This letter1 was written in 1601, after Li Zhi had fled from Macheng and was residing near Beijing, in Tongzhou, on the property of Ma Jinglun 馬經綸, son of Ma Lishan. Here we find Li Zhi working within the tradition. He begins with the Confucian classic the Great Learning,2 annotating it phrase by phrase, and reads the text to support his philosophical view that all humans are born with a distinctive childlike heart and within it an instinctive sense of right and wrong. (PCL)
Yesterday I was edified by your letter on the Great Learning. Because I had guests staying with me, I have not replied to your letter until now.
I venture to say that the Great Learning is a teaching for adults.3 Once a person has reached eight years of age, he learns in primary school to obey his father, older brothers, teachers, and elders. These teachings consist in the rules of propriety, such as bowing and making way for one another, advancing and retiring, and the arts of performing rituals, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and arithmetic. Even today, the wise sayings passed down from the sages of antiquity and their worthy disciples amount to nothing more than this; they were established for no other reason than to teach the younger generations.
At the age of fifteen, one becomes an adult and embarks upon adult studies. How could a person day in and day out willingly lap up the snot and spit of the adults as if one were still a child? Therefore, the first lines of the Great Learning state that it contains teachings for adults.
Wherein consists this Way of Great Learning? Each and every person possesses this Great Perfect Mirror Wisdom,4 what we also call our “luminous virtue.” As for this luminous virtue, it is identical to that in the heavens above, the earth below, and the countless sages and worthies in between. Nobody else possesses an excess, nor myself a deficiency of it. Since one can neither add to nor subtract from this source, even if one wished to decline to be a sage or worthy rather than taking the position, and instead to give up the opportunity to study as an adult and forsake learning for oneself, it would not be possible. If one does not pursue learning, one cannot know the luminous virtue residing within oneself. One unwittingly becomes a self-contented fool. Therefore the text says the Great Learning “resides in illuminating luminous virtue.” Without doubt I desire to clearly know luminous virtue, but this virtue is something I definitely possessed all along. This is the most significant and most critical topic discussed in the Great Learning. Therefore, these are the very first words in the text.
Where does my luminous virtue really reside? I think that although one cannot see its substance, it truly flows and fills in all the spaces within one’s family, one’s country, and everywhere under Heaven. In our daily behavior we exercise this luminous virtue. It is utterly present and immediate: who could part from it?
If I can “draw close to the people”5 so as to “illuminate my luminous virtue,” then won’t the essential brightness of my virtue come plainly into view? Therefore the Great Learning also says the Way “resides in drawing close to the people.”
Now, the Way is One, and learning too is one. In our times it is said Great Learning “resides in illuminating luminous virtue.” Also, Great Learning “resides in drawing close to the people.” Clearly, these are two things. Things naturally have their roots and their branches. As for “drawing close to the people” in order to “illuminate my luminous virtue,” even if I say it is a single matter, still, a single matter has its own beginning and end. Ten thousand affairs each have their own beginning and end. When the beginning and the end are distinguished from each other, then the root and the branch can be clearly distinguished. One sees there are two things. The Way can be two! Learning can be two!
So there must be a state of supreme goodness for us to attain. But it is not easy for people to realize they have arrived at this state of supreme goodness. If one comprehends this state of supreme goodness, then one will naturally attain “steadfastness,” “serenity,” “peace,” and the “ability to reflect,”6 and each person will rest content with himself.
Thus, if one comprehends this state, then “illuminating luminous virtue” is not a meaningless and ineffective task since one already embodies the Way of “illuminating luminous virtue” and “drawing close to the people.” “Drawing close to the people” is not worthless, empty talk since the results of one’s having “drawn close to the people” and “illuminated virtue” are readily apparent. If one does not know where to rest, then “illuminating virtue” becomes as vacuous as mere eclecticism, and “drawing close to the people” becomes as fragmented as vulgar teachings. Thus neither of the teachings is accomplished; so it would be better that one consider them two distinct things.
Consequently, the Way of the Great Learning ultimately is found in resting in supreme goodness and in recognizing that to know when to rest constitutes the utmost achievement. Attaining this state is indeed what is desired! But if one studies and still does not reach this state, the reason why is that one has not yet grasped it.
Alas! Knowing when to rest is of the greatest importance. Extending one’s knowledge is of great merit. The reason why adult studies are difficult lies in the difficulty of knowing when to rest. If teachers, friends, fathers, and elder brothers discuss and examine this topic together, then people will no longer delight in life or despair in death. Is this not what the countless sages and worthies sought?
