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Discourses,Essays,and Sketches

Discourse on Nourishing Life 養生論 嵇康 Hsi K’ang(223-262)

There are people nowadays who say that immortal sagehood can be attained though study, that immortality can with effort be reached. There are also those who put the longest life at one hundred and twenty years and claim it has always been so. They say all accounts of people living longer than this are nothing but lies. Both of these positions miss the way things are, so permit me to try, in my coarse way, to explain.

It is true that immortals cannot be seen with your eyes, but if we examine clearly and weigh all that has been written in the records and documents and all that has been transmitted by the former historians, their true existence is a certainty. They seem to be the special recipients of a unique ch’i(vital breath), the receiving of which comes about spontaneously. It is not something one can reach with an accumulation of learning. But if we talk about the proper care of oneself, according to  the principles, in order to maximize one’s allotted span of life, then it is certainly possible for a person to get, at the best, more than a thousand years, at the very least, several hundred. Nowadays, no one is skilled in this care, and therefore no one can achieve such longevity. How can I explain this?

If you take some drug to make yourself perspire, it will perhaps in some cases have no effect. But should you suffer some terrible embarrassment, sweat will literally pour forth. If you skip eating all morning, your mouth will water and you’ll dream of eating. Yet Tseng Tsu,[1] choked with grief, went seven foodless days without feeling hunger. If you sit up half the night, you ‘ss begin to nod off and dream of bed. But if inside you’re stirred with a great anxiety, the dawn will come before you fall asleep. You can brush energetically to get your hair to stand up or drink a strong wine to redden your face, but the results will only be marginal. Yet a young fellow when angry will redden with a fearsome face and his hair will push up against his hat. From these examples, I assert that the relationship of a person’s spirit to his body is like that of a country and its ruler. When the spirit is rash within, the body decays without, just as when the ruler on top is muddled, the country below falls to chaos.

THE COURTESAN LI WA

Lady Ch’ien, Li Wa, used to be a courtesan in Ch’ang-an. Her behavior was so high-principled and exalted that it merits praise. It is for this reason that I, Po Hsing-chien,[1] an investigating censor, have made an account of her story.

During the T’ien-pao reign period [742-756],[2] the prefect of Ch’ang-chou[3] was a nobleman of Ying-yang.[4] His surname and given name I shall omit. His reputation was high among his contemporaries, and he was very wealthy. When he had reached the age of fifty, his only son was just twenty years old. His son was highly gifted in literature, and this marked him off from his peers. He was well thought of and praised by the people of his day. His father doted on him, and regarded him highly. He once remarked, “This is the thousand-li steed of our house.”

After he had become a hsiu-ts’ai through the local examinations, he was about to set out [for the capital to take more advanced examinations]. His father amply provided him with all the accoutrements he would need, including horse and carriage; he also estimated his son’s expenses in the capital and gave him funds accordingly. The father said, “When I look upon your talents, I’m sure that you’ll make it in this first attempt. Now I’ve made provision for you for a full two years; I’ve given you more than needed to encourage you”.

The young man was also confident of his own abilities. He saw his excelling in the examinations as a matter of course. From p’i-ling[5] he set out, and in little more than a month he reached Ch’ang-an. He settled in the Administration Quarter.

THE TRAGEDY OF PU FEI-YEN

Wu Kung-yeh of Lin-huai[1] was an administrative assistant of the Ho-nan Prefecture[2] during the Hsien-t’ung reign period [86o-873].[3] His favorite concubine was called Fei-yen, from the Pu family. So delicate and fine were her looks and manner, she seemed barely able to support the weight of a garment of thin silk. She was good at singing the tunes of Ch’in,[4] enjoyed literary pursuits, and was especially skilled at tapping the pitch cups to the harmony of strings and flutes. Kung-yeh doted on her.

Adjacent to their house was the residence of Chao of T’ien-shui,[5] also a member of a prominent family. His son Hsiang, both handsome and learned, had just turned twenty and at this time was at home observing mourning rites.

