YUAN ZHONGDAO
袁中道
Yuan Zhongdao was the youngest of the three Yuan brothers, who collectively dominated late-Ming literary taste.1 All three were powerfully affected by their meetings with Li Zhi. Although their advocacy of authenticity over artifice in literary style might seem to indicate an anticonformist streak, they were successful in the examinations and attained official rank early in life. Yuan Zhongdao is best known for his autobiographical writings and travel diaries. (HS)
Li Wenling’s name was Zaizhi.2 He achieved the status of provincial graduate when young, but he did not attend further examinations because the distance to travel was too great. He became a school administrator and stayed in the lower ranks of the official hierarchy. Then he was made prefect of Yao’an [county, Yunnan province]. Inwardly passionate despite his chilly appearance, he was imposing and stern. By nature he was impatient and quick to upbraid people for their faults. He refused to speak to anyone who did not suit his temperament. Forceful and self-willed, he could not be made to do anything against his wishes.
Early in life, he was unacquainted with [philosophical] studies. A master of the School of Principle asked him, “Are you afraid of dying?” He answered, “How could I not fear death?” “Since you have the fear of death, why not study the Way? The study of the Way will free you from matters of life and death.” He said, “Is that so?” So he plunged his mind into the mysteries of the Way. After a time, finding in himself a resonance with what he read, he was able to transcend language in a way that those who cling to the outer shell of words cannot reach. As prefect, he issued orders that were clear and simple; he refrained from speech and let things order themselves. He often went to the monastery to judge cases. Occupying the seat of honor, he would have one of the eminent monks placed by his side and discuss with him lofty and abstruse topics once public business had been dispatched. People were astonished at this, but he paid them no mind. Like Lu Ji or Ren Fang of old, he acquired no riches in addition to his official salary.3 After a time, he grew tired of administration and went to Jizu Mountain with the intention of studying Buddhism there for the rest of his days. The imperial censor Liu Wei was struck by the purity of his behavior and secured special permission for him to retire early.
He was at the time on friendly terms with Geng Ziyong [Geng Dingli] of Huang’an in Huguang province. When he resigned his official appointment, he chose not to return home, saying, “I’m an old man. Having found one or two superb friends with whom to converse intelligently until the end of my days is my greatest happiness, why then should I return home?” So he settled his wife and daughter in Huang’an. In middle age he had begotten several sons, but they did not live.4
He was lean of body, tranquil, and obsessively clean. He could not bear to be near a woman, so although he had no son, he refused to take a concubine. His wife and daughter wanted to go home, so he sent them off immediately. He called himself “The Wandering Sojourner.” As he had no more dependents, he went ahead and cut off all common ties, seeking only to understand the principles of the Vehicle, plumb the depths of his revelation, pare away the skin and see the bone, find the path to utter truth. His published discussions were sharp as a sword’s edge, as strong as lions’ milk, as assured as an elephant fording a stream;5 their style was unique, and few dared to challenge their arguments.
After Dingli died, Dingli’s brother, Mr. Tiantai [Geng Dingxiang], disliked [Li’s] untrammeled ways. Fearing that his own sons and nephews would be led to follow him and cast off their responsibilities, he warned them repeatedly and in no uncertain terms. So Mr. Wenling went to live at Macheng, on the shores of Dragon Lake, in the company of the monk Wunian and Zhou Youshan, Qiu Tanzhi, and Yang Dingjian. They locked themselves up and did nothing but read all day. [Wenling] had a fondness for clean-swept floors and kept several people busy steadily making him brooms. His clothes were clean, as was his person; always scrubbing his face and body, he was as if addicted to water. He did not care for vulgar visitors. If people appeared unannounced, he would greet them briefly and order them to sit far away lest he be sullied by their presence. If he was happy to see someone, he would spend the whole day in conversation and laughter; if not, he would not say a word. Clever remarks fell unceasingly from his lips, sometimes amusing, sometimes caustic. He copied out on fine paper the books he read: tales of the Daoist immortals, Buddhist religious works, the Li sao of Qu Yuan, the historical writings of Sima Qian and Ban Gu, the poetry of Tao Yuanming, Xie Lingyun, Liu Zongyuan, and Du Fu, as well as the more remarkable among fictional writings and dramas by famous Song and Yuan playwrights. On snow-white paper, with red annotations, the neatly ordered characters marched down the page between precise margins, original ideas constantly bursting forth. His writing style was not predictable. Brilliant and inimitable, it sprang from his own feelings. He wrote poetry only rarely but always with spirit. He enjoyed doing calligraphy. When he had ground his ink and spread out the paper, he would throw open his clothing, give a shout, and put his brush to work like a hare darting out of the way of a swooping falcon.6 His more satisfactory efforts are indeed striking: wiry, forceful strokes and abrupt turns, with a firm wrist and an overall balance, austere on the page.
