Critical Readings on Tang China [Volume 2] 9004380167, 9789004380165

Table of contents :
Contents
Literature and Cultural History
T’ang Literati: A Composite Biography
Transparencies: Reading the T’ang Lyric
The Significance of the fu in the History of T’ang Poetry
An Offering to the Prince: Wang Bo’s Apology for Poetry
Tamed Kite and Stranded Fish: Interference and Apology in Lu Chao-lin’s fu
A Re-evaluation of Chen Ziang’s “Manifesto of a Poetic Reform”
On Li Po
Li Po’s Letters in Pursuit of Political Patronage
Li Bai’s “Rhapsody on the Hall of Light”: A Singular Vision of Cosmic Order
Tu Fu
Tu Fu’s Social Conscience: Compassion and Topicality in his Poetry
Poems in Their Place: Collections and Canons in Early Chinese Literature
Heyue yingling ji and the Attributes of High Tang Poetry
The Formation of the Tang Estate Poem

Citation preview

Critical Readings on Tang China Volume 2

Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

Critical Readings on Tang China volume 2

Edited by

Paul W. Kroll

LEIDEN | BOSTON

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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov Library of Congress Control Number: 2018962592

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface isbn 978-90-04-28113-4 (hardback, set) isbn 978-90-04-28169-1 (hardback, vol. 1) isbn 978-90-04-28168-4 (hardback, vol. 2) isbn 978-90-04-28167-7 (hardback, vol. 3) isbn 978-90-04-28166-0 (hardback, vol. 4) isbn 978-90-04-38015-8 (e-book, vol. 1) isbn 978-90-04-38016-5 (e-book, vol. 2) isbn 978-90-04-38019-6 (e-book, vol. 3) isbn 978-90-04-38020-2 (e-book, vol. 4) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

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Contents Volume 1 Tang Emperors’ Accession Dates and Reign Titles (nianhao 年號) xi General Introduction 1 Paul W. Kroll

History—Political, Intellectual, and Military 1 Wen Ta-ya: The First Recorder of T’ang History 11 Woodbridge Bingham 2 The Rise to Power of the T’ang Dynasty: A Reassessment 17 Howard J. Wechsler 3 The T’ang Imperial Family 41 Denis Twitchett 4 Canonical Scholarship 100 David McMullen 5 Neo-Confucianism and Neo-Legalism in T’ang Intellectual Life, 755–805 163 Edwin G. Pulleyblank 6 The Structure of T’ang Selection 214 P. A. Herbert 7 Decree Examinations in T’ang China 237 P. A. Herbert

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8 The Bureaucratic Apparatus [of T’ang Historians] 267 Denis Twitchett 9 Bureaucracy and Cosmology: The Ritual Code of T’ang China 295 David McMullen 10

Wei Cheng’s Thought [esp. Regarding Government] 346 Howard J. Wechsler

11

Imperial Power and the Ruling Class [under Empress Wu] 367 Richard W. L. Guisso

12

The Chou Dynasty [of Empress Wu] 404 Richard W. L. Guisso

13

The Career of Yang Kuei-fei 455 Howard S. Levy

14

The Flight from the Capital and the Death of Precious Consort Yang 482 Paul W. Kroll

15

Foreign Policy 503 P. A. Herbert

16

The An Lu-shan Rebellion and the Origins of Chronic Militarism in Late T’ang China 518 Edwin G. Pulleyblank

Volume 2 Literature and Cultural History 17

T’ang Literati: A Composite Biography 545 Hans H. Frankel

18

Transparencies: Reading the T’ang Lyric 566 Stephen Owen

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19

The Significance of the fu in the History of T’ang Poetry 584 Paul W. Kroll

20 An Offering to the Prince: Wang Bo’s Apology for Poetry 597 Ding Xiang Warner 21

Tamed Kite and Stranded Fish: Interference and Apology in Lu Chao-lin’s fu 636 Paul W. Kroll

22

A Re-evaluation of Chen Ziang’s “Manifesto of a Poetic Reform” 666 Timothy Wai Keung Chan

23

On Li Po 694 Elling O. Eide

24 Li Po’s Letters in Pursuit of Political Patronage 731 Victor H. Mair 25 Li Bai’s “Rhapsody on the Hall of Light”: A Singular Vision of Cosmic Order 762 Nicholas Morrow Williams 26 Tu Fu 825 Stephen Owen 27

Tu Fu’s Social Conscience: Compassion and Topicality in his Poetry 894 Shan Chou

28 Poems in Their Place: Collections and Canons in Early Chinese Literature 936 Pauline Yu 29 Heyue yingling ji and the Attributes of High Tang Poetry 967 Paul W. Kroll 30 The Formation of the Tang Estate Poem 1001 Stephen Owen

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Volume 3 31

Lexical Landscapes and Textual Mountains in the High T’ang 1021 Paul W. Kroll

32 Historical and Literary Theory in the Mid-Eighth Century 1060 David McMullen 33 The Manuscript Legacy of the Tang: The Case of Literature 1096 Stephen Owen 34 Literary Collections in Tang Dynasty China 1126 Christopher M. B. Nugent 35 A Study of the Jinglong Wenguan Ji 1171 Jia Jinhua 36 The Old-Style fu of Han Yu 1204 David R. Knechtges 37

Another Go at the Mao Ying chuan 1230 Elling O. Eide

38 The Old Men [of the Early Ninth Century] 1235 Stephen Owen 39 The Inscription of Emotion in Mid-Tang Collegial Letters 1281 Anna M. Shields 40 Yüan Chen and ‘The Story of Ying-ying’ 1326 James R. Hightower 41

Nostalgia and History in Mid-Ninth-Century Verse: Cheng Yü’s Poem on “The Chin-yang Gate” 1360 Paul W. Kroll

42 Remembering Kaiyuan and Tianbao: The Construction of Mosaic Memory in Medieval Historical Miscellanies 1441 Manling Luo

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43 The Dancing Horses of T’ang 1476 Paul W. Kroll 44 Falconry in T’ang Times 1504 Edward H. Schafer 45 Public Values in Calligraphy and Orthography in the Tang Dynasty 1540 Amy McNair

Volume 4 Religion 46 The Role of Buddhist Monasteries in T’ang Society 1559 Kenneth K. S. Ch’en 47 Buddhism and Education in T’ang Times 1580 Erik Zürcher 48 Imperial Patronage in the Formation of T’ang Buddhism 1622 Stanley Weinstein 49 Stūpa, Sūtra, Śarīra in China, c. 656–706 CE 1663 T. H. Barrett 50 The Birth of a Patriarch: The Biography of Hui-neng 1714 Philip B. Yampolsky 51

Metropolitan Chan: Imperial Patronage and the Chan Style 1743 John McRae

52 Time after Time: Taoist Apocalyptic History and the Founding of the T’ang Dynasty 1776 Stephen R. Bokenkamp 53 Taoist Ordination Ranks in the Tun-huang Manuscripts 1805 Kristofer M. Schipper

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54 Taoism in the T’ien-pao Era, 742–56 1829 T. H. Barrett 55 Li Po’s Transcendent Diction 1839 Paul W. Kroll 56 Immortality Can be Studied 1875 Jan De Meyer 57

The Worshippers of Mount Hua 1915 Glen Dudbridge Index of Personal Names 1949

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Literature and Cultural History

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T’ang Literati: A Composite Biography Hans H. Frankel The T’ang period, 618–907, was one of the great ages of Chinese literature. The volume of writing, both poetry and prose, was unprecedented in a culture where the elite had long prided themselves on their literary accomplishments. Poetry was written, chanted, and appreciated by all literate classes of T’ang society, down to the lowliest monks and courtesans, and an elegant prose style was deemed essential for all serious communications, public or private. Emperors, princes, and high officials surrounded themselves with distinguished men of letters, and even hard-bitten generals employed literati to write their proclamations, reports to the throne, and other documents. Great writers emerged who remain among the giants of Chinese literary history. They wrought significant changes in the form and content of prose and poetry. Literary skills were required for passing the examinations which fed personnel into the vastly expanded bureaucracy. For all these reasons, the man of letters looms large in T’ang society and culture. Hence it is only natural that a long section in the official history of the period is devoted to the lives of one hundred and one selected writers. It is with these biographies that my paper deals. In deviating from the pattern of the other essays in this volume, each of which takes up a single life, I conform to the conception of my Chinese sources, where the literati are viewed not as individuals but as a group. I propose to examine first of all the scope of this section of the official history, to discuss the historians’ criteria of inclusion and exclusion, their scale of values, and related questions. Second, I shall take up the content of these biographies under three headings, corresponding to the three aspects of the lives in which the historiographers are interested: official careers, literary achievements, and character. In trying to discern how the literary man lived and worked in T’ang times, we shall have to slice through many layers of historiographical conventions. The resulting composite biography is bound to be fragmentary and distorted, but it may nevertheless shed

Source: “T’ang Literati: A Composite Biography,” in Arthur F. Wright and Denis Twitchett (eds.), Confucian Personalities, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1962, 65–83, 334–336. Copyright 1962, Board of Trustees of the Leland Stanford Jr. University. Reprinted by permission of the publisher, Stanford University Press, sup. org.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���9 | doi:��.��63/9789004380165_019

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some light on the attitudes and behavior patterns of the T’ang man of letters, and his role in the society of his time. The section of the Old History of the T’ang Dynasty (completed in 945) that comprises the biographies of one hundred and one literati is entitled “Garden of Letters.”1 This “Garden of Letters” is one of the special biographical categories (sometimes called “classified biographies”) that appear, in varying numbers, in all the Chinese dynastic histories. These special categories seem to be reserved for those who fall short of the Confucian ideal of a well-rounded gentleman—the biographies of the greatest men of the dynasty are always unclassified. Furthermore, the classifications follow each other on a descending scale which roughly reflects the value system of the historiographers. On this scale, the literati rank rather low in the Old History of the T’ang Dynasty: the only categories below them are technicians, recluses, exemplary women, barbarians, and rebels. Thus the selection of writers included in the “Garden of Letters” is not based on literary criteria alone. To be sure, some of the best-known poets and prose writers are included—men like Ch’en Tzu-ang, Li Hua, Wang Wei, Li Po, Tu Fu, Li Shang-yin, Wen T’ing-yün, and Ssu-k’ung T’u. But one misses others of equal stature, such as Chang Yüeh, Han Yü, Po Chü-i, and Li Te-yü. The explanation has already been suggested above: the latter were prominent statesmen, whereas the “Garden of Letters” is reserved for those who were famous only as literati, and this, in the view of the Confucian historiographer, is a shortcoming. Though brilliant and successful as writers, they all failed to win top positions in government service. Nearly all of them, however, did serve in the bureaucracy. With this restriction in mind, it might be supposed that the one hundred and one biographies give us a fairly representative sampling of bureaucrats who were active in literature from all parts of China throughout the three hundred years of T’ang rule. But this is not the case. The selection is uneven in both time and space. If we divide the T’ang epoch into six periods of approximately fifty years each, and assign each of the one hundred and one literati to the period in which all or most of his political and literary activities occurred, we get the following distribution:

1  Chiu T’ang-shu (CTS), ch. 190. The biographies can be counted in more than one way. My figure 101 takes in all those, including “attached” biographies, that give information beyond the man’s name and his relationship to the person to whose biography he is attached, but I have excluded those “attached” biographies that do not mention literary achievements. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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Period i Period ii Period iii