One day Hsiang happened to spy Fei-yen through a crack in the south wall, and from then on became so despondent that he began to lose sleep and neglected his meals. He offered a generous bribe to Kung-yeh’s doorkeeper to tell Fei-yen of his feelings. The doorkeeper appeared very reluctant at first, but finally gave in to the generous offer and told his wife to wait until Fei-yen had an idle moment, when she could tell her of Hsiang’s interest. When Fei-yen heard of this, she merely smiled and stared ahead fixedly without replying. The old servant conveyed all this to Hsiang, who went wild with joy, not knowing how to contain himself. He then chose a sheet of red, lined paper and wrote the following lines:

One look at your devastating beauty,

FENG YEN

Feng Yen was a hero from Wei.[1] His ancestors were not particularly distinguished. While young he was a wild one given to ball games and cockfights. Once in some marketplace a fight broke out over a question of money. Yen was drawn there and in assisting the wronged party hit and killed someone. Thus he took cover in the countryside. As the official search for him heightened, he fled to Hua,[2] where he grew close to the young men of the Hua garrison, joining them in their usual amusements.

At that time his lordship Prime Minister Chia Tan[3] was in Hua and, recognizing Yen’s talents, kept him in his headquarters [for his own service]. When Yen was out for a stroll of the neighborhood one day, he saw a woman in a doorway watching him even as she veiled herself with her sleeve. Her appearance was so seductive that her intentions were not to be missed. So Yen took her as a lover. Her husband, Chang Ying, however, was the garrison commander of Hua. When Ying heard of the affair, he beat his wife repeatedly. For this her family and friends alt hated and resented him.

Once when Ying had gone to drink with friends, Yen, seizing the opportunity, lay again in his bedchamber, shutting the door. On Ying’s return, his wife opened the door to let him in, at the same time concealing Yen behind her skirt. Yen then, crouching low, tiptoed to cover; and as he was turning around to hide behind the door, his kerchief fell to the pillow near Ying’s sword. Ying was drunk and had fallen asleep. Yen pointed to his kerchief, asking the woman to get it, but she handed him the sword instead. Yen looked at her for a long time, then slit her throat, put on his kerchief, and left.

The following morning when Ying got up and saw that his wife had been murdered, he was amazed. Just as he was about to go and surrender himself, his neighbors, thinking that Ying had actually killed her, bound him and went to inform the wife’s parents. The relatives all came and one said, “You have been beating our daughter regularly out of jealousy and then accused her falsely of indiscretions. Now you’ve even killed her with no justification! How could it have been someone else who killed her? If that were the case, why would you still be alive?”

Postface to a Catalog on a Collection of Bronze and Stone Inscriptions

Li Ch’ing-chao (1084-C.1151)

I married into the Chao Family in 1101. My father-in-law was the minister of civil service, but the family did not live extravagantly. Te-fu(my husband) was at that time a student at the imperial University. On the first and fifteenth of every month, he could leave college. He would pawn his clothing and with 500 cash in his pocket go to Hsiang-kuo Temple in search of old print and come home with some fruit. We would enjoy examining what he had bought while munching fruit together. Two years later, when he got a post in the government, he started to make as complete as possible a collection of rubbings or prints form bronze or stone inscriptions and other ancient scripts. When a print was not available, he would have a copy made and thus our collection of famous calligraphy and antiques began. Once a man tried to sell us Hsü His’s painting of “Peony” for 200,000 cash, and Te-fu asked permission to take home and keep it for a few days and consider. We found no means to buy it and reluctantly returned it to the owner. Te-fu and I were upset about it for days. When he served as magistrate at two posts, he spent his entire salary over the care and preservation of rare editions. Every time we obtained a rare book, we would examine it critically and see about its repair and rebinding, or if it was a painting or antique vessel, we would spend the evening pawing over it and looking for imperfections. Because of this, our collection was considered the best among all the collectors in regard to mounting and care condition of the scripts. Whenever we found in bookstalls a volume which was complete and had no bad errors, we would purchase it for the purpose of comparison with other texts.