One day, annoyed by an itching scalp, tired of combing his hair, he had it all shaved off, leaving only his beard.
With his peremptory manner, he was inevitably seen as an eccentric, and as time went on more and more people began to call him a heretic. He fell out with Geng Dingxiang. Their argument, conducted in letters, ran over ten thousand words and probed the very core motivations of the School of Principle. Those who read this passionate correspondence could only admire his acuity, envy his talent, and fear his style.
About this time certain people began to denounce him to the authorities for imaginary misdeeds. The authorities expelled him. Then the magistrate Liu Dongxing welcomed Mr. Wenling to Wuchang and gave him living quarters in the Hall of Master Gai.7 From that time on Mr. Wenling traveled and returned home several times; Mr. Liu received him in Qinshui [Shanxi province], Vice-Censor Mei [Guozhen] received him at Yunzhong, and Jiao Ruohou [Jiao Hong] received him at Moling. Nonetheless, he still returned to Macheng. Once again, people denounced him for imaginary misdeeds, and the authorities again made the mistake of trusting these accusations, and expelled him. The monastery where he lodged was burned down. Mr. Ma Jinglun, of the Censorate, respectfully received him in north Tongzhou. It was just at this moment that the authorities, wishing to frame a heresy case and reform the style of writing then current, mentioned him specifically. They ordered the guards and marshals to capture Mr. Wenling.
Mr. Wenling had been unwell, and while convalescing revised his Factors of the Changes [Yiyin], calling it Jiuzheng Yiyin. He used to say, “When I finish my Jiuzheng Yiyin, death will be near.” When the Yiyin was finished, the sickness took a turn for the worse. Just then the men came to arrest him. Mr. Wenling asked Mr. Ma why the whole house was in disorder. Mr. Ma said, “The guards have arrived.” Mr. Wenling forced himself to stand, took a few steps, and shouted, “You’ve come for me. Then bring a door panel to take me away!” He lay on top of it and in pain shouted, “Hurry up! If I’m a criminal, I shouldn’t linger here.” Mr. Ma wanted to go with him. Mr. Wenling said, “The orders won’t allow you to follow me all the way to the city, and you have an aged father to look after.” Mr. Ma said, “The court thinks you are some kind of demon, and as far as they are concerned, I have been harboring a demon. If anyone is going to die, let’s die together. In any event, I won’t have stayed behind while I let them take you away.” In the end Mr. Ma went away with him. When they reached the outskirts of Tongzhou, a letter brought by Mr. Ma’s attendants ordered him to stop. Several dozen of his servants came and, weeping, commanded him to stay behind for his father’s sake. Mr. Ma would not listen to them. He preferred to stay with Mr. Wenling. The next morning, the leader of the guards interrogated him. (Mr. Wenling’s supporters had crept in and spent the night on the steps.) The captain asked, “Why did you write those outlandish books?” Mr. Wenling said, “Your prisoner has written many books. Here they are; they support the sagely teachings and do not harm them.” The captain laughed at his self-assurance. A prison was no place for rhetorical displays. Probably no report was made of this rebuttal. After a time the order was given to leave him alone. In prison Mr. Wenling wrote poems and read books quite contentedly. One day, he called to the attendant to come cut his hair. The attendant turned away, and Mr. Wenling seized the razor and cut his own throat. It was a day or two before his life ebbed away. The attendant asked, “Monk, are you in pain?” Mr. Wenling traced with a finger on his palm, “No pain.” Again, “Monk, why did you cut your throat?” He wrote out, “What more can an old man of seventy expect?” Then he died. Meanwhile Mr. Ma, thinking that the trial would be postponed, had gone back to see his father but now heard the news and was distressed, saying, “I failed to take adequate precautions and now this has happened. What a loss!” He took Mr. Wenling’s body back to Tongzhou and there had a stately tomb erected for him in a Buddhist compound.
