On Ethics and History

by Zhang Xuecheng

  Chen Shou lived during the Eastern Jin dynasty (265—316) and Sima Guang lived during the Southern Song dynasty (1127—1279). Had they dismissed the abdication of Cao Cao’s house of Wei, how could they have established [the legitimacy of] their own lords’ fathers?17 In contrast, Xi Zaochi and Zhu Xi were both men whose lords already had been driven out of their legitimate territories; their only concern was the struggle to reunify the empire.18 (What I say here has been said earlier by others.)19 These [four] worthies were in [very] different [historical] circumstances, and this is why they did as they did. It is not necessarily the case that their insight was inferior to that of the scholars of today. As this shows, one who does not understand the age in which the ancients lived cannot recklessly discuss their writings.20 Even if one understands the age in which they lived, if one does not understand their individual perspectives, one still cannot hastily proceed to discuss their writings. Each of their individual perspectives certainly expresses [a mix of] honor and disgrace, things secret and things manifest, successes and failures, and fears and joys. They had reasons for saying the things they said. Even Youzi did not always understand what Kongzi was saying.21 How much more difficult is it for those who live thousands of years later? The Confucian school describes “sympathetic concern” as “what you do not want for yourself, do not do to others.”22 This is a great principle indeed. Now if men of literature who discuss the ancients would only be sure to first put themselves in the place [of those whose work they discuss], they would thereby practice the sympathetic concern of Virtue in a litterateur.23

  In regard to his own written work, Han Yu said, “I would stand before it, assay it, and examine it carefully with a calm mind until I was certain that it was perfectly pure.”24 He also said, “vital energy (qi) is like water while words are like things that float upon water.”25 When Liu Zongyuan discussed writing he said, “Do not dare to write lightheartedly. Do not make changes idly. Do not write boastfully. Do not write when your spirit is in turmoil.”26 These worthies discussed the “mind” (xin ) and the “spirit” (qi ), but this is not yet the main idea in [the works of] Kongzi and Mengzi, who went on [to discuss] the subtle issues of the Heavenly and the human, nature and destiny. Now literature is highly complex and cannot be simplified, and speech differs [in style] according to the occasion. [But] if one seeks the central principle [of all literature] then it can be covered in a single phrase: “When writing, maintain reverent attention.”27 If one maintains reverent attention then the heart-mind will be calm and spirit will have a place in which to gather. One then will naturally be able to follow along with the various changes and transformations needed to accord with the proper measure.

  As for history, there are three areas of needed expertise: skill, learning, and insight.28 To seek to produce writings in the ancient style that are not derived from actual history is [to seek to have] food and drink without relying upon [the products of] agriculture. Now insight arises in the heart-mind, skill emerges from the spirit, and learning comes from concentrating the heart-mind in order to nurture the spirit and refining insight in order to perfect skill. Now the heart-mind is tenuous and difficult to rely upon; spirit is fluid and easily slackens. But one who resides in reverential attention constantly gathers [himself together] in the midst of heart-mind and spirit and continuously guards against dissipating [his powers]. To be “continuously bright and resting in reverence”29 is how a sage perfects both beginning and end. His practice of righteousness is vast indeed! Those today who turn to literature should simply collect their heart-minds and spirits in order to practice the reverential attention of Virtue in a litterateur.

  ESSAY 10

  The Principles of Literature

  While in the study of [my friend] Zuo Mei, I happened to notice a copy of the Records of the Grand Historian.1 Opening it, I discovered that different sections of the text were marked with circles and dots in five different colors of ink.2 Examining it carefully, I could not understand what it was saying. I asked Zuo Mei about it; he smiled and said that he had long ago grown tired of looking at it. He told me that this text originated with the Ming scholar Gui Youguang3 and that the markings in five colors each had a distinct significance and were not to be confused with one another. Some referred to the [excellent] structure of an entire essay and some to the skillfulness of individual sections. Some referred to the brilliance of the idea expressed and some to the spirit with which an idea was expressed. These [various types of] examples represented different categories which one was to get a feel for and internalize, this being referred to as the “secret tradition of ancient prose.” Earlier generations of scholars who specialized in the ancient prose style had greatly prized [this work], handing it down to one another and not readily showing it to outsiders. He also said, “This was like the transmission of the lamp by the fifth patriarch or Lin Lingsu’s receiving the new revelations.4 What derives from this source alone is the true transmission. What does not derive from this, no matter how exceptional a work, is what the Chan Buddhists derisively call ‘wild fox Chan.’5 In my youth I studied this text, but when I entered the Imperial Academy and my knowledge and experience became broader, I realized that the true Way of literature did not originate from things like this. Nevertheless, I believe that this work makes a few good points, and so I have not thrown it out—but I no longer prize it.”