I have a power for memory, and sometimes after supper, sitting quietly in the Homecoming Hall, we would boil a pot of tea and, pointing to the piles of books on the shelves, make a guess as to which line of which page in which volume of a book contained a certain passage and see who was right, the one making the correct guess having the privilege of drinking his cup of tea first. When a guess was correct, we would lift up the cup and break out into a loud laughter, so much so that sometimes the tea was spilled on our dress and we were not able to drink at all. We were then content to live and grow old in the world! Therefore, we held our heads high, although we were living in poverty and sorrow… in time our collection grew bigger and bigger and the books and art objects were piled up on tables and desks and beds, and we enjoyed them with our eyes and with our minds and planned and discussed the collection, tasting happiness above those enjoying the horse races and music and dance.

In the year 1126, Te-fu was magistrate at Tsechuan when the northern invaders threatened the national capital. He had a presentiment that we were not going to be able to keep the collection intake during the ensuing chaos. The following year, we came down south on the occasion of the funeral for his mother. We realized that a part of the collection had to be sacrificed. First we discarded the heavy, bulky volumes, the less important works of a painter, and vessels that bore no inscriptions. Next we threw out books of which standard editions existed, paintings of no extraordinary merit, and bronze that was too heavy for transportation. Even then, the collection filled fifteen cartloads and was carried in a fleet of boats when we came down the Huai River. We had planned on moving things kept at our old house at Chingchow the following year, but the house, we found we found later, was burned down with its dozen roomfuls of objects.

Thoughts upon Student Huang’s Borrowing of books

Yüan Mei (1716-1797)

The student, Huang Yün-hsiu, asked to borrow some books from me and I, the master of Sui Garden, gave them to him with the following admonition:

Now the written language is the foundation of classical learning, the source of kingly government. It is what the former generations relied on to transmit culture to later ages and what men of later times rely on to understand antiquity. Therefore it is said: “When the foundation is established, the Way grows;” and “When you know all under heaven that is extremely obscure, you cannot be confused.”

Noe I have arranged the small seal graphs together with ancient Chou graphs. I have broadly adopted from those who understand the small and the great, from those who are believable and have proof, and I preserve and explain their opinions.

Preface to Collected Poems from the Orchid Pavilion

Wang His-chih (C.303-C.361)

Wang His-chin, from Kuei-chi(modern Shao-hsing, Chekiang), was an influential official, writer and , above all, calligrapher during the Eastern Chin dynasty. He wrote this preface to commemorate a festive springtime gathering of forty-one notable figures, who made an excursion outside Kuei-chi to a spot about ten miles southwest of modern Shao-hsing on April 22, 353. As part of the entertainment, wine-cups were floated down a winding stream, and the guests were asked to write a poem before the cups passed their seats or else drink a forfeit. Only twenty-six guests were able to comply, and their efforts were gathered in a volume to which Wang wrote this short introduction. Despite its brevity, few examples of Chinese prose have had such widespread influence on subsequent literati culture. Wang was canonized as the “sage” of calligraphy, and the original text in his hand became a model of the “running mode.” The image of the gathering generated a veritable cult of the Orchid Pavilion celebrated in poetry, painting, and the decorative arts while the area of the original event became a literary shrine.

In the ninth year of the Eternal Harmony era in the beginning of the last month of spring when the calendar was in kuei-ch’ ou, we met at the Orchid Pavilion in Shan-yin, Kuei-chi to celebrate the Bathing Festival. All the worthy men assembled; the young and the senior gathered together. Here were lofty mountains and towering hills, thick groves and tall bamboo. And, there was a clear, rapid stream reflecting everything around that had been diverted to play the game of floating wine-cups along a winding course. We sat down in order of precedence. Though we had none of the magnificent sounds of strings and flutes, a cup of wine and then a poem was enough to stir our innermost feelings.