Mr. Wenling had no love for authorship. His debates with Mr. Geng were simply transcribed off the cuff; subsequently he collected them in his A Book to Burn. Afterward, since from time to time he had written comments on the abstruse meanings of the sages, he compiled the Shuo shu [On the Four Books]. Afterward, working from his notes and judgments on the Dynastic Histories, Mr. Jiao and others had blocks carved in Nanjing and issued A Book to Keep (Hidden). For when Mr. Wenling had leisure to read books, he particularly loved to read the Histories. He had a certain insight into the effectiveness of the ancients. He felt that the reasons for order and disorder in the world were to be found in matters more fugitive than a single breath and subtler than a stitch of thread. Through pure luck the small players in history were often able to destroy a kingdom, and the major figures were held back by too many obstacles, too careful of their reputations, too responsible, so that they were prisoners of their situation—as if unaware of the ancients’ advice to be detached and free, to refrain from action and act as if without purpose, to stay hidden, endure shame, and act by indirect means in order to get the broadest results. In the absence of this wisdom, the superior man is unable to command the lesser man, and the lesser man is able to put the superior man in place. Seen thus, history is luminous and never confounding. It is turbulent, not peaceful, and often erupts in disorder. But when the Confucian scholars of today look on the traces of the past, they measure them with a uniform standard, unable to reserve their judgment, and so they seek figs from thistles, see the flaws and not the gem, applaud what they should despise, and despise what they should value. By now, they have relayed and echoed one another’s voices for so long that their consensus view has sunk into the very marrow of people’s bones and can no longer be combated. And so after several thousand years there emerged a new hand and eye: those whom all had long agreed to call great, he would attack for their faults; and as for those whom all agreed to call contemptible, he would not let their good qualities be lost from view. His main purpose was to banish inane writing and seek useful substance. He pushed aside the superficial details in order to capture the essence, discarded vain prattle and stressed human feeling. Although at times he demands too much and can be unbalanced in his judgments, if you will disregard the excesses of invective and sarcasm and read him carefully, the many places where he hits the mark are correctives that the intellectuals of our day should accept. Yet everyone precipitously saw there only an offense to orthodox teaching and objected that [Mr. Wenling] was destroying the sages and rising up against the Way. That was an error.
The ancient chroniclers Sima Qian and Ban Gu wrote opinionated histories. Sima Qian preferred Huang-Lao8 teachings over the Six Classics and showed contempt for reclusive scholars and admiration for wandering swordsmen, for which the establishment of the time rejected him; Ban Gu, too, faulted some for their loyalty and scorned others for their forthrightness. When later generations examined the flaws in these two historians, they sifted out their personal opinions and retained the pure vintage, so that today their two works [Records of the Grand Historian and History of the Former Han] hang above us like the sun and moon. No one can read the historians of the Tang and Song periods to the end. Why then do they make us yawn? Can it not be that personal opinion is the sparkling element in history writing that must not be ground away?
For self-will that casts off all restraint, people say you need look no farther than in Zhuangzi; but no one has ever become self-willed and unrestrained through reading Zhuangzi. Self-willed and unrestrained people have no need to read Zhuangzi. For harsh and pitiless policy, nothing compares to the Han Feizi; but no one ever became harsh and pitiless through reading Han Feizi; harsh and pitiless people do not need to read Han Fei. From the time that those two books first became known, readers of Zhuangzi have concentrated their abilities on transcending the externals of fame and advantage, leaving behind the ordinary man; whereas those who read Shen Buhai and Han Feizi secured positions of trust and salaries through employing punishments, whereby their sovereigns became stronger and the courts won awe.9 Shall we reject and disregard a pure talent like Zhuge Liang, who employed his skills to advance the cause of the last emperor of a defeated dynasty?10
The Six Classics and the works of Confucius’s school are the meat and grain of our intellectual diet. People who eat too much of this grain and meat may get blocked and suffer from constipation, and the doctor will prescribe a regime of Sichuan soybeans to free up the accumulated matter; only then will the belly be at peace. In a formal dinner for nine guests, chicken, pork, lamb, and fish are brought in successively. Seafood, freshwater scallops, and the like are refreshing as a change from heavy food. So it would not be incorrect to describe Mr. Wenling’s books as being of a purgative character. They could also be described as a treasure that one can neither do without nor replace with a substitute. Unfortunately, they were published too early. They did not have enough time to transform the hearts of their readers, and so they led to quarreling and denunciations.