TRANSLATED BY PAULINE C. LEE
In 1594, Wang Benke, likely the friend to whom the title of this letter refers,1 traveled to Macheng to study with Li Zhi. Together the two men pondered the mysteries of the Classic of Changes, and in 1600, four years after writing this letter, Li published a commentary on that work.2
The strategies of writing and interpretation that Li endorses here apply not only to the Classic of Changes; similar techniques are evident throughout his comments on history and philosophy. The militaristic metaphor with which the letter opens suggests that Li views the act of writing—and perhaps especially that of commenting on extant writings—as antagonistic: the reader treats the text before his eyes as an enemy to be conquered. Moreover, Li maintains, writings must manifest the author’s genuine experience. This emphasis on authenticity resembles statements found in Li’s “On the Childlike Mind” (pp. 106–13). (RHS)
When ordinary people write, they begin from the outside and fight their way in; when I write, I start from the middle and fight my way out. I go straight for the enemy’s defenses and moat, eat his grain, and command his troops; then, when I level my attack, I leave him utterly shattered. In this way I do not expend so much as a whit of my own energy and naturally have powers to spare. This [strategy] applies to everything: why should writing be an isolated case?
But since everyone has his own concerns, the topics each person addresses will differ. When an individual addresses his chosen topic and simply rolls out his views on it, the result is always marvelous. For instance, people who are devoted to taking care of their parents should write on devotion to parents: because that topic is close to their hearts, what comes out will certainly be a satisfying piece of writing.
But whenever people cast aside the standard topics and seek to write on novel subjects, no one understands. Even discriminating readers dislike works of that sort.
How do these remarks compare with the commentaries on the Classic of Changes?3
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
The recipient of this letter1 was one of Geng Dingxiang’s most accomplished disciples, an elderly gentleman who had risen to prominence in the Ministry of Rites. Yet in this letter, composed in Nanjing in 1599, Li Zhi pokes fun at Li Shilong for failing to resist the lure of profit and reputation. The letter exemplifies Li Zhi’s penchant for exposing and denouncing hypocrisy wherever he encountered it. (RHS)
There is no such thing as obtaining both profit and reputation.2 The only people who have been able to move beyond the sphere of reputation and profit and to conceive of themselves in terms other than reputation and profit are the three great sages Confucius, Old Master Li, and the Śākyamuni Buddha.3 Apart from them, everyone else is after either profit or reputation. Who could avoid this trap? But whether one shares their views or not, why doubt oneself? Since there is no way to obtain both, it is as foolish to seek profit while rushing after reputation as it is to seek reputation while rushing after profit. Can it be that you, who all your life have revered Confucius as the Master of the Dao,4 have failed to understand this principle? A man who at seventy-three5 instructs others not to pursue profit is just as foolish as a man who at seventy-six6 pursues both profit and reputation. In either case it amounts to “toiling one’s mind and daily becoming more oafish.”7 I hope you will consider this carefully, because you only get one choice.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
In this letter,1 written in 1596 and addressed to Li’s soul friend Zhou Youshan, Li Zhi protests the threat of deportation. In 1588, Li Zhi took up residence at the Cloister of the Flourishing Buddha, located at Dragon Lake, over thirty li from the town of Macheng in Huguang province. From this solitary retreat, Li entered into correspondence with several gentry women, most notably the daughter of the high-ranking field official Mei Guozhen—a correspondence that later created a scandal. Along with her sisters, Mei Danran, a widow, took a keen interest in Buddhism and frequently wrote to Li Zhi seeking his guidance on Buddhist self-cultivation. Li Zhi recorded their correspondence in an essay titled “Questioning Guanyin” (Guanyin wen 觀音問), which he published in 1596. In the same year, he circulated his “Rules Agreed Upon in Advance” (Yuyue 豫約) to several friends, including Zhou Youshan, Pan Shizao, Fang Hang, Yuan Hongdao, and others. In this text, Li expresses deep admiration and respect for the women’s piety.
