This essay1 (date unknown) comments on a text by Ji Kang 嵇康 (224–263) titled “Terminating Relations with Shan Juyuan.” Ji Kang and Shan Tao 山濤 (205–283) were two of the reclusive Seven Masters of the Bamboo Grove.2 However, when Shan’s relative Sima Yi 司馬懿 (179–251) became a powerful general in the state of Wei, Shan came out of reclusion and rose to high office. While serving as the attendant to the general in chief, he attempted to recommend his friend Ji Kang to succeed him in this post. A year later, Shan Tao received a scornful letter from Ji Kang, terminating their friendship. In this letter Ji Kang grandiosely compares himself to Zhuangzi and intimates that stooping to take office would defile his perfect virtue, something he would never consider doing. Scholars had for centuries praised Ji Kang for his lofty ideals and untarnished virtue, but Li Zhi took delight in criticizing Ji Kang’s actions and attitude. (RHS)
If the letter had been written by a close friend on Ji Kang’s behalf, that would have been all right; but for Kang to write the letter himself, I fear, was not the same thing at all. Shan Tao recommended Kang for office because he knew him intimately, and Kang’s talent genuinely corresponded to Tao’s praise.
Kang averred that his own character was not suited to taking office, and that if he took office, he would surely bring disaster upon himself. That much was correct. But to say that Tao did not appreciate Kang, or that Tao deliberately sought to bring disaster on him, was not right. And for Kang to liken himself to the yuanju bird and to compare Tao to the [owl feasting on a] rotten rat carcass, that also was not right.3 To think that the person who has recommended one fails to appreciate one’s talents, and for this reason to terminate relations with him, and to portray oneself as indifferent to official rank and the other as lusting after it—this is the behavior of one who thinks highly of himself but despises others; moreover, since the facts were otherwise, it is especially wrong.
Alas! If Kang’s native talent had been augmented with a little learning, who could have matched him? How dare he emulate the language of the ancients in writing these false and evasive words? The haughtiness of his letter is truly frightful: even at a distance of a thousand years, he seems to rise up right before our eyes. The above censure of Kang is not mine alone; the same opinions have already been expressed by people of impeccable virtue and wisdom.
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The title of this brief essay1 refers to a lyric poem written by the sixteenth-century scholar Yang Shen 楊慎 (1488–1559). Dragonfly county was an alternative name for Dayao county in Yunnan province, where Yang resided for many years after having been banished from the capital. This remote region of southwestern China, where Li would later serve as prefect of Yao’an county from 1577 to 1580, was home to many indigenous peoples. In the poem to which Li’s title refers, as well as in an essay titled “How the Military Strategist Jiang Long Did Away with Deliberation” (Binglüe Jiang Long qu si ji 兵略姜龍去思記), Yang praises Jiang Long for effectively and humanely quelling tribal rebellions. According to Yang, Jiang believed that pacifying the natives was preferable to overwhelming them with brute force.
Li fully endorsed this view. As prefect of Yao’an, he opposed the suppression of native culture and strove to promote toleration. As he himself wrote, during his tenure in Yao’an, he governed by “maintaining simplicity in all things, following the natural course of events, and considering it his responsibility to educate the [native] people by means of virtue.”2 Although the present essay was written in 1596, many years after Li retired from his post in Yunnan, it expresses Li’s profound admiration for Jiang’s humane policies toward indigenous populations. (RHS)
Though human nature is constant and the way of the world unchanging, I have never yet, despite a lifelong study of the matter, encountered anyone whose way of thinking is similar to my own. So I am perpetually astonished, and I wonder how Heaven could have made me so unlucky. If “human nature does not vary much”3 but I alone am unlike others, is that not unlucky?
When I began my official career, I personally experienced the havoc wrought by Japanese pirates in the south and by the Jurchens in the north. Ultimately, I moved to Yunnan, but there I often heard about rebellions by indigenous leaders and people of the Yao and Tong tribes. I suspect that scholars who live on official salaries all share similar views. Since my opinions cast doubt on theirs, they either regard me as crazy or think I should be killed. But when I recently read Master Yang’s collected works, I made a note of the part about Master Jiang. Master Jiang was of precisely the same mind that I am, and Master Yang praised him for it. From this I can tell that although Master Yang held no official post, if he had held a post, he would have seen things as Master Jiang did. Of this there is no doubt.
Although I was born later, my outlook corresponds to that of these old-time sages; so my birth was not unlucky after all. I have recorded this with delight.