To reflect more deeply on the disaster that befell Mr. Wenling, perhaps it did not arise from his books. For the most part, Mr. Wenling’s behavior was hard to explain. A successful degree holder who had renounced his post, he talked about nothing but the art of statesmanship: the affairs of all under heaven, he said, are too important to be left to the management of the typical fame-seeking scholar. Rash, direct, and sharp-tongued, apt to have an effect on people like that of ice and snow, and profoundly repelled by puritanism and self-praise, he held that the harm of harsh and unrelenting behavior is inflicted on future generations. He fled sensory pleasures and looked on desire as if it were excrement, but he had a broad capacity for love and greatly enjoyed, and adorned his solitude with, the manifestations of romantic feelings among boys and girls. Hard to please, unable to agree with others about anything, if he fell in with someone who had a special talent, he would voice his admiration and abase himself. Forgetful of the world and his own body, he was a true ascetic, but whenever he read about the death-defying courage of faithful officers and loyal subjects in ancient times, or about the clever escapes of bravos and swordsmen, these legends would make him howl and pound the table, throw back his sleeves, rise, and weep unrestrainedly, with tears streaming this way and that. He was as inflexible as metal or stone and his aspirations were as lofty as the clouds of heaven. If he had something to say, it must come out; his mind was incapable of retreat. Inevitably, he offended those more highly placed than himself.
Kong Wenju 孔文舉 treated Emperor Wu of Wei like a small child, and Xi Shuye 嵇叔夜 looked on Zhong Hui 鍾會 as a slave.11 You can overturn a bird’s nest, but you cannot change a phoenix’s beak. You can clip the feathers of a simurgh but not tame its dragon nature. That is why he was bound to be betrayed and imprisoned, like a precious herb or fragrant orchid uprooted. Alas! With too great a talent, too powerful a spirit, he could not conceal himself in foulness as others do, and ended in a prison cell, “blushing before Liuxia Hui 柳下惠 and ashamed before Sun Deng 孫登.”12 How regrettable! What a warning!
Late in life Mr. Wenling studied the Classic of Changes and wrote a book titled Jiuzheng Yiyin. It shows that he had a deep understanding of the Changes, such that he could put aside his haughtiness and enter into humility, but now he has exceeded his years and gone into the beyond! The books Mr. Wenling honored with prefaces, such as the Yangming xiansheng nianpu [Chronology of Wang Yangming’s Life] or the Longxi yulu [Record of Conversations with Wang Ji], are too numerous to be listed here.
Someone once asked me, “Were you ever a follower of Li Wenling’s?” I answered, “Although I was devoted to him, I could never be his follower. There are five reasons why I could not be his follower, and three reasons why I would not. First, Mr. Wenling was extremely pure in his actions as an official, and my generation obeys the crowd and does what custom requires. Second, he kept his distance from women and seductive boys, and my generation is incapable of forsaking our passions, indulging endlessly in love affairs. Third, he was deeply learned in the Way and saw it in its greatness, and my generation clings to words without capturing their deeper meaning. Fourth, from his earliest youth to his old age he was exclusively occupied with reading, and my generation is sunk in the dust of worldly ties, unacquainted with the great works of the past. Fifth, he was forthright and fearless, not the sort of man who would bend to suit others, and my generation is spineless, saying yes or no as the crowd demands. He loved confrontation and marshaled his spirit, he was quick to make friends or enemies, and whenever he encountered something unacceptable, he went straight to writing about it—this is one reason I was not willing to follow him. After he retired from office to live as a hermit, he was intending to vanish into the mountains, but he lingered in the world of men, and that is where misfortune tracked him down as his fame grew. Here too I would not follow him. And he was eager for salvation but lax on the rules, careless of minor infractions, guided by his feelings and too quick to say whatever came into his mind: in this, finally, I would rather not follow him. What one is incapable of following, one remains forever incapable of following; what one is unwilling to follow, one simply does not follow. So I say that although I was fond of him, I was not his follower.”
Those who spread malicious rumors contend that [Mr. Wenling], after shaving off his hair [and taking monastic orders], still wore the official cap and participated in governing, and at the age of eighty was still subject to lust and ambition—is this possible? As people say, “From a foul toad comes a foul turd”—in their case, through the mouth.