This was a day when the sky was bright and the air was pure. A gentle breeze warmed us. Upwards we gazed to contemplate the immensity of the universe; downwards we peered to scrutinize the abundance of living things. In this way, we let our eyes roam and our emotions become aroused so that we enjoyed to the fullest these sights and sounds. This was happiness, indeed!

Preface to the “Foolish Brook Poems”

Liu Tsung-yüan(773-819)

To the north of the Kuan River, there is a brook. It flows eastward into the Hsiao River. Some say that a Mr. Jan once lived there and hence named it Jan Brook. Some say that the water in the brook can be used for dye [ian] and that it was named “Dye Brook” because of this property. I have transgressed through my foolishness and consequently have been banished to the bank of the Hsiao River. I am fond of this brook. I went upstream one day for two or three tricents and came upon an especially exquisite place, and I made my home there. In ancient times, there was a Valley of the Foolish Old Man. Now, having made the brook the site of my home, I could not decide on a named for it. Every day, people passing by argued continually over its name, so capture all their forms and poses, letting nothing escape. I sing about Foolish Brook with my foolish verses; they go surprisingly well together in their common obscurity. Overtaking the undifferentiated state of the primordial world, and submerging myself in its insentience, vacuous and inane, I will thus be recognized by no one. Therefore, I have written eight foolish poems and have recorded the, on rocks by Foolish Brook.

Translated by Yu-shin Chen

This preface, written in 810, also functions as a landscape essay. The author, Liu Tsung-yüan (see selection 55), was one of the most brilliant practitioners of that genre. In this very peculiar landscape essay, Liu dwells on the theme of “foolishness” (yü) and express not so much his love of nature, but his obsession with the recent change in his fortunes and his own role in his disgrace. Because of his association with the Wang Shu-wen faction at court, he lost favor after Emperor Shun-tsung (reigned 805) was forced to abdicate on account of severe illness. It was during his banishment to a minor post in remote Yung-chou (Hunan province) that he wrote the “Foolish Brook Poems” and their preface.

The arts of Sleeping, Walking, Sitting, and Standing

from The Arts of Living

Li Yü (1610/11-1680)

There are many ways of enjoying life that are hard to hold down to any one theory. There are the joys of sleeping, of sitting, of walking, and of standing up. There is the pleasure in eating, washing up, hairdressing, and even in such lowly activities as going about naked and barefooted, or going to the toilet. In its proper place, each can be enjoyable. If one can enter into the spirit of fun and take things in his stride anywhere any time, one can enjoy some things over which others may weep. On the other hand, if one is a crude person and awkward in meeting life or taking care of one’s health, he can be the saddest person amidst sing and dance. I speak here only of the joys of daily living and of the ways in which advantage may be taken of the commonest occupations.

1. The Art of Sleeping

The Peach Blossom Spring                               

T’ao Ch’ien (365-427)

During the T’ai-yüan period of the Chin dynasty, a fisherman of Wu-ling once rowed upstream, unmindful of the distance he had gone, when he suddenly came to a grove of peach trees in bloom. For several hundred paces on both banks of the steam there was no other kind of tree. The wild flowers growing under them were fresh and lovely, and fallen petals covered the ground-it made a great impression on the fisherman. He went on for a way with the idea of finding out how far the grove extended. It came to an end at the foot of a mountain whence issued the spring that supplied the stream. There was a small opening in the mountain and it seemed as though light was coming through it. The fisherman left his boat and entered the cave, which at first was extremely narrow, barely admitting his body; after a few dozen steps it suddenly opened out onto a broad and level plain where well-built houses were surrounded by rich fields and pretty ponds: Mulberry, Bamboo, and other trees and plants grew there, and crisscross paths skirted the fields. The sounds of cocks crowing and dogs barking could be heard from one courtyard to the next. Men and women were coming and going about their work in the fields. The clothes they wore were like those of ordinary people. Old men and boys were carefree and happy.