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This essay,1 written in Macheng in 1596, addresses the age-old questions of loyalty and dissent and whether righteous action is ever rewarded—questions traditionally associated with the story of two brothers, Bo Yi and Shu Qi, whose virtuous character was such that each yielded his hereditary position to the other. They left their own country and went to the kingdom of Zhou in search of good governance but found King Wu of Zhou about to launch an expedition against the ruling imperial dynasty, the Shang. In protest, Bo Yi and Shu Qi composed a song denouncing King Wu’s violence and, refusing henceforth to taste any grain produced in the state of Zhou, ate ferns instead and died of starvation. From Confucius onward, opinions about the brothers have been divided: were they righteous or merely self-righteous? In this short essay, Li Zhi draws on several interpretations, pitting them against one another, reserving the position of judge for himself. (HS)
Zhen Dexiu 真德秀2 said, “[Sima Qian’s] biography [of Bo Yi and Shu Qi] must be evaluated for its literary qualities.”3
Yang Shen4 said, “That is entirely beside the point! If the message of the work is incorrect, the work cannot be established as writing: how could anyone consider the literary quality of a work separately from its message? This remark amply demonstrates that Zhen Dexiu knew nothing about writing. More recently, some authors have rounded out ‘The Biography of Bo Yi’ with revisions and additions. How odd!”5
Yang Shen also contended, “Zhu Xi declared that although Confucius said Bo Yi ‘sought benevolence and attained benevolence. What cause did he have for resentment?,’6 yet when the Grand Historian7 wrote ‘The Biography of Bo Yi,’ he gave vent to a ‘bellyful of resentment.’8 Zhu’s words were exceptionally unfair.”
Master Zhuowu comments, “‘What cause did he have for resentment?’ was Confucius’s interpretation. That [Bo Yi and Shu Qi] acted out of resentment was Sima Qian’s interpretation. To translate a lack of resentment into resentment, a piece of writing must be extremely marvelous and subtle.
“What did Bo Yi resent? He resented the fact that ‘violence was met with violence’; he resented the fact that the way of Kings Yu and Xia no longer prevailed; he resented not knowing where to turn; he resented the fact that he could not even eat the ferns growing on the territory of Zhou.9 But then he swallowed his resentment, starved, and died. How could anyone minimize such resentment? Our problem today is that scholars dare not express their resentment. That’s why they accomplish nothing.”
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Written in Macheng in 1596, this essay1 addresses the relationship between internal virtues and external adornments and, by extension, the crisis of representation taking place in late-Ming society. Li begins by quoting the Han-dynasty scholar Wang Yi’s 王逸 (89–158) idealistic commentary on the ancient poetry collection Songs of the South (Chu ci 楚辭), to which he offers a pessimistic response.2
Wang conjures up the image of an ideal society in which inner virtues are manifested by outward ornamentation. In “Encountering Sorrow” (Li sao 離騷), the centerpiece of the Songs of the South, the speaker and putative author, Qu Yuan 屈原 (339 B.C.E.–278 B.C.E.), repeatedly depicts himself “adorning” his body with flowers and herbs to represent his many virtues. Linking these images of bodily adornment to a line from the Analects that reports that “once a period of mourning was complete, [Confucius] placed no restrictions on the kind of ornament he wore,”3 Wang praises Confucius’s expansive virtue and bolsters the claim that physical adornments correspond to internal ethical qualities.
Li’s remarks begin from a similar premise: he concurs that in ancient times external adornments corresponded neatly to the internal virtues they signified. But he observes that in his own day this correspondence has been disrupted. A degree of arbitrariness has seeped in, and external signs no longer serve as reliable indicators of internal virtues. The rhetorical questions with which the essay closes lend the piece an air of resignation and nostalgia. (RHS)
Wang Yi said, “People whose conduct is pure and clean are adorned with fragrant grasses. Those whose virtue is bright and radiant are adorned with jade. People who can untangle difficulties are adorned with a xi hook made of bone, and those who can resolve doubts are adorned with a jue disk made of jade.4 And so [as long as Confucius was not in mourning,] he adorned himself with every mark of dignity.”
Li Zhuowu says, “Those who study the Way have traced the origins of this emphasis on external ornamentation: since antiquity it has always been thus. Why would we suppose the Sage to have been any different?
“In ancient times, when a man went out walking, he did not part from his sword or his ornaments. When he traveled abroad, he did not part from his bow and arrow. Day or night, he did not part from his xi or his jue. Jade talismans were objects worn directly on the body and used for serving one’s parents;5 indeed, insofar as they kept people alert to danger and warded off evil,6 they accomplished the ends of both civil and military arts; no less than the well-field system and [the custom of] lodging soldiers, they exhibited the Way that the many could follow, if not understand.7 The meaning [of these objects] is not in the patterned adornments themselves;8 it was human beings who gave them their names [and endowed them with meaning].
“People of later generations lost sight of the substance of these talismans; they saw in them nothing more than beautiful adornments to be cherished. Those who value internal qualities were displeased and said, ‘You just want to attract notice on account of your lavish adornments. What benefit could there be in that?’ Since then, the custom of using these talismans began to fall into disuse, and their ornamental and protective functions became disassociated. It’s not merely that civil officials do not know how to use a weapon; even military men at home or visiting friends imitate the attire of civil officials, wearing loose garments and wide belts. How refined and proper they appear! But as soon as there is danger, not only are civil officials at a loss, but even military men—what use are they?”
