failed to alleviate his symptoms. Li came to the conclusion that the ulcer was caused by malevolent forces or past karma and that this monk’s less-than-stellar adherence to monastic precepts, a topic already raised in this essay, may have deterred the Medicine Buddha from exercising his healing powers. (JE)
I have had the good fortune to have recovered from my respiratory illness and at the completion of this recitation express gratitude for the Buddha’s help. I note that today is the fifteenth day of the first month: as of today, the nine intervals are finished; as of today, the nine sessions of recitation have been completed. After just two sessions of reciting the sutra, my breathing illness was almost entirely cured. In continuing to recite, having not yet finished the fourth cycle, I exercised some dietary restraint and was able to maintain a vegetarian diet. After I adhered for some time to this diet, my breathing sickness nearly disappeared. After the breathing sickness was cured, I found the vegetarian diet even more pleasing. Were it not for the Buddha’s power, how could I have recovered? Although the assembled monks were reverently devout beyond compare, the cure was due to the Medicine King Bodhisattva’s profound compassion. I cannot offer enough worshipful gratitude and prayerful thanks.
I further offer the following supplication: There is a novice monk, Changtong, who, having witnessed that the Medicine-Master Tathāgata cured my illness, promptly strengthened his resolve. He approached the altar and continued reciting in prayerful hope for the speedy healing of his ulcer. He bowed respectfully [to you] and exhibited extraordinary sincerity. On the sixteenth day of this month, he asked the great assembly to recite one cycle of this sutra.
Indeed! The Buddha is none other than the great father of the three realms. How is it possible that he would deem this monk useless and abandon him? What’s more, how could a true disciple of the Buddha, like myself, bear to think that you would ignore him despite my entreaties! I hope you will see that this monk, despite his lack of superior conduct in the monastic community, still has not committed any great transgression. When he strikes the bells and chimes, the sound rises uniformly; when he strikes the drum and bowl, the sound rings forth;3 his sutra-recitation voice is bright and clear. By means of your power swiftly grant this supplication. These past two years his ulcer has not healed. Medicine King, quickly offer your protection. What good fortune could compare with this? In this matter, on his behalf, I beseech you in utmost reverence!
TRANSLATED BY JENNIFER EICHMAN
Late-Ming Buddhists often argued about which was the correct path to spiritual liberation, Pure Land or Chan. Some Pure Land practitioners envisioned that after death one would literally be reborn in a distant land presided over by Amitābha Buddha. In contrast, some Chan practitioners were committed to the ideal of an ultimate awakening in this lifetime. In an effort to demonstrate the compatibility of these two contrasting visions, Li compiled Resolving Doubts About the Pure Land. He undertook to reconcile the differences between the paths by asserting that both lead to purification of the mind and are simply different conceptualizations of the same ultimate goal.
“A Brief Introduction to Resolving Doubts About the Pure Land”1 opens with a famous citation from the Vimalakīrti-nirdeśa-sūtra: “When the mind is pure, the buddha land will be pure.”2 Li uses this claim to argue that Pure Land and Chan practitioners were neither reborn in separate pure lands nor required to wait until after death to achieve rebirth in Amitābha Buddha’s Land of Supreme Bliss. The emphasis on achieving immediate results without having to “wait” (dai 待) draws equally on developments in Yangming Confucian thought. The second-generation Wang Yangming disciple Wang Longxi and his lineage descendants argued that self-cultivation and its realization were simultaneous occurrences. This use of dai (wait) is unique to Li’s interpretive gloss; it does not appear in any of the textual excerpts that make up Resolving Doubts About the Pure Land.