When they caught sight of the fisherman, they asked in surprise how he had got there. The fisherman told the whole story, and was invited to go to their house, where he was served wine while they killed a chicken for a feast. When the other villagers heard about the fisherman’s arrival, they all came to pay him a visit. They told him that their ancestors had fled the disorders of Ch’in times and, having taken refuge here with wives and children and neighbors, had never ventured out again; consequently they had lost all contact with the outside world. They asked what the present ruling dynasty was, for they had never heard of the Han, let alone the Wei and the Chin. They sighed unhappily as the fisherman enumerated the dynasties one by one and recounted the vicissitudes of each. The vistors all asked him to come to their houses in turn, and at every house he had wine and food. He stayed several days. As he was about to go away, the people said, “There’s no need to mention our existence to outsides.”

After the fisherman had gone out and recovered his boat, he carefully marked the route. On reaching the city, he reported that he had found to the magistrate, who at once sent a man to follow him back to the place. They proceeded according to the marks he had made, but went astray and were unable to find the cave again.

3

For about twenty days, I went to the hospital every day for most of the day. I took care of her, sat by her bedside and watched over her, and talked briefly with her. Her illness worsened, and as she grew weaker every day, her abdomen grew larger day by day and her movements grew more and more difficult. At that time there was no one on the ward to help her; except for food and drink, she had to take care of everything else herself. Later on I heard her fellow patients praise her for being “strong and resolute.” They said that every morning she would quietly struggle to get out of bed and go to the washroom.

The doctor talked to us. He said that the patient's health was not good enough to operate, that what was most to be feared was bowel obstruction; if there was no obstruction, it would be possible to prolong things for a while.

That half a month after she went into the hospital was the one period since August, 1966, in which I felt both painful and fortunate; it was the last peaceful time that she and I spent together, and I cannot forget it to this day.

After half a month, though, her illness grew worse. One day during lunch the doctor told my son to bring me in to talk. He told me the patient's bowels had become obstructed and it was necessary to operate. The operation would not necessarily be successful and there might be trouble during the procedure but the consequences of not operating were even more horrible to contemplate. He wanted me to decide and then to persuade her to agree. I decided and then went to the ward to explain it to her. After I finished talking, she said just one thing. “It looks like we are going to have to part.” She looked at me, her eyes full of tears. I said, “That’s not possible ....” My voice choked up. Just then the head nurse came in to comfort her and said to her, “I’ll be with you. It's all right.” She answered, “If you're with me, it'll be all right” Time was very short. The doctors and nurses made all of the preparations very quickly, and she was taken into the operating room; it was her niece again who wheeled her through the operating room doors. We waited outside in the hallway for several hours, waited until she was safely sent out; our son wheeled her back to the ward. Our son stayed at her side overnight. In a couple of days he too fell ill, and an examination showed that he had hepatitis; he had brought it back from the farm village in Anhui. At first we wanted to keep the news from his mother, but we inadvertently let her find out. She kept asking repeatedly, “How is our son?” At night when I came home and walked into my quiet empty room, I almost wanted to cry out, “Everything fall down on my head! Let every sort of calamity come at once!”

Ba Jin(1904-)

Remembering Xiao Shan

Translated by Michael S. Duke

1

Today is the sixth anniversary of Xiao Shan's death. The events of six years ago still appear quite clearly before my eyes. When I returned home from the crematorium that day, everything was a mess. After three or four days, I gradually settled down; sitting alone at the desk, I wanted to write something in remembrance of her. For fifty years, it has always been my custom, when I have nowhere else to express my feelings, to turn to pen and paper; but during those days in August 1972, every day I sat for three to four hours staring at the blank paper lying before my eyes and could not write a single sentence. Painfully I thought of myself: “Being locked in the ‘cowshed’ for several years, had I really turned into a ‘cow’?” It seemed that my head was being pressed down by a huge stone and my thoughts were frozen. I simply put down my pen and did not write anything at all.