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Written in 1596, this essay1 (and that following) is dense with historical allusions and examines a relationship of central importance to the Confucian tradition—that between teachers and students. Being both a teacher and a student himself, Li Zhi took a lively interest in the ethical dimensions of the master-disciple relationship. The first essay takes the form of a brief imaginary exchange between Li Zhi and his predecessor, Yang Shen.2 The essay opens with Yang’s description of a perplexing phenomenon: three generations of scholars who consistently rejected the teachings of their masters. These two essays examine who is to blame when students betray their teachers’ values.
Li Si (ca. 280 B.C.E.–208 B.C.E.), prime minister to the despotic First Emperor of Qin, renounced the teachings of his teacher, Xunzi (312 B.C.E.–230 B.C.E.). While Xunzi had been a leading interpreter of Confucian texts,3 Li Si discarded Confucian thought and espoused instead the philosophy of Legalism, associated with another of Xunzi’s acclaimed students, Han Feizi. Among Li Si’s most infamous schemes was his plan to root out political dissent by burning the books of the Hundred Schools of Thought, including the Confucian classics. Li Si further suggested burying alive any scholars who would dare continue to teach the forbidden books. Both proposals were implemented by the tyrannical first emperor. However, despite Li Si’s ruthlessness, his student Master Wu, also known as Wu the Chamberlain, managed to earn a reputation for righteousness. From these stories Yang adduces that virtue rests irreducibly in each individual and that masters hold little sway over the moral formation of their students. Li Zhi’s nuanced response to Yang’s statement both corroborates and criticizes this claim. (RHS)
Yang Shen said, “Although Xunzi was a great follower of Confucius, one of his disciples, Li Si, [framed the policy of the Qin dynasty that] burned the Confucian classics and buried scholars alive. Among those who regarded Li Si as their teacher was Master Wu, who accomplished great feats in governance.4 Whether people are virtuous or not depends on their standing on their own two feet; it has nothing to do with teachers or friends.”
Li Zhuowu says, “In order for people to be able to stand on their own two feet, they must have bones. With bones, a person can walk or stand. But if one has no bones, even if a hundred teachers and friends supported him and propped him up left and right, what good would that do? The moment [these supporters] leave his side, the person would lose his footing. But one who can already walk or stand can run to seek a teacher for himself. This is how Yan Hui and Zeng Shen5 sought out Confucius. [Yet] to say that their success had nothing to do with their teachers and friends also is not correct.”
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People of the Song dynasty said that Xunzi’s teachings were flawed1 and that as soon as they were passed down to Li Si 李斯, the misfortunes of the “burning of the books” and the “burying of the Confucian scholars” ensued.2 Is it reasonable, when disciples behave wickedly, to blame the teacher? If Li Si’s misdeeds can implicate Xunzi, then Wu Qi’s吳起 misdeeds can likewise implicate Zeng Shen 曾參.3 The Discourses on Salt and Iron (Yantie lun 鹽鐵論) say, “Li Si and Bao Qiuzi 苞丘子 both served Xunzi as their teacher, but Bao Qiuzi cultivated the Dao in a simple hut.”4
Master Zhuowu says,5 “If Li Si could implicate Xunzi, for Bao Qiuzi’s sake Xunzi deserves a title.”
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This essay1 constitutes one of Li Zhi’s several contributions to the flourishing late-Ming discourse on friendship (see also “Mr. Li’s Ten Kinds of Association,” 135–37). Written in 1595, the essay opens with a reference to the Compilation from the Dark Studio (Anrantang leizuan 闇然堂類纂) by Li’s contemporary Pan Shizao 潘士藻. Pan was a well-connected man of letters and a personal acquaintance of both Li Zhi and the Yuan brothers, founders of the Gong’an school. Admiring Pan’s compilation, Li composed both a preface for that work and also an Epitome of the Compilation from the Dark Studio (Anran lu zui 闇然錄最), which contains another version of this essay.2 The translation here is based on A Book to Burn. (RHS)
Pan Shizao’s devotion to friendship was extremely sincere. Therefore the first essay in his Compilation addresses sincere friendship. In this world true friendship has been lost for a long time. Why should this be so? The whole world is fond of profit; no one is fond of righteousness. People who love righteousness view death as no different from life.3 To this sort of person one could entrust a child or an orphan; one could even entrust one’s family or one’s own life—how could a righteous friend decline? But those who are fond of profit lead lives no different from death; they reach out their arms to snatch food away from others, and if they see a person in difficulty, they rain stones upon him to stop up his mouth—these are the kinds of acts of which they’re capable.
All the people who pass for friends today lead lives no different from death. The only reason for this is that they are fond of profit, not friendship. In this day and age, is there anyone fond of the righteousness between friends? Since there have never been any friends fond of righteousness, it is fair to say that friendship has never existed. If we were to serve our ruler in the same [false] manner [in which we treat our friends], on whom could the ruler rely?
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