Resolving Doubts About the Pure Land consists of twelve excerpts interspersed with the occasional interlinear note. The excerpts are far more nuanced in their doctrinal exposition than one might conclude from simply reading this short preface. They are often drawn from the work of monks who supported the joint practice of Chan and Pure Land. (JE)
Li Zhuowu of Wenling said, “The bodhisattva Vimalakīrti said, ‘When the mind is pure, the buddha land3 will be pure.’4 As to Amitābha Buddha’s Land of Supreme Bliss, the land is pure. When practitioners contemplate [nian 念] Amitābha Buddha’s Land of Supreme Bliss, their minds are pure. Those who contemplate Amitābha Buddha’s Land of Supreme Bliss are reborn in Amitābha Buddha’s Land of Supreme Bliss. When the mind is pure, the buddha land will be pure. This being so, those who recollect the name [nianfo 念佛] recollect this Pure Land.5 Those who investigate Chan investigate this Pure Land. How could the results differ? Consequently, those who recite the name [nianfo] will certainly be reborn in the Pure Land. How could those who investigate Chan reject this Pure Land and find another place of rebirth? If there is another place of rebirth, then there are two lands. This is impure. Amitābha Buddha’s Land of Supreme Bliss cannot be conceived of in this way.
As for those who investigate Chan, of course they need not wait to be reborn. As for those who recite the name, how could it be that they wait to go and only later are reborn there? If one must wait for rebirth and only later be reborn, then this is to say that those here recite the name to be born there, and those there “recite their own name” and are reborn here.6 This coming and going also creates two lands. This is impure. Amitābha Buddha’s Land of Supreme Bliss cannot be conceived of in this way. For this reason, one should know that Amitābha Buddha’s Pure Land is none other than the Pure Land of one’s own mind. Whether one recites the name or investigates Chan, one does so for the purpose of purifying one’s own mind. I have advised various scholars that they should neither revere Chan guests7 nor disdain the Pure Land. For this reason, I have collected the words of various great Buddhist sages who advised people to cultivate Pure Land practices, and I have combined them to create Resolving Doubts About the Pure Land.
TRANSLATED BY JENNIFER EICHMAN
In this prescriptive essay,1 Li Zhi demonstrates his familiarity with monastic life and with regulations or precepts (jie 戒) governing monk behavior. Li first lays out an age-old normative view of the relationship between precepts, meditation, and wisdom, stressing that precepts are the foundation for all other practices. Just as Confucians might invoke Confucius to bolster their stance, Li bolsters his authority by invoking the exemplary behavior of Śākyamuni Buddha, the so-called progenitor of the Buddhist tradition. Yet it is clear that Li is conceiving of the tradition in Mahayana terms. This is evident in his introduction of the Six Perfections, a cornerstone of Mahayana practice.
After leaving the Geng household in 1585, Li took up residence first at the Vimalakīrti Monastery in Macheng and then, from 1588, at the Cloister of the Flourishing Buddha beside Dragon Lake. Though it is not clear whether he vowed to follow the precepts of a fully ordained monk, he devoted this essay to their promotion.2 Li rallies rank-and-file monks at the cloister to expend their utmost energies adhering not only to the 250 precepts3 of a fully ordained monk but also to the 3,000 deportments and 80,000 minor adjustments, a tall order indeed! Li reminds monks that all material donations come with a spiritual responsibility. Rather than naively thinking that monks eat for free and enjoy a livelihood funded by others, newly arrived novices need to develop a mature ethic of gratitude and spiritual repayment through diligence in their individual practice of the precepts, fulfillment of monastic responsibilities, and the performance of Buddhist rituals for others. Failure to do so results in an animal rebirth. Through a colorful array of metaphors Li draws an irrevocable link between personal behavior and karmic results.
In 1566 the Jiajing emperor closed the officially sponsored ordination platform, and it was rarely reopened during the Wanli reign (1573–1620).4 Among the monks at the Cloister of the Flourishing Buddha, Wunian Shenyou was fully ordained, yet many of his disciples and their disciples were likely to have received the full precepts under unofficial circumstances only and did not possess ordination certificates. Some scholars have suggested that the closing of the ordination platform had a detrimental effect on the sangha.5 While this was true on a number of levels, Li’s essay presumes continued adherence to the strictest preceptual standards. Li attributes lack of discipline to individual shortcomings, not to the practical impossibility of receiving full ordination. (JE)
The Buddha discoursed on the perfections.6 There are six perfections, of which keeping the precepts is primary. The Buddha explained precepts, meditation, and wisdom. Of these three, precepts precede the others. The word “precepts” is truly difficult to explain. Precepts give rise to meditation, meditation gives rise to wisdom. Wisdom further gives rise to precepts; there is no wisdom outside precepts. Wisdom is derived from precepts; it does not eliminate the need for precepts. This being so, meditation and wisdom are the foundation of Buddhahood. Precepts are the foundation of meditation and wisdom. Before our venerable Śākyamuni Buddha became a Buddha, he cultivated ascetic practices for twelve years. He adhered to the precepts, as formulated here, as you all know. After our venerable Śākyamuni Buddha attained Buddhahood, he preached the dharma for forty-nine years, and he continued to cultivate the precepts, as you all know.