(618–649): (649–705): (705–756):

13 38 33

Period iv Period v Period vi

(756–805): (805–859): (859–907):

6 6 5

That is to say, seventy-one of the one hundred and one literati were active between the mid-seventh and the mid-eighth century, during the reigns of Kao-tsung, the Empress Wu, Hsüan-tsung, and some brief interregna; only thirteen belong to the first two reigns (Kao-tsu and T’ai-tsung); and a mere seventeen are registered for the entire second half of T’ang, beginning with the An Lu-shan insurrection, which marks indeed a turning point in many respects. The irregular distribution in time is partly due to the fact that many literati are assigned by the historiographers to categories other than the “Garden of Letters.” The distribution in space is also uneven. If we list the home regions of the literati in terms of modern provinces and arrange them in the order of frequency, the regional picture looks like this: Honan: Hopei: Kiangsu: Chekiang: Shensi: Shansi:

23 14 12 12 11 10

Shantung: Hupeh: Szechwan: Kansu: Anhwei: Home unknown:

5 5 5 2 1 1

Many parts of China are not represented at all—regions in which the cultural level was still low in T’ang times. By rearranging the above table to form larger regional units, we obtain the following: Northeast (Honan-Hopei-Shantung): Southeast (Kiangsu-Chekiang-Anhwei): Northwest (Shansi-Shensi-Kansu): West-central (Hupeh-Szechwan):

42 25 23 10

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I have found no correlation between temporal and spatial distribution, that is, the regional distribution does not change significantly in the course of the T’ang dynasty. I will now consider the official careers of the literati. The first point of interest in a man’s career is how it started. This is usually but not always indicated in our biographies. The most-traveled route to office was the examination system, especially after the system was revamped and strengthened in the reigns of Kao-tsung and the Empress Wu. (For the two preceding reigns, 618–49, our record contains not a single instance of an examination leading to a career.) Of the eighty-eight literati who flourished from the mid-seventh century to the end of T’ang, all except three had official careers. One half of these eightyfive men—namely, forty-three—entered their career through an examination, usually the chin-shih examination (thirty-two instances). Another important aid in getting an appointment was recommendation by an influential patron. This is reported in twenty-one of the ninety-six biographies that register an official T’ang career. Eight of these twenty-one record both an examination (the chin-shih in seven cases) and a patron. There were numerous other possible starts for a career. Some of these are of sufficient interest to be cited here. K’ung Shao-an, the first of the one hundred and one literati, had the good fortune and foresight to befriend Li Yüan, the future founder of T’ang, when the latter was a military commander under the preceding dynasty, Sui, “punishing rebels” for the last Sui emperor. K’ung was then a Provincial Censor (chien-ch’a yü-shih), and his assignment was to check on the activities of Li Yüan. As soon as Li Yüan openly rebelled against the Sui and set up his own dynasty, K’ung hastened to the newly established T’ang court to demonstrate his loyalty to the new regime. He was rewarded with the job of Director of Decrees in the Imperial Secretariat (nei-shih she-jen) and with gifts of a house, two fine horses, money, rice, silk, and cotton. (We may note in passing that K’ung Shao-an was following a family tradition: his ancestors were nearly always on the winning side in one power struggle after another through four hundred of the most turbulent years in China’s history.2) However, K’ung was surpassed by another man, Hsia-hou Tuan, who had also formerly been a Provincial Censor “supervising” Li Yüan’s army. This man got to the T’ang court ahead of K’ung, and therefore received a better job, Director of the Imperial Library (mi-shu chien). K’ung expressed his chagrin in a manner befitting a man of letters: he improvised a poem at an imperial banquet, when the emperor called for poems on the theme “pomegranate.” K’ung’s contribution contained the couplet: 2  See Hans H. Frankel, “The K’ung Family of Shan-yin,” Tsing Hua Journal of Chinese Studies, N.S., ii, No. 2 (1961), pp. 303–4. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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A latecomer am I, My blossoms don’t open in time for spring.3 (The pomegranate blooms later than other flowering trees in China.) Not every man of letters had the opportunity to cultivate the friendship of a future emperor, but obviously many successful careers depended on knowing the right people. Recommendation and patronage have already been mentioned. An interesting case of recommendation which did not come off is that of Hsiao Ying-shih (717–68). When he received the chin-shih degree in 735, he was familiar with the leading literati of his time. That was why, according to his biography, Chief Minister Li Lin-fu wanted to appoint him to a government office, and summoned him to his official residence. At the interview Hsiao appeared dressed in coarse hempen clothing (he was mourning his mother). Li was offended, and severely reprimanded him. Result: no recommendation, no appointment, and enmity between the two men. Hsiao then wrote a fu ridiculing Li, entitled “Fa ying-t’ao fu,” parts of which are quoted in the biography.4 Just as French intellectuals gravitate to Paris, so the T’ang literati were for the most part anxious to be stationed at or near the imperial court. But it was usual for them to begin their official careers with a humble position in a provincial administration. As many as forty-five of our biographies mention a provincial post in the early part of the career. This seems to have been an established procedure. When Hsüeh Feng was recommended for the office of Director of Decrees in the second half of the ninth century, his enemy Liu Chuan objected, stating in a memorial that according to the system established in previous T’ang reigns, no one could become Director of Decrees in the Imperial Secretariat or the Imperial Chancellery who had not previously served in a provincial post. Hsüeh was consequently given a provincial appointment.5 But the initial provincial appointment did not necessarily cut the young writer off from the mainstream of cultural life. He often managed to be placed in a district near one of the imperial capitals or other metropolitan centers. In fact, our record does not contain a single case of the apprenticeship being 3  C TS (Po-na ed.), ch. 190A, p. 2a. 4  Ibid., ch. 190C, p. 1b. The very tide of the fu, “Felling Cherry Trees,” is perhaps a jab at Li Lin-fu, whose surname means “plum tree.” But the full significance of this episode escapes me. Does it reflect the conflict between the northwestern aristocrats, headed by Li Lin-fu, and the literati, represented here by Hsiao Ying-shih? On the other hand, Li in this story and elsewhere appears anxious to draw the literati to his side. The T’ang historiographers, strongly biased against Li, are ever ready to include material that tends to discredit him. See E. G. Pulleyblank, The Background of the Rebellion of An Lu-shan (London, 1955), p. 55. 5  C TS, ch. 190C, p. 20a. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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served in a really remote province. Assignment to outlying areas does occur, as we shall see, as a punishment. Some literati commenced their careers by serving in the court of an imperial prince as tutors, clerks, readers, librarians, or drafters of official documents. Fifteen such initial assignments are recorded in our biographies. They are a holdover from pre-T’ang times. Hence they are most common in the early period of T’ang rule, then gradually decrease, and cease altogether in the middle of the dynasty. Here are the details: in Period I (618–49), out of eleven literati who became T’ang officials, six started in a princely court; in Period ii (649– 705), seven out of thirty-seven; in Period iii (707–56), two out of thirty-one; but none of the seventeen literati who lived in Periods iv–vi (756–907) began their careers that way. An instructive example of a man of letters who got started on his career through princely patronage is Yüan Ch’eng-hsü. I quote from his biography: During the Wu-te era (618–27), his reputation came to the notice of Li Yüan-chi, Prince of Ch’i, who summoned him to become a scholar in his court. Later the Prince’s court was abolished…. When Kao-tsung was a prince and Emperor T’ai-tsung was selecting men of learning and character to be in his entourage, the emperor asked the Vice-President of the Imperial Secretariat, Ts’en Wen-pen: “Who among the renowned ministers of Liang and Ch’en may be cited as outstanding? And furthermore, are there any junior members of their families who may be summoned?” Wen-pen replied: “When the Sui army invaded Ch’en, all the officials fled and scattered; none remained except Yüan Hsien, who stayed at his lord’s side. When Wang Shih-ch’ung attempted to usurp the throne from the Sui, the regional officials petitioned him to proclaim himself emperor. But Yüan Hsien’s son, the Director of Decrees of the Imperial Chancellery, Yüan Ch’eng-chia, pleaded illness and was the only one not to sign. These men, father and son, may well be called loyal and upright, and Yüan Ch’eng-chia’s younger brother, Yüan Ch’eng-hsü, is a man of integrity and refinement. He is truly carrying on the family tradition.” Consequently the emperor summoned him to become a Companion to the Prince of Chin and to be his Tutor, and also appointed him Scholar in the Academy for the Advancement of Letters.6

6  Ibid., ch. 190A, p. 3a.

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In the second half of the T’ang dynasty, and to a lesser extent before, the princes were replaced as patrons of the literati by powerful officials, civil and military. These officials surrounded themselves with scholars and writers for practical reasons as well as for prestige. For a talented young man, association with an influential person was often the only way to get ahead. But it always involved the risk of a sudden downfall if the patron should die or lose his position of power. “Guilt by association,” an uncomfortably familiar concept in presentday America, was a common offense in T’ang China. It was the most frequent reason for inflicting demotion, exile, imprisonment, death, or some other form of punishment on the literati. Out of forty-two literati for whom punishment is recorded, twenty-six were charged with “having formerly befriended” some powerful personage who had suddenly become a criminal. Six of them fell when Chang I-chih and his brother Chang Ch’ang-tsung, former favorites of the Empress Wu, were executed in 705; the two brothers had brought many literati into the government. Fourteen were found guilty of some personal crime other than association (including two who were charged with association in addition to a crime of their own), and four were punished for unspecified crimes. Wang Wu-ching was one of those who were disgraced and exiled (in his case to Ling-piao, in the extreme south) when Chang I-chih and his clique were executed, “because of his former association” with that group.7 But in this and many other instances, it is difficult to determine whether the former association was the real reason for the man’s downfall or merely a welcome excuse. Wang had been in trouble before. Once, when serving as Palace Censor, he had pointed out in open court that two Chief Ministers were violating court etiquette by leaving their places and chatting. The two Ministers did not take kindly to this criticism, and arranged for his speedy transfer from the Imperial Palace to the Palace of the Heir Apparent.8 “Association” is a cardinal feature in the biographies—not only as a criminal offense. We read much about who was associated with whom, and in what pursuit. Patronage, friendship, collaboration, and political cliques were very real phenomena in the lives of the literati. To seek out these associations was also an important concern of the historiographers. One of their tasks, as they saw it, was to fit each man into the proper groups, affiliations, classifications, and categories. They did this on a large scale when they made their selections for the “Garden of Letters.” This category is in turn broken down into a number of special groups, some of which overlap. The subtle process of grouping within the chapter becomes partly visible in the peculiar phenomenon of the 7  Ibid., ch. 190B, p. 11a. 8  Ibid., pp. 10b–11a.