Unsurprisingly, news of his peculiar and unorthodox interactions with women soon came to the authorities’ attention. The provincial surveillance commissioner of Huguang, Shi Jingxian 史旌賢, happened to be a follower of Geng Dingxiang and a close friend of the Geng family. Upon learning of Li’s correspondence with the widows, Shi threatened that in order to “rectify local customs” it might be necessary to deport Li to his hometown in Fujian province. (RHS)
The monks all fear that since I am old I will die soon and disaster will befall them. For this reason, I wrote “Rules Agreed Upon in Advance.”2 Without my even realizing it, that piece grew to over twenty pages. Although I wrote it merely for the monks’ benefit, the last portion also touches on my life. If people of later generations wish to see what kind of person Li Zhuowu was, this last section can serve as a chronology of my life. Recently, my friends have wanted to have it printed. If it is printed, even if I lose my patrons,3 I will be able to reside at Dragon Lake forever.
Since my words are extremely incisive and true, and my diction shakes heaven and earth, small wonder that people love this piece and pass it on to others. They grieve for me and pity me. Unfortunately, the manuscript is now in the hands of people who wish to print it, so if you would like to see it, you must seek it from them. Then you will understand the bitterness afflicting this old man’s heart.
Living more than thirty li outside the city [of Macheng],4 I have not had a single visitor for several years. I have heard that some have criticized me, saying I ought to be deported to my hometown. That seems entirely appropriate to me. They say, “If we don’t deport this man, we will not be able to rectify the local customs in Macheng.” I don’t know how an old man alone and far from home, begging for food and sitting peacefully awaiting death, could harm local customs. It’s the same people who talk of “rectifying local customs” who actually inflict great harm on local customs. Oh! Enough! I must speak no more of this. It has nothing to do with me. I am merely an old fellow who has left home to seek enlightenment; like other monks, when I have exhausted my interest in a place, I leave. Why wait for circumstances to become unfavorable? But now not only has the situation become unfavorable, people are jabbering about it. If under such circumstances I still do not depart, I must surely have no shame. But if I do leave, what need is there to deport me? And if I do not leave, still no one can deport me. Why? I am old and ready to die. There is no need to leave. So why deport me?
What’s more, I am by nature gentle and mild. I have learned the value of enduring humiliation. So if they want to kill me, I’ll face the knife; if they want to beat me, I’ll face their fists. If they want to curse me, I’ll face their censure. I know only how to confront them head-on, not how to yield. Why would I wait around to be deported? Indeed, I have been practicing the method of enduring humiliation and exhibiting filial piety from the time I was seven or eight years old right up to my present age of seventy. I’ve used this method for years and I’m accustomed to it. Otherwise how could this old man of seventy, without half a cent on his person, nor even a trusted companion by his side, venture to go wandering and take up lodgings ten thousand li from home?5
I reckon that my mind harbors no evil thoughts, nor has my body committed any transgression; my physical form is untainted, and my shadow free from dust.6 Therefore I truly embody what the ancients called “having no cause for shame or remorse.”7 Thus, the reason why I am undefeated when, confident in my own righteousness, I “array my battalions,” “raise my battle flags,”8 and daily join battle with the world is that the soldiers of right are on my side. Their discipline is strict and flawless. Who would dare to bring utter destruction upon himself by attacking the righteous and self-assured?
In the essay “Questioning Guanyin,” there are two sections that address issues as yet unaddressed by Buddhists.9 Printing them will benefit people of the younger generation. Among such people, Danran is indeed outstanding.10 Shanyin, Mingyin, and the others are also exceptional.11 They are stalwarts who have transcended this world.12 As for the “exposure” of the fact that men and women have been mingling [here], whom will such reports deceive? Will they deceive Heaven?
From this situation we can perceive the bitterness of human life. It is perilous indeed to seek to transcend the human realm while still unable to free one’s body from the cares of this life. The sages took compassion on widows, widowers, childless people, and orphans; nothing surpasses the cultural and ethical achievements of these wise men. Dwelling in the mountains or the wilderness brings delight to deer and boars. Why not people? If this place provides no refuge for me, then no place will. From this I understand that the true reason to study the dharma of transcending this world is that human beings inhabit a sea of sorrows. Bitterness upon bitterness. Ultimate bitterness. I can only take the Buddha as my vehicle.13
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
In 1595, responding to complaints that Li Zhi’s presence in Macheng was causing a disturbance, General Surveillance Commissioner Shi Jingxian threatened to deport Li from Macheng to his ancestral home in Fujian. The recipient of this letter,1 Geng Runian, who went by the courtesy name of Kenian, in an attempt to prevent Li’s deportation, invited him to flee to Huang’an. But Li staunchly refused. This letter registers Li’s resistance to intimidation and his refusal to circumvent the law, even if doing so meant risking his own death. Li’s stance may thus be compared to that of Socrates. Yet despite the gravity of his situation, Li still manages to strike a humorous tone and subject the general surveillance commissioner’s threats to a reductio ad absurdum.