  I replied, “The Way of literature has been in decline and suffered since before the Yuan dynasty (1280—1367), and yet it is still not completely lost. In the Ming dynasty (1368—1644), people began to uphold the remnants of the Song (960—1279) and Yuan dynasties and crudely preserved proper rules and standards [for literary style]. By the time of the Jiaqing (1521—66) and Longqing emperors (1567—72), benighted and ignorant [views] had not been kept at bay and [the Way of] literature was nearly at an end. Gui Youguang was born at this time; he lacked the ability to fight off the disciples of Wang Shizhen (1526—90) and Li Panlong (1514—70), but in his heart-mind he knew them to be false.6 And so he rejected Wang’s work as common and reckless, declaring that his compositions were a false embodiment of the [style of the] Qin and Han [dynasties]. He set aside the official names and place names [used by Wang] and restored the old designations. He prevented people from wrangling over superfluous terms. And so he condemned reckless words and rejected them, saying, ‘they are not in keeping with proper literary style.’ Gui’s style of writing is pure, but in terms of content, one cannot squeeze much out of it. And so I once wrote of him that he was an immovable rock in midstream, particularly in regard to his [use of proper] style. He did not drift along with the current fashion. But in regard to what the ancients called being ‘rich in substance and graceful in expression’7—using one’s words to reveal what [truly] is in one’s heart-mind—he never really reached such a state. Nevertheless, we must grant that he cannot fail to be regarded as a hero of his age. If we consider Gui’s ability at composing the eight-legged essay style, then he is comparable to Sima Qian of the Han dynasty or Han Yu of the Tang dynasty.8 [In this genre,] he is the unheralded forefather of a hundred generations. In the present age, when literary men talk about those who write in the ancient prose style, many revere Gui. He is the reason why the writings of the Eight Great Prose Masters of the Tang and Song dynasties are regarded as almost equal to the Five Classics and Four Books.9 In discussions of literature, Gui’s works alone pay homage to the Records of the Grand Historian, even though his abilities were dramatically inferior to what one finds in the Records of the Grand Historian itself. This is because the Records of the Grand Historian embodies venerable material, and Sima Qian was a man of remarkable talent who was able to relate this material in a spirited fashion. Gui was only able to scratch the surface of the Records of the Grand Historian; he had no real appreciation of the profundity of the ancients. Now, as I consider this edition, which is annotated in five different colors of ink, I understand that here lies the explanation of why Gui could never equal the ancients.”10<
br />
  What is essential in “establishing words” is to have something [of one’s own] to say.11 When the ancients composed their works they always based them on personal insights. In the beginning, there was no fascination with a flashy style, which is nothing more than gaudy embroidery. A wealthy and honored person, even in the midst of a drunken reverie, could never speak like a cold and afflicted beggar. A sick and distressed person, though attending an elegant banquet, could never change his sighs and moans into joy and laughter. This is how one’s expressions mirror what is [truly] in one’s heart-mind, and this is why one person’s writing cannot be exchanged for another’s. Each person must develop a personal style. Now to set aside one’s own search and mimic the style of the ancients is [to act] like Qi Liang’s western neighbor’s old wife, who studied the way Qi Liang’s widow sobbed because she was admired for the way that she grieved. In the same way, like-minded and equally virtuous scholars in later ages feel that because Qu Yuan committed suicide by throwing himself into the Miluo River, they too should harbor resentment against the state of Chu.12 Isn’t this going too far!

  As for literary art, the ancients never neglected this discipline. Mengzi said, “Maintain your commitment and do not injure your spirit (qi).”13 Now study is the [proper] basis for “establishing words” and can be compared to “maintaining your commitment.” Literary art is a means by which one makes clear the dao and can be compared to “spirit.” The search for a personal understanding in one’s study surely is the foundation of good writing, and the search for flawless literary art is also the flourishing of study. Those Song-dynasty Confucians who paid homage to the Way and Virtue and yet made light of literary art—for example, Cheng Yi, who said, “To apply oneself to literary art injures the Way,” or Cheng Hao, who said, “To work at recitation is to dissipate the will in pursuit of trifles”—were responding to people who attempted to pursue the branches while neglecting the roots; however, if one carries out the implications of what they said, then one who “maintains his commitment” will not necessarily avoid injuring his “spirit.”14 [If this were true, then] Zeng Zi’s saying, “[The gentleman] in both words and spirit keeps far from vulgarity and impropriety,”15 and Kongzi’s saying, “In one’s words, the aim simply is to communicate [one’s meaning],”16 would indicate that neither of them had heard the Way!

  As for the excellence of a piece of literature, it is essential that the reader grasp this for himself. It is like the flavor of fine food or the warmth and comfort of good clothes. An understanding of fine food or good clothes is something one must realize for oneself; these are things that are difficult to communicate to another. If one wants to communicate to someone the way (dao) of fine food and good clothes, one should show him some delicate roast meat and urge him to try it for himself so that he can understand its flavor and one should show him some fox and badger furs and urge him to try them on so that he can understand their warmth and comfort. In this way, he can grasp the way of these things. If one coughs up what one has eaten and disgorges it into another’s mouth in order to convey to him its flavor or grasps another and holds him close in order to convey to him the warmth [and comfort of good clothes], he will never grasp the way of these things.