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“attached” biographies. To be sure, in many cases this means simply grouping together various members of one family, a well-established practice in the dynastic histories. (An example of this use of the device is the first biography in the “Garden of Letters,” the biography of K’ung Shao-an: attached to his life are brief notices of his father Huan, his elder brother Shao-hsin, his son Chen, Chen’s son Chi-hsü, and another grandson of Shao-an, named Jo-ssu; only one of these—brother Shao-hsin—is presented as a man of letters in his own right.) But “attachment” was also used traditionally for grouping together men who were felt to belong together for reasons other than family ties. Thus to the biography of Yüan Wan-ch’ing are attached those of four of his colleagues. The five were brought together by the Empress Wu in the late seventh century, and became known in their own time as “The Scholars of the Northern Gate” (Pei-men hsüeh-shih).9 This appellation shows that the grouping was already an accomplished fact when the biographers went to work. Another group with a fixed name were “The Three Eminent Men of the Northern Capital” (Pei-ching san chieh). Two of these, Fu Chia-mo and Wu Shao-wei, were friends and colleagues. The third one, Ku I, is linked to them simply because he served in the same region (T’ai-yüan, the Northern Capital) at the same time (around 700), and because he was equally famous as a writer.10 The same lack of homogeneity is evident in the group of six contemporary writers attached to Ho Chih-chang (659–744). Five of them were, like Ho, from the area of modern Chekiang, but the sixth one, Li Ch’eng-chih, was from what is now Honan, and I have discovered no reason for his inclusion in the group.11 Another rather incongruous series of lives is appended to the biography of Li Hua: first, there is his friend and classmate Hsiao Ying-shih (both took the chin-shih degree in 735); then comes Li Hua’s nephew Li Han, who was himself a writer of some note; next, there is Li Hua’s friend Lu Chü; next, there are three other writers of the same period—Ts’ui Hao, Wang Ch’ang-ling, and Meng Hao-jan—who “acquired fame but no high official rank.” The last biography in the group is that of Yüan Te-hsiu, another friend of Li Hua’s.12 Association, then, is a cardinal but loosely used concept in the structuring of the biographies. Another key concept is “precedent.” The biographer takes pains to record actions and events that started new procedures or served as models for later generations. He is interested in such precedents regardless of whether they affect the life of the individual. For example, the highest state 9  Ibid., pp. 2a–b. 10  Ibid., p. 3b. 11  Ibid., pp. 14b–15b. 12  Ibid., ch. 190C, pp. 1a–3a.

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examinations were held only in one place, the Western Capital (Ch’ang-an), down to 764. In that year, one of our literati, Chia Chih, proposed that they be held in the Eastern Capital (Lo-yang) as well, and his proposal was adopted. “This practice,” says the biographer, “was initiated at that time.”13 He does not comment on this institutional change, which strengthened and expanded the examination system and made possible a greater influx of literati, particularly from northeastern China, into the bureaucracy. It is significant that Chia Chih, who proposed this innovation, was himself one of the northeastern literati; his family home was in Lo-yang. In the biography of Kuo Cheng-i it is stated that when he was appointed Honorary Vice-President of the Imperial Secretariat in 681, he thereby became Minister Ranking with the Chief Officers of the Imperial Secretariat and the Imperial Chancellery (t’ung chung-shu men-hsia p’ing-chang-shih, often abbreviated p’ing-chang-shih), and that “the title p’ing-chang-shih as an appellation for Chief Ministers [tsai-hsiang] was first applied to Cheng-i and his colleagues.”14 Here it is clear that the historiographer is more interested in the change in bureaucratic nomenclature than in the man who was graced with a new title. In the case of Chang Yün-ku, the manner of the subject’s death leads to the establishment of a precedent. Chang was one of Emperor T’ai-tsung’s favorites, but he was accused of mishandling a judicial case and executed by T’ai-tsung’s order in 631. Then the emperor regretted his hasty decision and instituted a new procedure, providing that every death sentence was to be reviewed five times before it could be carried out. “This procedure,” states the historian, “originated with the case of Chang Yün-ku.”15 We turn now from the official careers of the literati to their literary activities. The biographies reveal a stereotyped image which the tenth-century historiographers had formed of the art of letters and of those who practiced it. The man of letters, as seen by them, was likely to be precocious, profoundly learned, endowed with a prodigious memory, and able to write at incredible speed. He tended to be haughty, and hence to offend his colleagues and superiors. Precociousness will be discussed below in a different context. The association of book learning with literary excellence is entirely in keeping with the Confucian tradition. The stereotyped feature of a photographic memory—a

13  Ibid., ch. 190B, p. 13b. 14  Ibid., p. 1b. 15  Ibid., ch. 190A, p. 8a.

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natural corollary of the erudition prerequisite to literary composition—is repeatedly illustrated by graphic detail, which arouses our suspicions.16 Of Chang Yün-ku, for example, it is said that “he was able to recite stone inscriptions from memory, and to reconstitute the arrangement of a chessboard.”17 The same topos of memorizing stone inscriptions occurs also in the biography of Hsiao Ying-shih (717–68): “Once he went on an excursion to the Dragon Gate, south of Lo-yang, together with Li Hua and Lu Chü. The three of them read old stone inscriptions by the roadside. Hsiao Ying-shih could recite each one after reading it once; Li Hua had to read them twice before he could remember them; and Lu Chü thrice. Critics ranked the three men’s intellectual stature in the same order.”18 This ranking of literati according to their intellectual and artistic abilities is one of the biographers’ preoccupations. Speed of literary composition is another topos. It crops up in eleven of the biographies, and also in the Introduction to the “Garden of Letters.” It reflects, on the one hand, an actual phenomenon of literary craftsmanship in T’ang times. There were many occasions in the lives of the literati that called for improvisation and swiftness in writing: literary games and contests, public and private parties and celebrations, imperial commands and state examinations. The stock phrase hsia pi ch’eng chang (“as soon as the brush touches the paper, a composition is finished”), already common in earlier dynastic histories, occurs frequently in our biographies. It even became institutionalized in T’ang times as the name of a state examination. On the other hand, the topos of speedy composition reflects a blurred concept of the art of writing in the layman’s mind. The work of a creative genius appears to the outsider to be accomplished effortlessly and instantaneously. The historiographer reveals himself to be an outsider when faced with the phenomenon of purely literary composition. One may even detect a trace of hostility in his attitude toward the man of letters. This is reflected in the frequent references to literary pride—another topos. A typical anecdote brings together two poets of the early seventh century, Cheng Shih-i and Ts’ui Hsin-ming. I quote from the biography of Cheng Shih-i (whom the historian labels “frivolous”): At that time, Ts’ui Hsin-ming considered his own writings to be non­ pareil…. Cheng Shih-i once met him traveling on a river and said to him: “I have heard of your line, ‘Maple leaves fall on the Wu River, cold.’ ” Ts’ui 16  See Hans Bielenstein, The Restoration of the Han Dynasty (Stockholm, 1953), pp. 73–74. 17  CTS, ch. 190A, p. 7a. 18  Ibid., ch. 190C, pp. 1b–2a.

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Hsin-ming, delighted, showed him more than a hundred of his poems. Cheng Shih-i looked at them, and without finishing his perusal, he said: “What I have seen is not as good as what I had heard.” With these words he tossed them into the river. Ts’ui Hsin-ming was speechless, and rowed away.19 The haughtiness of the T’ang poets may have been exaggerated by their unsympathetic biographers, but it was certainly a real phenomenon, and not restricted to T’ang China. One of our contemporary English poets has said: It is evident that a faith in their vocation, mystical in intensity, sustains poets…. Although it is true that poets are vain and ambitious, their vanity and ambition is of the purest kind attainable in this world, for the saint renounces ambition. They are ambitious to be accepted for what they ultimately are as revealed by their inmost experiences, their finest perceptions, their deepest feelings, their uttermost sense of truth, in their poetry.20 Hart Crane used to hand a sheet or two fresh off the typewriter to his friends at Sunday afternoon parties, and he would say: “Read that! Isn’t that the grrreatest poem ever written!”21 The biographies are concerned not only with literary men’s attitudes toward creativity but also with the sources of their inspiration. Hu Ch’u-pin (fl. second half of seventh century, died before 689) is stated to have needed alcohol in order to write,22 and the drinking of wine is also mentioned in four other biographies.23 The association of wine with literary creation was a well-established tradition in the T’ang period. It can be traced back to the time when the literati as a class achieved their prominent position in Chinese society, namely, the end of Later Han.24 But the compilers of the Old History of the T’ang Dynasty were actually less interested in wine as inspiration for writers than in its effect on a man’s official career. In the biography of Hu Ch’u-pin, 19  Ibid., ch. 190A, p. 5a. 20  Stephen Spender, “The Making of a Poem,” in Brewster Ghiselin (ed.), The Creative Process (New York, Mentor Books, 1959), pp. 122–123. 21  Malcolm Cowley, “Remembering Hart Crane,” in The Creative Process, pp. 145–146. 22  CTS, ch. 190B, p. 2b. 23  Ho Chih-chang, CTS, ch. 190B, p. 15a; Li Po, ch. 190C, pp. 4a–b; Tu Fu, ch. 190C, p. 5a; Ts’ui Hsien, ch. 190C, p. 8a. 24  See Wang Yao, Chung-ku wen-hsüeh shih lun chi (Shanghai, 1956), pp. 28–48.

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they note that his intoxication never caused him to betray state secrets. And leaking official secrets, as we shall see, is an offense charged to several other literati. Of Ts’ui Hsien (chin-shih of 807, d. 834), they report that as a provincial administrator, he drank with his friends all day, then did excellent work on official documents all night, which caused his subordinates to admire him as a “divine being” (shen jen).25 Another source of inspiration for writing—music—is mentioned in the biography of Li Han: “During the T’ien-pao era [742–56] he lived in Yang-ti. He perfected his writings with the utmost care, and his ideas formed slowly. He often requested musicians from the magistrate of Yang-ti district, Huang-fu Tseng. Whenever the flow of his ideas dried up, he had music played until his mind was at ease; then he proceeded to write.”26 Finally, the specific occasion that led to the writing of a work of poetry or prose is frequently told, and in some cases, the work itself is quoted wholly or in part—a well-established feature in the biographies of the dynastic histories. But the compilers of the Old History of the T’ang Dynasty depart from earlier tradition by quoting only works they consider “useful,” never those that are merely “beautiful.” They thus carry out a policy credited to Emperor T’ai-tsung, under whose personal direction historiography was thoroughly reorganized and systematized as a state institution. The Chen-kuan cheng-yao by Wu Ching (670–749) sets forth T’ai-tsung’s viewpoint as follows: In the early part of the Chen-kuan era [627–50], T’ai-tsung said to Fang Hsüan-ling, who was in charge of compiling the history of the reigning dynasty: “Reading the Histories of Former and Later Han, We find that they quote Yang Hsiung’s ‘Fu on the Sacrifice to Heaven at the Palace of the Sweet Springs’ and his ‘Fu on the Emperor’s Hunt with the Yü-lin Guards”; Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju’s ‘Fu of Tzu-hsü’ and his ‘Fu on the Imperial Hunting Park’; and Pan Ku’s ‘Fu on the Two Capitals.’ Since these works are written in frothy and flowery style, they are of no use as exhortations and admonitions; why should they be incorporated in books of history? But memorials to the throne and discussions of affairs with trenchant and straight wording and ideas, capable of benefiting the art of government—all such works should be included in the history of this dynasty, regardless of whether We have followed them or not.”27