If one were to say that a Buddha is free from precepts or that precepts are a hindrance to Buddhahood or that once one has already realized Buddhahood, there is no harm in breaking the precepts, then this would be to abandon the monastery and return to the emperor’s palace. What strictures would there be? How could anyone [under those circumstances] continue to wear a monk’s robes and go on begging rounds? You should know that the “milk debt” owed to one’s parents is difficult to repay. You must diligently work at repaying it. To say that “when one son achieves the Way, nine relatives are reborn in heaven”7 is not reckless talk! [The debt of gratitude owed for] grain donations received from the ten directions is difficult to repay. One must vigorously work to eliminate this debt. As for the saying, “One becomes an animal with fur or horns in order to repay sincere donors,”8 how could this be a lie!
In this respect, the word “precepts” is the “gateway to myriad mysteries.” The locution “breaking the precepts” is the origin of myriad disasters. The word “precepts” [conjures up a sensation] as if, upon encountering military troops, one immediately ceded all discipline, incurred losses, and fled. It makes one feel as if upon entering a deep valley, in a split second of inattention one may lose one’s footing and die. Thus, you should know that the 3,000 deportments9 are weightier than towering mountains; the 80,000 minor adjustments10 are dense like the hairs of an ox. All affairs demand vigorous adherence to regulations.
Do not say, “No one will see me” and conclude that it is fine for me to live a quiet life indulging my passions. As soon as one violates the precepts, others immediately know. One’s lack of restraint will be witnessed not only by a single pair of eyes or ten pairs but by millions of pairs that will all see this transgression. Do not say, “No one will point a finger at me” and conclude that I can deceive myself like the man in the adage who “covered his ears to steal a bell.”11 If for a split second you violate the precepts, ghosts will punish you. And bystanders angered by your deception will point their fingers at you. Not one finger or ten fingers but millions of fingers will point out your transgression.
Strictness upon strictness, precepts upon precepts, from today onward create this image: To sit and receive communal meals is like swallowing hot iron pills. If I am not consumed by fear, what distinguishes me from dogs and pigs? To practice the precepts and seek out the precept jewel is like entering a refreshingly cool pavilion. If I am again frightened out of my wits, then what distinguishes me from a common beggar? Only when one is attentive in this way can one be called a monk.
As the current moves a boat, wind and waves cause it to capsize. As a cart travels along a road, an inclined slope causes it to overturn. Who creates the wind and waves? The capsizing is of your own making. Who creates the inclined slope? The overturning of the cart is your own doing! Our great assembly, be cautious in this! In addition to senior monks who have practiced for a long time and have no need for such superfluous instruction, we also have in our midst new monks who do not yet know shame. I have no choice but to explain this to them once again. Within this great assembly, I hope each of you will spur yourselves on so that the Cloister of the Flourishing Buddha may receive praise. By rallying our spirits, we can together create the great assembly at Dragon Lake.