  Han Yu said, “In recording events, select what is essential. In compiling sayings, search out what is profound.”17 This so-called “drawing out their hidden profundity” and “selecting what is essential” are not only things that later generations are unable to understand; even in his own time, the disciples of his (contemporaries and colleagues) Zhang Ji and Huang Fushi could not understand what he meant.18 What after all did they do? It would seem that they simply selected and punctuated his writings to provide an aid for composition. This kind of record of course was something that the ancients produced as well. For example, Zuo Si composed his rhyme-prose poems on the three capitals over a ten-year period.19 Wherever he went—whether at court or in the privy—he always had paper and brush with him, and whenever he had an insight, he wrote it down. Now, when we consider his poems, [we see] that they lack the kind of wonderful ideas or marvelous thoughts that can move the heart-mind and quicken the soul. And yet they took ten years of labored thought and exerted effort to complete. Now, his so-called practice of “writing down every insight” could never be anything more than recording personal impressions [of the things he encountered]; one must, though, first gather the luxuriant splendor of the ancients before one’s [work] can influence and inspire posterity.

  And so any personal insights gained in the course of reading reside within the reader and cannot be passed on to another. This is why the ancients, in discussing literature, often discussed the task of reading books in order to “nourish qi,” the need to be broad in learning and have a mastery of the classics, the benefits of personal study with a teacher and close relationships with friends, and the method for choosing beneficial material [for study]. This was the Way that they followed. As for their discussions of literary style, they “held up one corner and waited for the other three” and employed analogy to convey their points.20 For example, Lu Ji’s “Rhyme-prose on Literature,” Liu Xie’s The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, and Zhang Hong’s Grading the Poets, will at times single out an excellent word or phrase or evaluate the good and bad points of an entire chapter so that the reader’s attention is focused squarely on the text and yet is able to achieve an understanding that goes beyond the words themselves.21 [One who is able to do this] will have won half the battle in the effort to develop literary style.

  Now if [in the course of one’s reading] but in the absence of a personal understanding, one simply jots down notes [about style] or collects lists [of exemplary writing], this will represent the understanding of only a single occasion; it won’t necessarily get at the original meaning of the work. It is as if, when longing for someone, one sees the moon and thinks of him—must the moon then always be associated with distant longing? Or it is as if, when not having seen a friend for a long time, one hears [the sound of falling] rain and feels melancholy—must [falling] rain then always be associated with a sad state? Nevertheless, (the idea of) “longing for someone beneath the moon” or “being moved by the falling rain”—have these not given rise to some of the finest writing in the world!22 While [it is wrong] to want to take the idea of this longing or being moved and hide them away as if they were some secret, perhaps with the intention of presenting them to later students, to claim that whenever one encounters moonlight or the sound of steady rain one must always experience this grief or longing, not even two old friends who [after being apart for a long time] unexpectedly meet or two newlyweds enjoying conjugal bliss would believe you!

  And so in the study of literature, what can be handed down are proper standards and models; what cannot be handed down is the heart-mind’s working and creativity.23 As for collecting exemplary writings or compiling critically annotated editions, fundamentally these are lesser and derivative aspects of literary work. One cannot use such works to instruct others; they can only serve as personal notes. A father cannot hand down [his art] to his own son, and a teacher cannot transmit [his learning] to his own disciples. 24 What I fear is that the inexhaustible writings of the ancients will be restricted to an impression gained on a single occasion.

  To write regulated verse, one must understand the various tones; to write poetry in the ancient style, one must understand rhythm. But tones are evident and easy to understand while rhythm is hidden and difficult to study. One who would master poetry in the ancient style must come to a personal understanding of this. Some try to fix the rhythm of masters of the ancient style of poetry, but rhythm is ever-changing; it cannot be restricted to what one finds in a given piece of poetry. Zhao Zhixin took the poems of ancient [masters] and composed a table of rhythms, but informed people make fun of him for doing this.25 I cannot defend what Mr. Zhao did, and yet, for those who do not understand rhythm, [his work] has never failed to enlighten them. It’s only that his work sh
ould not be taken as providing a universal model.

  To write in the contemporary prose style, one must understand its rules of composition; to write in the ancient prose style, one must also understand its rules of composition. The rules of composition of contemporary prose are evident and easy to describe, while the rules of composition of ancient prose are hidden and difficult to convey One who would master the ancient style must come to a personal understanding of this. Some try to describe the rules for composing ancient prose used by ancient masters of the style, but the rules of composition are ever-changing; they cannot be restricted to what one finds in a given piece of writing. Gui Youguang took the text of the Records of the Grand Historian and marked it up with five different colors of ink in an effort to show the structure of its meaning. Informed people, if they should hear about his work, will laugh behind his back. I cannot defend what Mr. Gui did, and yet for those who do not understand the rules of composition, [his work] has never failed to aid their appreciation. It’s only that his work does not warrant being passed down as some secret [transmission of learning]. To take it as some secret [transmission of learning], to be handed down from generation to generation, is to be like the man from Song who cherished a [worthless] stone from Yan [as if it were a precious piece of jade]. 26