25  CTS, ch. 190C, p. 8a. 26  Ibid., p. 2a. 27   Chen-kuan cheng-yao (Ssu-pu ts’ung-k’an ed.), ch. 7, pp. 8a–b.

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In accordance with this policy, we find a total of twenty-four works quoted in whole or in part in twenty-two of the one hundred and one biographies. The reasons for quoting these works are in some cases quite obvious, in others less so. As I see it, every quotation meets one or more of three qualifications: (1) it develops a concept dear to the historiographer’s heart; (2) it criticizes a person or group disliked by the historiographer; (3) it illustrates the talent or character of the subject of the biography. The first qualification is met by most of the quoted memorials and other communications addressed to emperors and heirs apparent. Though they are usually concerned with a specific problem which was acute at the moment, the historiographer must have felt that they all possessed a “timeless” value which warranted their inclusion in the dynastic history, for the indoctrination and edification of future generations. Four of these quoted documents follow an established Confucian tradition in setting before incoming and future emperors the image of a perfect ruler. In one of these, Liu Hsien (d. 711 or 712) urges the Heir Apparent—later the Emperor Hsüan-tsung—to cultivate Confucian virtues rather than gratify sensual desires; he emphasizes the value of the Confucian Classics as models of style, and warns against flowery elegance. The biographer adds that Hsüantsung was pleased with the memorial and rewarded its author.28 Another memorial to the same Hsüan-tsung as Heir Apparent deals with a more specific situation: Chia Tseng (d. 727) opposes the employment of singing girls in the Heir Apparent’s palace. (Hsüan-tsung’s interest in music and musicians is a historic fact.) The Prince’s reply, acceding to Chia Tseng’s request, is also quoted.29 It is noteworthy that, T’ai-tsung’s opinion notwithstanding, the requests embodied in the quoted memorials were in most cases granted. In other words, the historiographer preferably cites documents that positively affected decisions and thus made history. Some of the memorials in the “Garden of Letters” deal with state ceremonies and Confucian ritual. Ho Chih-chang outlines the procedure to be followed in the imperial sacrifice at Mount T’ai in 725.30 Yang Chiung during the I-feng era (676–79) argued at length—and successfully—against a proposed change in the official robe patterns.31 When Emperor Kao-tsung died in Lo-yang, the Eastern Capital, in 683, Ch’en Tzu-ang presented convincing arguments for

28  CTS, ch. 190B, p. 5a. 29  Ibid., pp. 11b–12a. 30  Ibid., pp. 14b–15a. 31  Ibid., ch. 190A, pp. 11b–12b.

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proceeding with his burial right there, rather than at the Western Capital.32 This is historically important in connection with the Empress Wu’s shift of the capital from Ch’ang-an to Lo-yang, and the concomitant loss of power of the northwestern aristocracy centered around Ch’ang-an. In the early part of the K’ai-yüan era (713–42), a memorial by Hsü Ching-hsien succeeded in reducing the lavish awards to officials who did well in archery contests.33 The three last-mentioned memorials all stress the Confucian idea of economy in government expenditures. Others concern filial piety and ancestor worship: Sun T’i complained in 736 that his father was merely a District Magistrate (hsien ling), while he himself was already a Director of Decrees in the Imperial Secretariat (chung-shu she-jen). This demonstration of filiality got his father a promotion.34 Hsü Ch’i-tan (630–72) pointed out in a memorial that it was unfair to degrade a man’s ancestral shrine to atone for crimes committed by his descendants. He, too, carried his point.35 In the category of criticism of persons and groups disliked by the historiographers, there is Hsiao Ying-shih’s fu satirizing Li Lin-fu (see above), and a long diatribe against the eunuchs, written by Liu Fen in 828 in response to an examination question set by the emperor himself.36 The third criterion for quoting from a man’s works is mentioned specifically in several instances, and is perhaps applicable to other quotations as well: the passages are stated to represent the man’s “special talent” (ts’ai), or some trait of his character, good or bad. For example, a statement presented to the throne by Kuo Cheng-i in 678, during a Tibetan invasion, advocating a more defensive military policy vis-à-vis Tibet, is quoted with evident approval and asserted to be typical of Kuo Cheng-i’s “talent” (ts’ai).37 On the other hand, Ssu-k’ung T’u’s (837–908) “Essay on the Hsiu-hsiu Pavilion” is quoted as “typical of his perverseness and swaggering pride.”38 As far as references to literary style in the biographies are concerned, the historiographers show interest in matters of priority, imitation, innovation, and precedents. (We noted above a similar interest in precedents in connection with official careers.) The just-mentioned essay by Ssu-k’ung T’u is stated to be an imitation of Po Chü-i’s “Tsui-yin chuan.” Stylistic innovations are credited 32  Ibid., ch. 190B, pp. 5b–7b. 33  Ibid., pp. 13b–14a. 34  Ibid., p. 20b. 35  Ibid., ch. 190A, p. 10a. 36  Ibid., ch. 190C, pp. 11a–18b. 37  Ibid., ch. 190B, pp. 1b–2a. 38  Ibid., ch. 190C, pp. 22b–23a.

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to Fu Chia-mo and his friend and colleague Wu Shao-wei (both fl. around 700). They created a new style, says their biographer, for stele inscriptions and eulogies. Based on the Confucian Classics, it became known as the “Fu-Wu style.”39 (A modern literary historian agrees that Fu’s and Wu’s prose writings mark a significant step in the development of the ku-wen movement.40) Li Shang-yin (812?–58?) began to write in “modern style” under the influence of his patron Ling-hu Ch’u.41 While the historiographers make occasional references of this sort to literary styles, they pay more attention to the practical aspects of literature. They tell us how the literati made use of their literary abilities in their workaday lives. Many of them found employment as tutors, secretaries, clerks, editors, librarians, propagandists, and the like, in government bureaus and private establishments. Some became ghost writers for highly placed officials: under the reign of the Empress Wu, Yen Chao-yin and Sung Chih-wen “secretly” wrote many of the pieces published under the names of the empress’s favorite Chang I-chih and his associates.42 Li Shang-yin was in charge of composing documents at the headquarters of General Wang Mao-yüan. The General “admired his talent and married off his daughter to him.” “Wang Mao-yüan,” the biography goes on to explain, “though literate and trained in Confucian learning, came from a family of military men.”43 Li Yung (678?–747) managed to amass a fortune by writing on commission. He ground out hundreds of obituaries, eulogies, and other prose pieces for private individuals, and for Buddhist and Taoist temples. The historiographer does not approve of such commercialism. He cites the opinion of “critics at the time” who held that “from antiquity down, no one had ever gone as far as Li Yung in selling his writings to acquire wealth.”44 In the style of these biographies, the historian often bestows praise and condemnation indirectly, through unnamed “critics at the time,” and occasionally by citing the opinion of a prominent individual. 39  Ibid., ch. 190B, p. 3b. 40   Nagasawa Kikuya and Eugen Feifel, Geschichte der chinesischen Literatur, 2d ed. (Darmstadt, 1959), p. 202. 41  CTS, ch. 190C, p. 19b. Ling-hu Ch’u compiled a small anthology of recent T’ang poetry (Li Shang-yin is not included) for the emperor’s perusal; see T’ang-jen hsüan T’ang-shih (Shanghai, 1958), pp. 191–255. 42  CTS, ch. 190B, p. 10b. 43  Ibid., ch. 190C, p. 19a. 44  Ibid., ch. 190B, p. 20a.