TRANSLATED BY JENNIFER EICHMAN
“Reflections on My Life”1 is the last section of the “Rules Agreed Upon in Advance” (Yuyue 砐約), a collection of notes Li Zhi wrote in 1596 presumably for his disciples and followers in his temple. However, while the first four sections are mostly about rules, the last two sections are quite different, the fifth being his “will” and the sixth his reflections on his life. Elsewhere, Li Zhi suggests that this section could be read as his biography.2 In “Reflections on My Life,” he explains in detail the reasons behind his decision to take the Buddhist tonsure and talks about his deep frustrations in his official career and the heavy price he had to pay for trying to maintain his independence. “Reflections on My Life” provides us with a unique opportunity to have a direct look into the mind of this eccentric thinker, who cherished his independence above all else.3 (MH)
You tend to believe that the moment you “leave home” [join the Buddhist sangha], you achieve Buddhahood and become far superior to those lay Buddhist believers. Now that I have left home and taken the tonsure, could I be said to be superior to others? I took the tonsure because I had no alternatives. I did not leave home because I believed that leaving home was a good thing or that I could cultivate my Buddhahood only after I had left home. Why cannot one pursue the Way at home? In fact, throughout my life I have never liked the idea of having to take orders from another person. Once born, one is immediately subjected to the control of others. I do not need to mention that young children and those studying with tutors have to obey their superiors. As soon as one reaches school age, one has to follow instructions from his teacher and various education officials; once an official, one has to take orders from one’s superiors; after retiring and returning home, one is under the supervision of the officials of the local county and prefecture; one has to attend all the social functions, contribute to funds for birthday gifts for these officials, and entertain them with banquets; one really must be very careful. If any of these officials is displeased, disaster will immediately ensue. Even after one is dead and buried, one is still not liberated from these constraints—in fact, they may become worse. For this reason I would rather roam the world than return home. Although I have always been eager to meet friends and seek soul mates, I realize that I have found very few true soul mates. I left officialdom and decided not to return home only because I really didn’t want to be controlled by anyone. This is my real intention, but few are willing to believe it. This is why I do not like to mention this. Even if I travel around, I could still face the possibility of having to take orders from the local officials wherever I happen to stop.
When Deng Dingshi was the magistrate of Macheng,4 I did not dare to enter his yamen casually. However, when he sent me an invitation, how could I fail to send my name card to him in return! It would not have been appropriate for me to sign the card as “student at service” because this would have been too presumptuous [and would have suggested that we were equals in status], but I could not have presented myself as “a student to be trained” because that would have made me feel too constricted.5 After careful consideration, I decided to sign the card as “a sojourner-traveler,” which was more appropriate.6
There have been many sojourners throughout history. In a local gazetteer, following the section devoted to famous officials, there is always a section titled “sojourners.” “Famous officials” refers to virtuous local officials; “sojourners” refers to famous virtuous recluses. Where the local official is known to be good, virtuous recluses will be sure to come and dwell. Being listed in the “sojourners” section, one is automatically considered virtuous just as is an official mentioned in the “famous officials” section. An official must have a good reputation in order to be listed in the local gazetteer, and this is why the relevant section is titled “famous officials;” as for those listed in the “sojourners” section, they are considered virtuous in and of themselves. This is why the section is called simply “sojourners,” since there have been very few people who could live away from their homes as sojourners without possessing outstanding virtues. Zhu Xi was from Wuyuan but later spent time in Yanping, Fujian, as a sojourner; Su Shi and his brother, Su Che, were both from Meizhou, Sichuan, but one was buried in Xiaxian and the other in Xuzhou, Henan. There were many more such cases: Shao Yong was from Fanyang, Hebei, and Sima Guang hailed from Xiaxian, Shanxi, but both sojourned in Luoyang almost all their lives; the same is also true of Bai Juyi, who was originally from Taiyuan, Shanxi, but who eventually sojourned in Luoyang. No one would believe someone could leave his home and live as a sojourner wherever he traveled if he was not a man of great virtue.
Why would I sign the card as both a sojourner and a traveler? Isn’t that redundant? Not necessarily so: if one lives in some place other than his hometown, unless one is able to build a house and do farming there, it will be virtually impossible to avoid taking orders from others. I presented myself as a “traveler” so as to imply that I was not a resident who had already settled down there, just as in the cases of Sima Guang and Shao Yong. Not sure whether I would leave or how long I would remain there, the magistrate was not in a position to issue orders to me in his capacity as a local official. If he could not issue orders to me as a local official, how could he boss me around even if he was supposed to be a figure of authority in that area? This was why I signed the card the way I did—to make it clear that as a traveler I was not supposed to be controlled by the local officials.