TRANSLATED BY HAUN SAUSSY
In 1602, while Li Zhi was convalescing from a serious illness at the home of his friend and patron Ma Jinglun, malicious rumors were circulating in the capital about his unorthodox pronouncements and unsavory behavior. In the second intercalary month, the situation came to a head when the imperial censor Zhang Wenda submitted to the throne the memorial1 translated here, in which he excoriates Li Zhi for writing books that “throw men’s minds into confusion.” The Wanli emperor responded promptly and issued an edict calling for Li’s immediate arrest and the destruction both of all his extant books and of the wood blocks for printing them. According to Ma Jinglun’s account, Li Zhi was arrested at his home. Too weak to walk and panting for breath, he was laid half unconscious on a wooden plank and transported to the jail. There he was given to understand that he would be deported to his native province of Fujian.2 Feeling beleaguered, exasperated, and desperately misunderstood, Li Zhi had no intention of suffering the arduous journey home. When an attendant came to shave him, Li seized the opportunity to grab the razor and slit his own throat. For a full day he remained alive, breathing shallowly, but expired the next day. (RHS)
In the thirteenth year of the Wanli reign, in the second intercalary month, on the fourteenth day of the month, the chief supervising secretary Zhang Wenda submitted a memorial of impeachment:
In the prime of his life, Li Zhi served as an official. In his later years he shaved his head. Recently he has written A Book to Keep (Hidden), A Book to Burn, Zhuowu’s [Book of] Great Virtue, and several other books that are in broad circulation and that throw men’s minds into confusion.
In these books he considers Lü Buwei 呂不韋 and Li Yuan 李園 wise counselors,3 Li Si 李斯 shrewd,4 and Feng Dao 馮道 an official who possessed the moral fiber of a recluse;5 he estimates that Zhuo Wenjun 卓文君 excelled in choosing an outstanding mate6 and finds laughable Sima Guang’s 司馬光 assertion that Sang Hongyang 桑弘羊 deceived Emperor Wu of Han 漢武帝;7 he deems Qin Shihuang 秦始皇 the greatest emperor of all time,8 and he maintains that Confucius’s judgments need not be considered standard. Such outrageous and transgressive judgments are too numerous to count. The majority of them violate norms of propriety, so the books must be destroyed.
Particularly reprehensible is that when he was lodging in Macheng, he gave free rein to his impulses and, together with his unsavory companions, frequented nunneries, fondled courtesans, and bathed with them in broad daylight. Moreover, he enticed the wives and daughters of literati into the nunneries to discuss the dharma. They even went so far as to bring their quilts and pillows and to spend the night there. The situation was out of control.
What’s more, he wrote a book called Questioning Guanyin. But by “Guanyin,” he meant the wives and daughters of literati. Young men took delight in his unrestrained wildness and goaded one another to follow suit. They knew no shame and behaved like beasts, openly stealing money and violating other people’s wives and daughters. Recently gentry officials have been clasping talismans and reciting the name of the Buddha; they prostrate themselves before monks and hold rosaries in their hands, all in an attempt to abide by the [Buddhist] prohibitions. Their walls are hung with marvelous images, which they consider holy. Such people, who know not how to respect Confucian household instructions but instead indulge their obsession with Buddhist teachings and monks, are becoming increasingly numerous.
I recently heard that Li Zhi plans to leave Tongzhou. Tongzhou is only forty li from the capital. If he should enter the capital and cause a disturbance there, the situation in Macheng will repeat itself. I recommend that an edict from the Ministry of Rites be promulgated by local officials in Tongzhou, that Li Zhi be sent back to his place of origin and punished according to the law. The edict should also be promulgated in both capitals and in every province. Let all of Li Zhi’s printed books, together with the unprinted books at his home, be confiscated and completely destroyed. Let them not be passed on to posterity. If this is done, the benefit to society will be great indeed.
IMPERIAL EDICT
Li Zhi has dared to disrupt the Dao, to muddle a generation, and to deceive the people. For this reason, I command that the imperial guards and marshals forcibly bring him to justice. Let them completely confiscate and destroy all his books, printed as well as unprinted, that they may not survive. If any of his disciples should shelter Li Zhi or conceal his books, the bureau in question, along with all other bureaus, will investigate and report the matter so that these collaborators too will be brought to justice.
DISPOSITION
Li Zhi was arrested. Fearing punishment, he refused nourishment and died.9
TRANSLATED BY RIVI HANDLER-SPITZ