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An understanding of the subtleties of literature was frequently a practical asset. For instance, during the campaign against Koguryö in 667, the commander of the Chinese garrison at Pyongyang wished to inform his commander in chief, Li Chi, that he was short of men and supplies. To keep this information from the enemy, he coded the message in the form of a li-ho shih—a poem in which one has to split the characters and recombine the elements in order to get the hidden meaning. When General Li Chi received the poem, he exclaimed: “What’s the use of writing poetry in a military emergency like this? That man should be beheaded!” The situation was saved by one of our literati, Yüan Wan-ch’ing, who was on Li Chi’s staff. He deciphered the code message, and reinforcements and supplies were dispatched at once to the Chinese garrison.45 Though the historiographer does not say so explicitly, he is obviously delighted to expose the dullness of the military mind. (Compare the remark about General Wang Mao-yüan above.) But during the same Korean campaign, Yüan Wan-ch’ing got into trouble through an indiscretion in the application of his literary skills. Li Chi ordered him to write the official proclamation of war. In the proclamation, Yüan included the phrase: “Koguryö does not know how to defend the strategic Yalu.” This tipped off the enemy commander: he promptly stationed troops at the Yalu River fords, and the Chinese forces were unable to cross. For this mistake, Yüan was exiled to the extreme south—but he was amnestied soon thereafter.46 A critical situation which arose at a solemn court function in the last decade of the seventh century was retrieved through the literary skill of Wang Chü. Five imperial princes were being installed in their fiefs, and when the ceremony was already under way it was discovered, to everyone’s dismay, that the documents of investiture had not been brought along. Then Wang Chü improvised the five complicated documents on the spot, dictating them to five scribes simultaneously, and the ceremony went on as planned.47 (Again the topos of instantaneous composition.) Another writer whose literary skills impressed the historiographers was Li Chü-ch’uan (d. 898). “Since the empire was then very unsettled, with people wandering hither and thither, eager for salary and position, he served various highly placed men as a writer in different parts of the country…. Li Chü-ch’uan’s style and ideas were clever and swift, his brush sped as if it were flying, it spread to the far borders and left nothing unmoved.” When he served on the staff of the warlord Wang Ch’ung-jung, “it was due to Li Chü-ch’uan’s assistance that Wang Ch’ung-jung repeatedly acquired merit.” Later Wang Ch’ung-jung was 45  Ibid., p. 2a; Tzu chih t’ung-chien, Ch’ien-feng second year, ninth month. 46  CTS, ch. 190B, p. 2a; Tzu chih t’ung-chien, Ch’ien-feng second year, ninth month. 47  CTS, ch. 190A, p. 14a. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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killed by his subordinates, and Li “was found guilty by the court councillors of having served” Wang. Consequently he was sent to an obscure provincial post. There he met another warlord and former acquaintance, Yang Shou-liang, who exclaimed: “ ‘Heaven has bequeathed Secretary Li to me!’ ” In Yang’s service, Li together with his master was captured by an opposing military commander, Han Chien. But while Yang was killed by his captor, Li wrote a poem which so moved Han Chien that he released him and later put him on his own staff. On another occasion, when the emperor took up his temporary abode in the region governed by Han Chien, the latter found the local resources insufficient to support this added burden. He therefore commissioned Li Chü-ch’uan to write an urgent appeal which was sent to all parts of the empire, asking for help in supplying provisions for the royal household and setting up the imperial residence. The appeal went out in all four directions, and in response supplies poured in. When Li Chü-ch’uan put ink on paper and set forth his arguments, both form and reasoning were perfect. Emperor Chao-tsung esteemed him profoundly. At that time Li Chü-ch’uan’s fame spread all over the empire. When Chao-tsung returned to the capital, he gave him a special appointment as Imperial Adviser. He concurrently continued in his post as assistant to Han Chien. As Li Chü-ch’uan had lived by the power of his brush, so he died by it, according to the biography. When the mighty warlord Chu Ch’üan-chung was preparing to make himself independent (he did overthrow the T’ang dynasty nine years later), he consulted Li about his plans. Li presented him with a statement, setting forth both the advantages and the disadvantages of Chu’s plan. Chu Ch’üan-chung was displeased. On top of this, another man of letters in Chu’s service was jealous of Li and pointed out to Chu: “ ‘Imperial Adviser Li’s statement is sincerely and beautifully written, but it does not redound to my master’s advantage.’ On that day,” concludes the biography, “Li Chü-ch’uan was killed by order of Chu Ch’üan-chung.”48 As we turn now to the third aspect of the biographies—character and personality—we find several key concepts emerging. One of these is the orthodox Confucian association of intellectual and moral qualities. For example, we saw above that Yüan Ch’eng-hsü was selected by Emperor T’ai-tsung as one of several “men of learning and character” to serve in the entourage of the Heir Apparent, and that he was said to have inherited these sterling qualities from his ancestors. The theory of inherited qualities accounts in part for the habit of 48  Ibid., ch. 190C, pp. 21a–b. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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listing ancestors, with official titles, near the beginning of many biographies. Another reason is the need to establish a man’s family background and his aristocratic lineage, if any. An interesting case of inherited characteristics is described in the biography of Sung Ling-wen (fl. second half of seventh century): he was a strong man, a fine calligrapher, and a good writer; and each of his three sons inherited one of his three distinctions.49 Another key phenomenon is the biographers’ failure to conceive a human life in dynamic terms of growth and development. Rather, they think of personality, career, and the capacity to achieve (in literature or any other field) as more or less fixed from the very beginning. This view is evident, for example, in the biography of Ts’ui Hsin-ming (b. in 580’s, d. after 632): Ts’ui Hsin-ming was born exactly at noon on the fifth day of the fifth month. At that time, several unusual birds with extremely small, five-colored bodies gathered on a tree in the courtyard, drummed their wings in unison, and chirped beautifully. The Director of the Imperial Observatory of Sui, Shih Liang-shih, had just come to Ch’ing Prefecture and happened to be present. He interpreted the omens as follows: “The fifth month is fire; fire is brightness; brightness is literary splendor. The exact hour of noon means the acme of literary perfection. Then there are birds of five colors, beating their wings and chirping. This boy will surely become a brilliant writer whose fame will spread over the entire world. Since the birds are small, his salary and rank will probably not be high.” As he grew up, his learning was broad, and his memory keen. As soon as his brush touched paper, a composition was finished [hsia pi ch’eng chang]. Kao Hsiao-chi, who lived in the same rural area, had a knack for appraising character. He often told people: “Ts’ui Hsin-ming’s talent and learning are rich and vigorous. Though his fame will be unsurpassed in his time, his rank will unfortunately not be exalted.”50 A brilliant writer with low official rank—this formula fits practically all the literati in this chapter. We note in this passage four of the topoi encountered previously: spreading fame, broad learning, keen memory, and instantaneous creation. This is the only reference to birth in the biographies. And it is mentioned here, not because the historian is interested in the event itself (he does not even state the year of birth) but because it reveals the pattern for the whole life. The pattern is not visible to ordinary mortals, but open to interpretation 49  Ibid., ch. 190B, pp. 9b, 10a. 50  Ibid., ch. 190A, p. 6b. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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by experts. There are altogether nine predictions that were later fulfilled in the “Garden of Letters.” The concept of the fixed pattern also accounts, I believe, for the frequent references to youth. A man’s early life is viewed not as a stage in his development but as the period when his personality type first becomes apparent. Thirty-three of the biographies mention traits manifested in youth, often in stereotyped terms. The statement that a man early in his life “was good at writing” (shan shu wen) occurs eight times in these same words, and ten more times in different words. In three biographies we are told that the boy could write well at a specified young age (six, eight, and nine sui respectively). The phrase “broadly learned” (po hsüeh) is applied to four young literati, and of three others it is said in different words that they studied hard in their youth. Five men of letters are asserted to have won early fame through writing, and five others through unspecified achievements (which are also likely to be literary in the context of the “Garden of Letters”). Should some of these allegations of precocious literary ability be discounted as exaggerations? This is hard to determine. We should note the historic fact that two of our literati, Yang Chiung (b. 650, d. between 692 and 705) and Wu T’ung-hsüan (fl. 779–94), actually passed the state examination for “divine youths” (shen-t’ung).51 Besides literary skill and book learning, there are other traits—good and bad—which may be manifested in a man’s early life. Of Yüan Te-hsiu (696– 754) it is said that “in his youth he was renowned for his filial piety,”52 and the same formula is applied to Wang Chung-shu (762–823).53 The biography of Wang Han (fl. first half of eighth century) states that “in his youth he was unconventional and unrestrained.” In the course of the same biography, we learn that he was fond of horses, singing girls, hunting, drinking, and wild parties.54 All these are vices charged to many other literati. It is apparent that the historiographer is not interested in a man’s early life as such but in bringing to light early manifestations of his innate character. The concept of the fixed pattern does not rule out the possibility of changes of character. In the biography of T’ang Fu (chin-shih of 810, d. 839 or 840) it is pointed out that in the first part of his life he was a good official and an upright man, but in the last years of his life, when he held powerful and lucrative positions on the southeastern coast (modern Fukien), he became greedy 51  Ibid., p. 11a; ch. 190C, p. 6b. I am proud to point out that my own son has learned to recognize more than 1,500 Chinese characters before reaching the age of four (five sui). 52  Ibid., ch. 190C, p. 2b. 53  Ibid., p. 7a. 54  Ibid., ch. 190B, p. 17b. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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and corrupt. This came to light, notes the biographer, after his death, when his servants and concubines fought over his property, which was found to amount to 100,000 strings of cash.55 Ch’i Huan (d. between 746 and 756) is portrayed as a strange mixture of good and bad qualities. As Provincial Censor (chien-ch’a yü-shih) “he prosecuted those who had committed wrongs, but first tried to sway them from their evil ways. His contemporaries considered this to be a praiseworthy way of discharging the duties of that office.” (Indirect praise, attributed to “contemporaries,” as noted above.) Again, as prefect of Pien prefecture, “he governed with integrity and strictness; the people and his subordinates sang his praises.” In another of his many provincial assignments, he improved transportation and increased revenue by altering river courses. In further attempts to repair waterways he failed. Once he was demoted for a mistake committed by many literati: he indiscreetly reported a private conversation with the emperor to another official. Later he was found guilty of embezzling goods, in collusion with eunuchs. He also maltreated one of his concubines. Yet such affairs are never mentioned unless it be to demonstrate a trait in the man’s character, or to furnish the clue to an event in his career. So far, Ch’i Huan looks like T’ang Fu: an inconstant type who changed from good to bad. But the end of the biography presents him in a different light: in the 740’s Ch’i Huan was punished repeatedly, having incurred the enmity of Li Lin-fu, the dictatorial Chief Minister who got a bad press in the official histories. After Ch’i Huan died, “when Su-tsung ascended the throne, he was rehabilitated as one of those who had been entrapped by Li Lin-fu, and posthumously honored.”56 This concludes the biography. The historiographer apparently concurs in the final and official rehabilitation, which may or may not be intended to cancel the previously noted defects in the man’s character. Several other biographies are less ambiguous. They clearly depict their subjects as mixtures of good and evil. Ts’ui Hao (d. 754), for instance, “had superior talents but lacked the behavior of a gentleman. He was addicted to gambling and drinking. When he was in the capital, he would marry a girl for her beauty, and then abandon her as soon as he was even slightly displeased with her. Altogether he was married four times.”57 Li Yung (678?–747) is praised repeatedly in his biography as a literary genius of early and steadily increasing fame. Some of his writings, says the biographer, “are highly esteemed by men of letters.” He got his first (?) official appointment—as Imperial Adviser of the Left—through the r­ ecommendation 55  Ibid., ch. 190C, p. 9b. 56  Ibid., ch. 190B, pp. 16a–17b. 57  Ibid., ch. 190C, p. 2a. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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of two high functionaries, Li Ch’iao and Chang T’ing-kuei. Their recommen‑ dation stated that “his writings are lofty and his behavior straight: he is fit to become an admonishing and warning official.” One of his memorials, successfully opposing the appointment of a heterodox wizard, Cheng P’u-ssu, as Director of the Imperial Library, is quoted at length—a sign of approval. The same biography characterizes him as “boastful” and “gay and extravagant,” and notes that “he freely engaged in wild hunting.” He is furthermore criticized, as already mentioned, for amassing wealth by writing on commission.58 The rationale behind the mixture of good and evil is, if I am not mistaken, a key concept in the historiographers’ over-all view of the literati: they are imperfect because they fail to achieve the dual Confucian ideal of self-cultivation and distinguished public service. Had they been equally successful in both pursuits, they would not have been relegated to the “Garden of Letters.” In one of the biographies, this view is neatly summed up by P’ei Hsingchien, who is credited, like Ts’ui Hsin-ming’s neighbor, with “a knack for appraising character.” Speaking of the four famous literati Wang Po, Yang Chiung, Lu Chao-lin, and Lo Pin-wang (they flourished in the second half of the seventh century), P’ei said: “Whether a gentleman goes far depends primarily on his ability and knowledge, and only secondarily on his literary skill. Although Po and the other three possess literary talent, they are unsteady and shallow. Surely they are not made of the stuff required for achieving high rank….”59 In epitome, what is the composite picture of the T’ang literary man emerging from these one hundred and one biographies? He was usually a bureaucrat, but rarely rose to the top. He entered his career through the civil service examination system, or through the recommendation of a patron, or both. Much of his life and work was influenced by his associations with relatives, friends, colleagues, superiors, and subordinates. His fate was closely linked to the rise and fall of his present or former patrons. His innate talent as a writer became manifest early in his life. He was precocious, bookish, learned, and endowed with a prodigious memory. He could produce poetry and prose at fantastic speed when the occasion demanded it. He was inordinately proud of his literary achievements. He tended to seek inspiration for his work in wine, music, horses, singing girls, and other pursuits unworthy of a Confucian gentleman. He was often indiscreet in divulging confidential information. Nevertheless, imperial and princely courts, high officials, and military commanders sought his company and found his services indispensable. This was fortunate for posterity, for it made possible the creation of literary masterpieces that have endured to this day. 58  Ibid., ch. 190B, pp. 18a–20a. 59  Ibid., ch. 190A, pp. 14a–b. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

Transparencies: Reading the T’ang Lyric Stephen Owen The title of this essay represents a modish formula in academic critical writing, and as a true formula of entitling, it merits less our contempt than our scrutiny: naming something, such as an essay on literature, is an act which reveals basic presumptions about the nature of the thing named. The first term of the title is “Transparencies”—at this stage more an opaqueness than a transparency. It is read according to the western rules of metaphor, as a concealment and promise of significance deferred. Then there is a colon to mark simile, to control the metaphorical term by providing a balancing half title that returns us to the more secure world of conventional academic discourse—“Reading the T‘ang Lyric.” However, the metaphorical term is never entirely controlled, and the interest of the title lies in the disjunction between the two sides of the colon, in the question raised about the relationship between the two parts. More important than the words of the title, and quite apart from whatever the content of this essay will be, the particular form of the title raises questions of value precisely because it engages longstanding problems of metaphor. The formula is constructed as “X (metaphorical term, preferably abstract): Y (longer, non-metaphorical phrase, with strong metrical proprieties). As a formula of entitling, its traditions can be found in the names of early novels and romances, and it has become common at the head of lectures and essays. The formula promises something speculative by its first term, and by its second term, it tries to reassure those who are wary of speculation. The formula tends to attract or repel readers strongly, and the question of value it raises is linked to the speculative, metaphorical term and to the threat posed by its escape from the domain of poetry and intrusion into the civilized world of academic discourse. The dismemberment of the title is not an exercise in wit: it is an illustration of modern codes of reading that grow out of some of the oldest concerns of western hermeneutics. First, there is metaphor (in its broadest sense), the primary mode of literary reading: the text does not mean what it seems to say, and its “true significance” is concealed, displaced elsewhere. The academic study of literature is devoted to stripping away the “veil of metaphor” and revealing that hidden meaning. Second, there is the illusion of “plain language,” promising security against the untruth of the metaphorical term. Finally, there is an Source: “Transparencies: Reading the T’ang Lyric,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 39 (1979): 231–51. © koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���9 | doi:��.��63/9789004380165_020

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intense question of value that inclines readers to the domain of metaphor or to the domain of plain language, and often requires that a clear boundary be marked between the two.