However, the above option is not as good as becoming a monk by shaving one’s head. After taking the tonsure, even a resident of Macheng, let alone a monk from another area, does not have to take orders from the local magistrate. But one might ask, “If this is indeed the case, why did you have to choose to shave your head in Macheng instead of doing it in your hometown?” Shaving my head in Macheng was something I had contemplated for a long time before I actually went ahead with it. Deng Dingshi was very sad when he found out that I had shaved my head. He quoted his mother’s words as follows: “Tell [Li Zhi] that when I heard of his decision to shave his head I could not eat for an entire day and that I still cannot swallow even the food in my mouth! Maybe then Uncle Li will keep his hair. If you can persuade him to grow back his hair, then I will regard you as a filial son and as a first-rate official.” Alas! The decision to shave my head was by no means an easy one! My decision rested entirely upon my desire to be free from the control of others. How could this have been easy? Writing about this, I am in tears. Do not think that taking the Buddhist tonsure is a good thing and do not casually accept others’ alms.
Despite my dislike for taking orders from others, I have nevertheless encountered many tribulations. Precisely because I don’t like to be controlled by others, I have suffered so much in my life that even if the entire earth could be turned into ink, there would not be enough of it to record these sufferings. When I was the director of a district school, I had conflicts with the district magistrate and superintendent; when I was an erudite at the Imperial Academy, I had conflicts with the academy’s chancellor and the directors, including Zou [Leiming], Chen [Yiqing], Pan [Sheng], and Lü [Tiaoyang]; when I was serving as the manager of the General Services Office in the Ministry of Rites, I had conflicts with Minister Gao Yi, Minister Yin Shidan, Vice-Minister Wang Xilie, and Vice-Minister Wan Shihe. Later both Gao and Yin served in the imperial cabinet, and so did Pan, Chen, and Lü. Gao had fired numerous young officials with jinshi degrees. Yet I was not let go even though I had once upset him. Because of this, Gao can be considered a person of outstanding moral character. What was most frustrating was that I could not gain the trust of Minister Xie Dengzhi or of Dong Chuance and Wang Zong, the two chief ministers of the Court of Judicial Review, when I was serving as the vice-bureau-director in the Ministry of Justice. Though Xie Dengzhi is hardly worth mentioning, Wang and Dong were both upright persons with whom I ought not to have had any conflict. However, both of them were so anxious about their own career advancement that they felt they should be far superior to others ethically even though their moral character was not necessarily purer than that of others. How could I manage to avoid having conflicts with them? Another very frustrating experience was dealing with Minister Zhao Jin, who was a renowned Confucian of the School of Principle. Who could have expected that the greater his reputation was, the more intense my conflict with him would be? Finally, when I was serving as the prefect of Yao’an, I had conflicts with the grand coordinator Wang Yi and circuit intendant Luo Wenli. Wang Yi possesses a lowly moral character and does not deserve mention here. Luo and I understood each other quite well. He was both talented and morally upright, learned, and skilled at dealing with practical matters. However, eventually I could not avoid arguing with him. Why? This was because he was too strict and harsh. Initially, he treated me with respect because I was a poor official with integrity, but later he considered me incompetent and deliberately made things difficult for me. He was quite conceited and did not consider others’ opinions. Throughout history, the so-called gentlemen of great virtue have all been like him. I remember I once pleaded with him, “With so many different types of savages living in this border area, it is difficult to enforce the laws to the fullest. If the soldiers are able to live peacefully day by day alongside these wild people, that should be considered quite an accomplishment. Those who come without families have found it difficult to reside here; those who bring along their families must traverse great distances to get here and must undergo equal hardships to return home. We must treat them with compassion. If an official has any ability, he should be treated with respect. How could one fault him for not being perfect? So long as one has not been reported for wrongdoing, we should not try to find fault with him. Why must we scrutinize every minute detail? Being scrupulous and bravely insisting on utter integrity are behavioral standards one should apply only to oneself, not to others. If one insists on judging others by these standards, then one cannot be considered to exemplify perfect integrity. Moreover, one should apply one’s standards consistently.” Alas, how could anyone have expected that I would quarrel with Luo over this! Despite our quarrel, if I were to be asked to recommend a talented official, Luo would still top my list. The above is a summary of my life.