In addition to the recipient, Geng Kenian, who was the eldest son of Li’s close friend Geng Dingli, the letter also mentions Dingli’s two brothers, Kenian’s uncles, Geng Dinglih and Geng Dingxiang. (RHS)
Your last letter was very clear. But since some people suspect [that my leaving Macheng and joining you in Huang’an would be tantamount to my fleeing the law], I dare not go. Even if it means opposing your respected command, I dare not leave. I hope you will ask Dinglih and Dingxiang to forgive me.
Personally, I say that if the general surveillance commissioner wishes to censure me under the law, that’s fine. But if he wants to intimidate me and drive me out, that is not acceptable. When it comes to people who have committed crimes, who break the law and turn order into chaos, they should be investigated according to the law. They may also be punished. But if I plead for mercy, I’ll no longer be Old Li Zhuowu. If I leave under intimidation, then a person harmful to the law will have moved, spreading his poison to another region. That would be extremely unkind! How could I choose between the people of Macheng and those of a different locality? Thus, they can kill me but they cannot make me leave. They can chop off my head, but they cannot desecrate my body. This is my firm conviction. It is not difficult to understand.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
Upon hearing in 1588 that his student Zeng Jiquan was considering becoming a monk, Li Zhi dashed off two notes urging him not to act rashly. The longer note1 pleads with Zeng Jiquan to uphold his familial obligations. In the briefer missive, translated here,2 Li simply lays out his own rationale for “impulsively” taking the Buddhist tonsure. For related material, see “Reading a Letter from Ruowu’s Mother” (pp. 162–65). (RHS)
The reason I shaved my head was that the members of my family were constantly expecting me to return home, and, time and again, “thinking nothing of a journey of one thousand li,” they came to compel me and urge me to abide by lay customs.3 So I cut my hair to show them that I would not return. As for lay customs, I am absolutely unwilling to be ruled by them. What’s more, people of no insight mostly view me as a heretic. So I’ve become a heretic, the better to conform to this demeaning name. For these several reasons—and not because I planned to do so—I impulsively shaved off my hair.
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ
This letter,1 addressed to an unknown recipient in 1600, provides a remarkable firsthand account of the personal manner and physical appearance of the Jesuit missionary Matteo Ricci, to whom Li Zhi refers by his Chinese name.2 Ricci and Li met on three occasions between 1599 and 1600. On each occasion, Ricci impressed Li with his extensive knowledge of Chinese language, history, and customs. Li also composed a poem for Ricci, included in this anthology (pp. 223–24). The most arresting portion of this essay comes in its final lines, where Li confesses he cannot comprehend what motivated Ricci to come to China. Was Li writing ironically, or was Ricci hesitant to disclose his purposes? Both might be true. (RHS)
Since you ask about Li of the Far West: he is a man of the Great Western Regions.3 He has traveled over a hundred thousand li to come to China. He first came by ship across the ocean to southern India, where he first learned of the existence of Buddhism; by then he had already come more than forty thousand li. On arriving in Nanhai, near Guangzhou, he learned that the nationally acclaimed scholars of our great Ming dynasty were preceded by the sage-kings Yao and Shun, and later by the Duke of Zhou and Confucius. He lived in Nanhai and Zhaoqing4 for more than twenty years.
There is scarcely a Chinese book he has not read. He asked scholars of the older generation to teach him the sounds and translations of Chinese characters, and he invited those who possess insight into the Four Books and the doctrines of the School of Principle to explain to him their essential meanings. He also invited those versed in the Six Classics and the commentaries upon them to help him comprehend their interpretations. Now he is fully able to speak the language of our country, to write using our characters, and to practice our rituals.
He is an exquisite human being. His mind is sharp as can be, but his demeanor is simple and down-to-earth. In a crowd of several tens of people all talking at once, he responded to each person appropriately and did not lose his calm on account of their heckling. Of the people I have met, none can compare with him. Most people are either extremely arrogant or utterly obsequious; if they’re not flaunting their intelligence, they’re bumbling fools. None can compare with him.
But I don’t understand why he came here. I’ve already met with him three times, and I just don’t understand what he came here to do. I suspect he may want to replace the teachings of the Duke of Zhou and Confucius with his own knowledge. But that would be very foolish. I suspect that couldn’t be his purpose!
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