Rules of Reading

In every literary civilization there is an art of reading which is as much a part of literary experience as the inert elements of the text itself. That learned art of reading is the means by which a reader can aesthetically know a literary text. Even within a single culture there is great variety in the rules of reading, differing by the age, the class of readers, and the genre read. However, there are also certain shared norms, the fundamental presumptions in the process of forming meaning, and these must be understood before one can consider more specific rules, such as generic expectations. Language is not only a set of conventional signs and generative rules of combination, it is also a set of instructions for use, a set of operations for understanding. The most consistent trait of literature and literary language is that the processes of forming meaning (rules of reading) operate differently than in nonliterary language. The poet’s assertion that his love is a red, red rose is formally identical to a nonliterary statement, but it is not understood as the admission of a rare sexual deviation. Hamlet is not read as a documentary source for early Danish history. The primary difference between literary and nonliterary language lies in the different ways they are read, in the processes of forming meaning. Inevitably, literary language is read to mean something other than or more than the meaning which the same words would have in a nonliterary situation. Moreover, that strange body of texts called “literature” are those texts produced for the sake of literary reading. The problem is that different literary civilizations presume different ways of moving from the text to that other, broader and deeper significance. There is nothing morally wrong about reading a Chinese text according to the western operations of literary reading, just as there is no prohibition against reading a western text following medieval Chinese presumptions in reading. However, just as a text is written in a certain language, so it is also written for certain presuppositions about what literature is and how a literary text is to be read. The differences between Chinese and western modes of literary reading are deeply connected to the question of metaphor and the reader’s presumptions about the fictionality or nonfictionality of poems. Presumptions of fictionality in the text and of a metaphorical Truth run throughout our modern western modes of literary reading. In Chinese poetry metaphor is more truly a Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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“device,” most comfortable in simile and usually confined to certain emblematic traditions and to certain subgenres; e.g., the pine of a ku-feng 古風 poem points more strongly to a metaphorical truth than to a botanical phenomenon. However, in an occasional poem when there is a “blossom-fragrance-stream” 芳泉, the reader understands a real stream filled with the scent of fallen blossoms rather than a metaphorical “stream” of fragrance blowing through the air. The general tendency to avoid metaphorical reading (except in the limited number of situations suggested above) is linked to the traditional Chinese reader’s presumptions of the nonfictionality of most shih subgenres. Poems are read as describing historical moments and scenes actually present to the historical poet. In contrast, “Ode to the West Wind” may have been occasioned by an actual experience of Shelley’s, but the particularity of that historical experience is of no relevance or of minimal relevance in modern western modes of literary reading. Every reader knows, as Shelley himself knew, that the poet had license to add, subtract, and alter details of the occasioning experience. Whatever the experiential origins of the poem, the text is taken as a fiction, and its Truth is a metaphorical rather than a historical truth. On the other hand, the traditional Chinese reader had faith that poems were authentic presentations of historical experience. Poets wrote, as readers read, under those presumptions. No one felt uncomfortable about constructing biographical chronologies from poems or about using poems as direct sources for cultural history. However, it should be stressed that this was an impulse in reading and not necessarily a fact in the texts themselves: poets often spoke of revision and occasionally produced poems which could not have represented historical experience. Moreover, there were patently fictional genres such as yüeh-fu; but even in these poems, an impulse to nonfictional reading led to interpretation in terms of topical allegory: the interpreter sought to “read through” such texts to the historical situations that motivated them, and saw their fictionality as a willful “concealment,” itself motivated by some danger in historical experience. Accepting these presumptions of the nonfictionality of poetry, the question of literary reading can be carried to its next stage: how were language and the reading process conceptualized, and from that, how did traditional readers move from the text to that broader, more general significance?

Linguistic Adequacy and Inadequacy: The Relation between Language and the World

Let us formulate our normative concept of literary reading in more precise terms: both in traditional China and in the west, literary reading is based on Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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the reader’s presumption of the inadequacy of the text as plain language. The reader brings to the text a distrust of language’s usual function to discriminate and limit. However, our interest lies less in this fact of presumed linguistic inadequacy than in the particular modes of inadequacy that differentiate the two reading traditions. To know the mode of inadequacy leads to the means of resolution, the way to move from the inadequate “plain language” in the text to the fullness of meaning to which it points. A concept of linguistic inadequacy will inevitably be linked to a concept of adequacy, and statements of textual adequacy can be found throughout the later Warring States and Han. The classic formulation of linguistic adequacy is in the “Great Preface” to the Shih: 詩者志之所之也. 在心為志，發言為詩.

The Poem [of the Shih or a poem in general] is that to which intention goes. In the mind it is intention; coming forth in language it is the Poem. This is not only a statement of a perfectly adequate correlation between a prelinguistic interior state and a poem, it also implies almost a transfer of substance in making the poem. From this passage, from the rest of the “Great Preface,” and from other early comments on literature, we may build a hypothetical model of adequation. Nowhere is the model set forth as clearly and mechanically as below; rather it should be taken as a phantom model, different parts of which drew the attention of different writers at different times.

1  In one special case, the “reader” may be the ruler or Heaven who may, as a result, act upon the age to change the equation. 2  See Analects, xvii. 9.3–4: 詩可以興 可以觀. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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This movement from the state of the world or age, through the poet, into the poem, and finally to the reader was conceived not as a series of causes, but as an organic process of manifestation. Out of this process of correlative transformation grew the theory of reading which is most clearly enunciated in the “Understander,” Chih-yin 知音, chapter of the Wen-hsin tiao-lung 文心雕龍: 夫綴文者，情動而辭發；觀文者，披文而入情，沿波討源；雖幽必顯.世遠莫 見 其面，覘文輒見其心。

In the case of composing literature, the emotions are stirred and the words come forth; but in the case of reading, one opens the literary text and enters the emotions [of the writer], goes up against the waves to find the source; and though it be [at first] hidden, it will certainly become manifest. None may see the actual faces of a faraway age, but by viewing their writing, one may immediately see their hearts/minds. The term here used to refer to the reading process is kuan 觀 “observe,” a combination of the visual and the contemplative, as though there were an actual experience of the occasioning situation through the reading process. The reader is the chih-yin, the “true friend,” the one who “knows the tone” and thus perceives the poet’s true nature through its musical/literary manifestation in art. According to Liu Hsieh, reading is a backward movement to the “source,” following in reverse order the series of operations that produced the poem. This state of affairs would be immensely comfortable were it not for complications that arise in the relationship between the text and the combination of writer and world that produced the text. This complication is inadequation, and its classic formulation is found in the Hsi-tz‘u chuan 繫辭傳 of the Yi: 言不盡意 “Language does not exhaust concept [or ‘what was meant’].” The use of “exhaust,” chin 盡, is particularly significant: linguistic expression is conceived as somehow a diminution of a prior fullness. To the knowledgeable reader, the chih-yin, the diminished text presented no barrier to understanding the fullness that lay behind it. Everyone knew that Confucius’s disciple Tzu-lu could “resolve disputes having heard only a fragment of a statement” (片言可以 折獄者, Analects, xii, 12). Mencius, by his “knowledge of language” (chih-yen 知言) knew not only the fact of various speakers’ depravities, he also knew the precise nature of their depravities (Mencius, IIA, ii. 7). Although language may be limited and in itself fail to exhaust what was meant, there are ways to go from limited language to its fuller meaning—to the essence of disputes, to the moral aberrations of one’s acquaintances, or

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to the secret meanings of the Yi and the Ch‘un-ch‘iu, Precisely how one goes from diminished texts to broader meanings is the beginning of a hermeneutic tradition, not simply in the limited sense of interpretation, but also in the immanence of deeper significance in the reading process itself. Reading becomes a process of restoring fullness: the text is synecdoche for the world (not as substitution, but as diminishment and loss). It leads not to the “other” meaning of metaphorical reading and the fictional text, but to the whole of which we see only a part in the text. Restoration of fullness depends on presumptions of a stable language with intelligible relationships, and through these there are various techniques for expanding the text. The Hsi-tz‘u chuan suggests that expansion can be accomplished by analogical categories: 其稱名也小，其取類也大 “[In the Yi] the names given [to the hexagrams?] are small, but their implications by categorical analogy are great.” Both lei 類, “categorical analogy,” and the western concept of metaphor (closest perhaps to Chinese yü 喻) are based upon analogy; however, metaphor is fictional and involves true substitution, while lei is an association that is “strictly true,” based upon the order of the world. The Kung-yang and Ku-liang commentaries to the Ch‘un-ch‘iu often expand the text by negative inference, an interest in what is not said. This leads to a concept of implicit avoidance in word choice. The Duke who is not called a Duke, the unmentioned succession to the throne are significant silences that indicate Confucius’s evaluation of an event. The reader’s attention is constantly directed to a hidden world behind the text, and the writer’s sentiments and judgments are known by the relation of the text to that inferred world. Other relationships involved in expanding texts can be found in couplets eighteen to twenty-two of the Wen-fu 文賦, in the section concerning the formation of “concep,” yi 意. As the reader reverses the process by which the text was produced, he will look for relationships like these: emanation (e.g., sound to the producer of sound or vice versa), implicating causes by effects or effects by causes (moving the branches to shake the leaves, following the waves to find the source), or value relationships of context and contiguity (the abrupt appearance of the dragon or tiger). Such contextual relationships are picked up later by Liu Hsieh in the Li-tz‘u 麗辭 chapter of the Wen-hsin tiao-lung: 事不孤立 … 高下相須, 自然成對 “Events do not stand isolated … as high and low require one another, and by their own natures form a parallel.” This develops into the intense awareness of the couplet-writer that things take on value by what they are set in relation to; e.g., the swallow juxtaposed with a hawk and the swallow juxtaposed with a mosquito signify differently. Following these and other processes of expansion, the reader moves toward the two ends of the reading process—the poet and the world that produced

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the text. By directing our inquiry to the ends of the reading process, we avoid the burning (and here, irrelevant) issues of modern western literary theory— whether texts are “really” about the world or the internal order of language. Furthermore, the “New Critical” distinction between historical poet and persona is less significant than the reader’s presumption that the poem was an authentic expression of the historical poet. The proposition that the poet and the world that produced the poem were the goals of the reading process is wide enough to admit a great variety of distinct interests in reading. To the historically minded reader it led to biographical criticism and the search for topical reference. At another extreme, the idea that poetry was the “out-come” of a prelinguistic, interior experience of the world surely played an important role in the affective poetics of the Late T‘ang and Sung, in the concept of yen-wai 言外, “beyond words,” as the end of aesthetic experience. This possibility was already implicit in the “Great Preface”: “in the mind it is intention; coming forth in language, it is a Poem.” Thus, if the creative process is followed in the opposite direction in reading, we move from language in the text to prelinguistic experience—the ineffable, “what is “beyond words.” It remains for us to read T‘ang poems through these presumptions about the formation of meaning and to observe ourselves in the process. We will seek neither to discover the historical truth behind the text nor to bring a fullness “beyond words” back into the diminished realm of words. Nor are we trying to relate poems to contemporary criticism: criticism has its own tradition with its own specific interests, and while those interests grow out of the presumptions of reading, they are much narrower. Rather we have described what would have been a T‘ang reader’s most basic presumptions about the operation of literary language (the ideas in the pre-T‘ang sources cited above were often repeated in the T‘ang), and we will see what happens when those broad rules are applied to texts. “Validity in interpretation” is not our concern here: the stability of meaning is an illusion. The formation of meaning in the reading process is necessarily individual: it is even legitimate to say that meaning is something “done” rather than an object to be “known.” It is not “meanings” that are shared by readers of a given time and place, but a common language, a common context of culture and literary tradition, and above all, a common concept of the nature of poetry and the rules of literary reading. Since these are instruments and processes, they can be adequately explored only in their use; to know them abstractly, as they have been set forth in the preceding pages, is to know only a hollow form. I call these readings “transparencies” because they are qualitatively different from the disjunctive metaphorical operations of western poetics. In the

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non-fictional Chinese lyric, the text is a limited window on a full world, “obscure” from a distance but growing luminous and “manifest” as we approach it (to paraphrase Liu Hsieh on reading). In this reading process there are two primary objects of attention—reading the poet and reading the world.