TRANSLATED BY MARTIN HUANG
This short essay1 comments on The Pavilion for Worshipping the Moon, a play believed to have been written by Hui Shi 恠施 (1296–1371) and adapted from a work by Guan Hanqing 關漢卿 (ca. 1234–1320). The play narrates a romance between a scholar, Jiang Shilong, and an official’s daughter, Wang Ruilan. Fleeing a war, they meet and secretly marry. Wang Ruilan’s father, however, looks down on Jiang Shilong and separates the couple. Continuing to flee, Jiang Shilong later encounters a man named Xingfu, who turns out to be Wang Ruilan’s brother. Jiang Shilong and Xingfu become sworn brothers and together triumphantly pass the imperial examination in the capital. The work concludes with Wang Ruilan’s reunion with Jiang Shilong and Xingfu’s marriage to Jiang Shilong’s sister. Writing in Wuchang around 1592, Li Zhi praises the plot of the play and the rebellious spirit of the couple. He compares Wang Ruilan with Cui Yingying, the heroine of the well-known play The Story of the Western Wing. In another essay, “On Miscellaneous Matters” (102–5), Li Zhi declares that The Pavilion for Worshipping the Moon and The Story of the Western Wing are as beautiful as nature itself. (HYC)
In this play, the plot is excellent, and the dialogue is good. The songs are also good. It truly exemplifies Yuan-dynasty writing. At the beginning, it seems disjointed, but by the finale it achieves marvelous singularity. Put it next to The Story of the Western Wing, and it will give the more famous play a run for its money. This play should endure as long as heaven and earth do. As long as this world exists, we cannot do without this marvelous play. Would you not agree with me? Even if you disagree, I think the matter is self-evident. Just try to give it a careful reading. It should awaken in your mind thoughts of righteous relationships between brothers, sisters, husbands, and wives.
Lan2 values her good name more than Cui3 does, but Lan is more elegant and refined. When Lan has no choice but to part from her new husband, Shilong, she vows to Heaven that she will never betray him. Her oath is the acme of chastity and rectitude. Though Xingfu, the second protagonist of the story, flees into the woods and becomes a bandit, he is grateful for Shilong’s help and repays him when he is in need. This action accords with common sense. The play ends by tying the plot together with happy unions: Shilong is reunited with Lan and allows his sister to marry Xingfu. Shilong and Xingfu, who were previously sworn brothers, become brothers-in-law. No virtue goes unrewarded and no gratitude is unreciprocated. How exquisitely these unexpected outcomes reflect the ways in which Heaven rewards good people!
TRANSLATED BY HUIYING CHEN
This concise essay1 comments on Zhang Fengyi’s 張風翼 (1527–1613) play The Story of Red Duster, which mixes elements of Du Guangting’s 杜光庭 (850–933) Tang-dynasty “Tale of the Curly-Bearded Stranger” with plot details derived from the “Story of Princess Lechang” included in Meng Qi’s 孟棨 Poems and Their Anecdotes (Ben shi shi 本事詩).2 The play centers on the romance between a singing girl, Red Duster, and a future military commander, Li Jing. Having eloped, the lovers meet a curly-bearded stranger who bestows all his wealth on them and becomes Red Duster’s sworn brother.
Li Zhi wrote this commentary in 1592 in Wuchang. He cites Confucius’s comments on the function of poetry and claims that contemporary entertainment such as vernacular drama can be evaluated by the same standards as classical poetry. (HYC)
In this play, the plot is good, the songs are good, the dialogue is good, and the action is good. Princess Lechang, having broken a mirror, reunites the halves when she reencounters her husband. The singing girl Red Duster shows peerless insight [by choosing to run away with Li Jing immediately after meeting him]; the curly-bearded stranger abandons his fortune [to Red Duster and Li Jing] and goes abroad [with his wife]; the Duke of Yue3 simultaneously frees Red Duster and Princess Lechang [from their servitude]. These actions are all worthy of emulation. They deserve respect and admiration. Who says that chuanqi do not possess the ability to “stir” people, to inspire them to “make observations,” to “join together,” and to “express grievances”?4 Amid eating and drinking, banquets and entertainments, we are often moved by feelings of righteousness. Contemporary entertainments are just like those of antiquity; I hope we may regard them no differently!
TRANSLATED BY HUIYING CHEN