Reading the Poet

There is a famous painting of Saint Sebastian by Antonello da Massina: the saint appears in a full-length frontal view, his body transfixed with arrows. If the painting were a T‘ang poem, the traditional reader would recoil in horror, not only at the grotesqueness of the subject matter, but also from the immediate recognition that the poet/painter was standing among the executioners. If what is seen is presumed to be historical experience, then the point of view is implicated in the view itself. Consider Wang Wei: western presumptions of the text as fictional artifice have generated the vocabulary of concepts that now surrounds his work— the neutral eye, the disappearance of the poet from the poem, and the total absence of self-consciousness. Without dismissing such readings, we should recognize that they are founded upon a twentieth-century dissociation of the historical poet from his persona, and that they are also founded on a much older concept of the poem as a thing “made” (poiesis). But the poems are shih (詩/言一寺/言志), verbal manifestations of inner states. In a system of reading that never ceases to point to the poet, such an escape from the poem is utterly impossible. Indeed, the poet calls all the more attention to himself by trying to hide. Most T‘ang landscape poems are not about “the world,” but about “a particular experience of the world.” From this point of view, Massina’s painting becomes not “of Saint Sebastian,” but “of seeing Saint Sebastian,” implicating the painter as viewer. Wang Wei’s “Crossing the Yellow River to Ch‘ing-ho” 渡河到淸 河作 provides an immediately intelligible example of reading the poet: 汎舟大河裏 行復見城市

積水窮天涯 宛然有桑麻

天波忽開折 迴瞻舊鄕國

郡邑千萬家 淼漫連雲霞

Sailing by boat upon the great river, Massed waters reach the sky’s very edge. Sky and waves suddenly split apart— The million houses of a district capital. Then further on, see walls and market,

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There is mulberry, hemp, lush and full. And peer back towards one’s homeland— Vast floods stretching to the clouds. A journey is defined by two points in space, a starting point and a destination. In a travel poem whichever point is described is implicitly the one that draws the traveller’s eyes, and that direction of vision marks a state of mind. And when the direction of vision shifts, as here from destination towards home, that shift defines a sudden change of heart. But, of course, vision is not free: what is seen is a complex interaction between the physical world, with its own forms and powers, and the interior state of the poet. The indifferent facts of topography can control vision, and here they assume a dramatic, protean form in the riverscape. With its power to conceal or expose, the riverscape possesses the ability to generate interest and longing in the human mind: the visual absences it contrives are the necessary stimuli of desire. Thus we read the poet: his eyes strain over the water to the limits of his vision, trying to see something but able to see only water. Then, at the interface between sky and water, something intrudes. The reader presumes that the poet’s fixed vision marks something he is looking for and that whatever intrudes is the object of his visual search. First there is a mass of houses, then the market, then the greater detail of mulberry and hemp on the bank. Reading the world, we know that the poet is coming closer to Ch‘ing-ho as the scene resolves in ever greater detail. Reading the poet, we know the curiosity of the traveller, his intense interest in whatever lies ahead. His curiosity sated, the poet looks around suddenly and meets a second dramatic revelation—in this case, not a revelation of place but of loss of place. Through what is seen and what is not seen we read loss and homesickness: almost as an exchange for the vision of destination, the vast waters have taken away the starting point on the opposite bank and beyond that, a home. The fixed gaze that is blocked is the mark of absence and desire. “Crossing the Yellow River to Ch‘ing-ho” has little to do with the riverscape in and of itself: rather it concerns a subjective experience of the riverscape. Succinctly and without a word of emotion, the poet has recounted an interior experience of a journey and a normative experience of all journeys. And for the reader who looks to the hidden poet, the emotions involved are all the more intense for their concealment. In the language of medieval Chinese psychology, they “swell up within and cannot come out.” In the hermeneutics of the Kung-yang and Ku-liang commentaries, the question is raised: “And why does he not speak of the emotions he must feel?”

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In this Wang Wei poem, and probably in the majority of T‘ang poems, reading the poet is a relatively simple matter. Reading the poet is most interesting in the problematic cases where it is only partially appropriate: in some difficult poems, the impulse to unify the poem in a perceiving subject is the key to their aesthetic value. Li Ho is just such a difficult poet, and it is possible that what made Li Ho a disturbing and compelling poet was neither his mythological apparatus nor his bizarre imagery (if it were, Lu T‘ung would have been his peer), but rather a seduction of the reader into a mode of seeing that was not entirely human. The “Fourth Month” 四月 is from a series of thirteen poems on the months. Suppose the reader approaches it presuming a visual unity of experience, the sort of thing he was accustomed to from reading Wang Wei. The hidden consciousness through which the reader apprehends the poem’s world is not the easy, physical eye. The authentic poet reporting his experience is not found, but the possibility of such a presence is the lure by which our conventional and stable point of view is undone. 嘵涼暮涼樹如蓋 金塘閑水搖碧漪

千山濃綠生雲外 老景沉重無驚飛

依微香雨靑氛氳 墮紅残萼暗參差

腻葉蟠花映曲門

Cool of dawn, cool of evening, trees like canopies, The rich, dark green of a thousand hills appears beyond the clouds. Unclear and so faint, a fragrant rain, blue-green hazily swelling, Glossy fat leaves and clustered flowers shine against arched gate. Still waters of the golden basin shake ripples of emerald, Aging spring light, heavy and somber—  no more breaking loose in flight, Fallen reds and ruined calyces in darkness scattered about. The seasonal location is essential for understanding the poem: it is early in the first month of summer, between the bright light and conventionally red flowers of spring on the one hand, and on the other hand, summer’s heat with its oppressive lushness of green vegetation. To disorient the reader and lure him away from human perspective, the poet must first establish an illusion of security, a comfortable frame of reference to be lost. The first two lines serve this purpose admirably as the reader finds precisely what he expects in a poem on the first month of summer. In the cool of dawn and evening, in the comparison of the trees to canopies we can read the poet’s interest in escaping the heat of summer: we have a conventional poetic stance, k‘u-je 苦熱, “suffering the oppressive heat.” The eyes in the poem are the

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eyes of a conventional poet, moving out to encompass huge vistas of clouds and mountains whose relationships are clearly defined. The eye of the reader/ poet, ever alert for analogical forms, sees the repetition of the canopy-trees in the spreading green of the distant mountains, growing to fullness before his eyes. In the third line this comfortable expansion of vision and upward growth dissolves. Movement is downward with the rain, so faint and fine that the drops can’t be distinguished, a rain that is somehow mixed up with the blossoms so that it is scented. Perspective, shapes, and boundaries disappear, as rain and trees merge into a “blue-green hazily swelling.” Out of this formlessness, shapes reappear in the fourth line—leaves, tangles of flowers defined against a gate. But we have lost the perspective that encompasses whole trees with crowns “like canopies.” Then in the fifth line we are staring down into the pool, and our disorientation is complete: the reflecting waters are still, yet at the same time have green ripples. If we disengage ourselves from the eyes of the poem and reflect, the poetic tradition resolves the paradox: we are, in fact, seeing the green foliage waving in the still waters. From that movement we read the wind, and we know what that wind will do to the tangles of flowers in the fourth month. Finally we come to loss of light and the final dissolution: darkness overtakes the reflections and the wind is dying down—the flowers are no longer breaking loose, “flying,” and falling. We are left with the darkening waters of the basin on which scattered petals are floating right beside the reflected (?) calyces from which they have fallen. The final word of the poem is ts‘en-ts‘e, the description of uneven ordering, loss of coherent relationships, randomness. Without the impulse to unify the poem as perceptual experience, the “Fourth Month” is merely descriptive, and descriptive in the worst sense. But when a consciousness is presumed to mediate between the reader and what is seen, the poem enacts a strange experience that corresponds to the falling and dissolution of the flowers in the fourth month. We share some of the experience of the fourth month flower: our stability falls loose; our realm of vision (眼界) shrinks as we fall from the trees; our world is broken up and we go into darkness.

Reading the World

The “Great Preface” of the Shih announces that “the tones of a well-governed age are at peace and joyous, its rule balanced; the tones of an age of upheaval are bitter and angry, its rule perverse; and the tones of a ruined state are

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mournful and yearning, its people suffering.” This is the canonical statement on the correlation between an age and its literature, but it is also instruction for reading: it tells the reader what to find behind the various modes or “tones” of the Shih, and its truth is easily accessible to the “understander,” the chih-yin, the one who “knows the tones.” This was one of the earliest forms of reading the world, but in the larger context of the history of poetry, the political condition of the age was only one aspect of the cosmic order that was immanent in the physical world. This order could be read through poetic description. In reading the world there are basically two forms of expanding the limited text. One is close to the western rhetorical tropes of metonymy and synecdoche (not as substitution tropes, but as associative relationships): here the reader completes the physical relationships in the world at hand. The second form of reading the world lies in perceiving its analogical links; these appear through parallelism, poetic structure, and traditional associations. The movement to general significance occurs through the analogical repetitions, but it is often necessary to expand the metonymic relationships of the physical world before the analogical links can be made. The complexity of this distinction is only superficial: the two processes are fundamental to the way meaning is formed in reading Chinese poetry, and they operate even in the smallest units of reading. Consider the first line of the Li Ho poem above: “cool of dawn” and “cool of evening” are expanded in relationships of synecdoche, but they are precisely not the western substitution trope of synecdoche, in which case they would stand for an entire cool day. The limiting reference to dawn and evening calls attention to the silence about the intervening day; the “coolness” that qualifies the dawn and evening suggests that the intervening day was not cool. Thus the heat of the day is the unstated gap that must be filled in during the process of reading. Likewise, the “trees like canopies” are expanded to the shade those canopies project, and the boundaries of shadow mark the hot sunlight beyond. From these fundamental metonymic expansions, the reader proceeds to compare and isolate the analogical elements of the two halves of the line: an interest in cool times and cool places in contrast to a more pervasive heat and bright sunlight. From this “reading the world,” we read the poet, finding the motivation for his direction of attention in his k‘u-je, “suffering the oppressive heat.” But, of course, the well-trained reader of Chinese poetry performs these operations with an instantaneous and intuitive grace that mocks this clumsy recreation of the process. Such intuitive grace should be stressed to put the following comparison in perspective. There are some basic similarities between reading the world in Chinese poetry and the way in which western readers approach detective

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novels. Both focus attention on the “evidence” that can expose a hidden truth, and both demand the presumption of a coherent order of reality by which the evidence can expose the hidden truth. Both are texts of limitation that lead to fullness, and both are based on models of cognition. Of course, the empirical reality presumed in detective novels is supplemented in the Chinese case by a reality of analogies and associations based on cosmology and the literary tradition. Both genres engage the reader to decipher the world; the detective novel always succeeds within the text, but in the Chinese poem the fullness lies outside the text, as the end of the reading process. At its least complacent, the T‘ang poem moves toward a fullness that is never attained—an ambiguous reality, a world of unmanageable complexity, or a true failure of intelligibility. The more complacent social poem and the detective novel have served their respective societies in certain fundamental ways: they are models of cognition that teach readers how to know, and at the same time reassure them of the world’s ultimate intelligibility. The question of cognition in reading the world is raised beautifully in the first of three poems by Hsü Hun on “Early Autumn” 早秋. The indefinite occasion of the title relates the poem to a yung-wu tradition, and the reader enters the text expecting to find what is essential to an “early autumn.” 遙夜泛淸瑟 高樹嘵還密

西風生翠蘿 遠山晴更多

残螢棲玉露 淮南一葉下

早雁拂金河 自覺老烟波

Far in night floats a clear lute’s sound, The west wind rises in azure vines. Last fireflies roost on the jadewhite dew, Early geese brush the metal river of stars. Tall trees at daybreak still densely thick, And far mountains, sunlit, grow ever more. In Huai-nan one leaf falls3— You’re aware of aging in misty waves. The poem begins at night, in a darkness where all things are hidden from sight. The music of the sse is, I suspect, music heard by the poet rather than music he is playing himself. The “clarity,” ch‘ing, of its notes is strongly associated with autumn. 3  Huai-nan-tzu: “When one leaf falls, all the world knows it’s autumn.”

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The music of the sse, heard coming from “far” in the night, raises the question of cognition: it is a set poetic situation. The poet hears music by night from an unseen source, and he realizes that although he cannot know who is playing, he can know the player’s emotions and nature through the music itself. The listener becomes the chih-yin, the one who “knows the tone,” the “understander” of Liu Hsieh’s chapter on reading. His faculties of perception and understanding sharpened by the music, the poet reads the scene to know autumn. Autumn’s omens are everywhere—in the west wind, in the last of summer’s fireflies, in the white dew and the wild geese who have begun their migrations brushing the high skies of autumn, in the river of stars that has taken on autumn’s Element to become “metallic.” Multiple analogies bind together these omens of autumn: coming from far in the night, the sse’s music may float in with the west wind, which has its own music, the note shang for autumn. In the second couplet there are coalescing dots of white light—blinking motes of fireflies touching lightly on sparkling drops of dew, specks of white geese brushing the glittering stars in passage. All are fugitive lights: dying fireflies, evanescent dew, migrating geese. They are fragments of light surrounded by darkness, with all that suggests in the seasonal interaction of Yin and Yang. Then comes dawn’s light, so often in T‘ang poetry the condition of revelation: ming 明, “brightness” and “understanding”; or as here, hsiao 曉, “dawnlight” and “comprehension”; set against an 暗, “darkness” and “unknowing ignorance.” But this dawn exposes only more substantial barriers to perceptual knowledge: the poet is hedged about with tall trees that block vision with their leaves and by the same token present counterevidence that it is not yet high autumn—“still dense.” Escaping this visual barrier near at hand, the poet looks out over vast spaces and finds that there too the dawn light has created even more barriers: night’s simple mountain outline becomes in daylight endless layers of mountains. As the poet strains to look far into the distance, nearby a single leaf falls, either in remembered proverb or here in the geographical Huai-nan, with all that means through the quotation in the Huai-nan-tzu. By that one leaf, autumn can be known; the reader supplies the balancing half of the proverb— “and all the world knows it’s autumn” 而天下知秋. The reader knows that the light breeze from the west which ruffled the vines by night will become hard winds that will strip the dense trees bare. In the text as well as in the remembered proverb, the fallen leaf leads to awareness, chüeh 覺. But what the poet becomes “aware of” in the last line is a phenomenon qualitatively different than his perceptions earlier in the poem—“aging in misty waves” 老烟波. Lao yen-po is supremely vague: its

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indefinite “growing old” encompasses the poet, the leaf (perhaps in the water), and the waves themselves. The closing image represents a kind of poetic diction particularly popular in the ninth century: the internal relationships of a phrase and its referents are uncertain, open to several legitimate possibilities. We do not and cannot know who or what is suddenly realized to be old, nor do we know how these misty waves came into a previously landbound scene. An interesting footnote to this closing image is that the T‘ang-shih san-paishou changes it (on no textual evidence I can discover) to “the waves of Lake Tung-t‘ing” 洞庭波: the falling leaf casts the visual eye westward beyond its physical limits to an awareness of autumn storms raising the waves in their movement eastward. But “aging in misty waves” is truer to the Late T‘ang: it represents a final knowledge of autumn, the end of cognition, but what is known is a poetic knowledge, an enigmatic truth that for the first time in the poem transcends the physical senses. It represents a fusion of mood and mutually exclusive possibilities in an openness that can exist only in words. The poet reads the physical world to a knowledge beyond the physical world.

Integrating Meaning: The Whole Poem

The simple distinction between reading the poet and reading the world is an illusion of convenience. Both goals of the reading process are known simultaneously: what we actually do is read the poet in the act of reading the world, see the world through his eyes. Because the poem is read as a particular experience of the world, both the poet and the world can only be known through one another. The art of reading we have constructed has one great gap: it functions most consistently in poems like the preceding, in which the poet does not expose himself or exposes himself only slightly. However, most poems have a self-reflective element, usually at the end. Here we cease to read the world through the poet’s eyes and confront his identity as separate from our own, as he thinks, acts, or responds to the scene with emotion. Through this element of reflection or response we know precisely how the poet has interpreted the scene we have just experienced together. Ideally we should share his response, but share it apart from him (i.e., in contrast to the previous joint perception of the scene). By writing the poem, the poet seeks such a chih-yin—one who “knows the tone,” the “true friend,” or in Vincent Shih’s translation of the Wen-hsin tiaolung, the “critic.” Like Hsieh Ling-yün, the poet seeks a shang- hsin 賞心, one whose mind can “appreciate” both the scene and the poet’s own mind, another who can share his experience of the world.

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To weigh these two modes of reading—one, through the poet’s senses; the other, of the poet’s interior life—we may look at a poem equally balanced between exterior vision and interior revision, one of Tu Fu’s finest regulated verses, “Pavilion for Travellers” 客亭. 秋窗猶曙色 聖朝無棄物

落木更高風 衰病己成翁

日出寒山外 多少残生事

江流宿霧中 飄零任轉蓬

An autumn window, still daybreak’s color, Leaf-stripped trees, once again the tall wind. Then the sun comes out beyond cold mountains, And the river flows on through last night’s fog. By our holy court no creature’s cast aside, Frail now and sick, I’ve become an old man. How many experiences in this remainder of life Are to blow on and fall with the rolling tumbleweed? Like many of Tu Fu’s regulated verses, this poem divides in the middle, at the third couplet (the “turn” or chuan 轉 of late classical poetics). The first four lines belong to the art of reading described earlier: reading the poet in the act of reading the world. The last four lines comprise Tu Fu’s interpretation of the scene and its significance to himself; here we cease to see the physical world through Tu Fu’s eyes and know Tu Fu apart from ourselves. The first four lines are an elegiac tribute to the vanished poetry of the K‘ai-yüan: they echo several K‘ai-yüan dawn poems, and no contemporary reader would have missed the second couplet’s reworking of Wang Wei’s famous: 江流天地外

山色有無中

The river flows out beyond Heaven and Earth, The mountains’ color, half there, half not there. The autumn mode and a world of remainders take on special depth in the context of the history and poetry of the preceding half century—the passing of the K‘ai-yüan and T‘ien-pao and of an age of poetry whose voice was Wang Wei’s. We begin by reading the physical world and the eyes that see it: we look out a window just brightening with dawn, a window that shows only the tops of bare trees blowing in the wind. The window is made an “autumn window” by the scene it frames. We read the world: we know his eyes are on the treetops because he sees a tall wind (kao feng). Sheltered, looking through a window

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from inside, he sees rather than feels the wind, sees it in the movement of the trees. But he does not simply see this wind, he sees it has come once again and silently compares this wind that strips the last of the leaves to another wind that blew in the treetops before, treetops then fuller with leaves. These are not just leafless trees; their leaflessness is known as loss and deterioration, known in the context of an earlier state. The sun comes out behind the mountains to the east, and the eyes mark them as “cold mountains.” We do not presume an omniscient poetic voice: the coldness of the mountains can be seen revealed now in full sunlight, in the leafstripped trees of their slopes. And in this succession of scenes we are aware of the movement of our vision—out through the window to the nearby trees, and on out to a larger, more distant scene of the sun rising over the mountains. In contrast to the failed dawn of Hsü Hun’s poem, this dawn does bring revelation, and its omens are clear—autumn, the cold winds, the barren trees. But then vision, moving upward to the treetops, to tall winds and the rising sun, falls like the leaves and at ground-level reveals the thing which is not revealed—the great river flowing on, still hidden in the fog of the preceding night. In its hiddenness and constant movement, the river is the poet’s world: he is the k‘o the “traveller,” for whom the pavilion is a temporary resting place. The scene is the negative image of Wang Wei’s famous couplet: Wang’s mountain, its season-marking colors half-hidden in the mist, is here exposed in its autumn barrenness; Wang Wei’s river that grandly flowed out beyond Heaven and Earth is here sunk in mist and fog, its destination lingering only in the memory of an old poem. In the second half of the poem, Tu Fu interprets the scene. The all-revealing sun is linked analogically to the emperor and his all-seeing wisdom. This analogy is reinforced by the play on ch‘ao/chao in the fifth line, both “court” and “dawn.” Under the pervasive and discerning light of sun and emperor, nothing is missed, nothing overlooked, essential natures are shown forth and all things useful are used. But the poet, exposed in his window by dawn and imperial grace, is shown to be precisely the thing that is useless—old, frail, and sick. He shares the light that shines on all things, but what it shines upon are barren trees and a landscape of autumn. The poet’s life is only a remainder to be spent in constant travels, but possessing a pathetic dignity in the archaic emblem of the p‘eng, the “tumbleweed” with its echoes of Chien-an and Wei poetry. The “tumbleweed” is the true metaphor, occurring where it belongs in the poem, not in the world of vision but in the interior world of meditation. Wind-blown and falling, he is linked to the leaves that blow outside the framing window of the first couplet. Cast aside by a court that casts nothing aside, he belongs to the world of the river whose hiddenness is paradoxically revealed by the light

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of day. Vision moves out and rises only to fall—to earth and the detritus of autumn, to dead leaves and the frail, aging self, to the hidden river that must carry the traveller onward, to the tumbleweed-self driven on by the wind and falling. The poem’s readers know the rules of reading and the stable order of language and the world. They recognize, they “join” the poet in recognizing those patterns in the physical scene upon which the interpretation in the second half of the poem is founded. There are barren trees shaking in the wind and their leaves blowing about on the ground; there is the cold mountain and the fog-bound river—gaunt and stable things against fluid, moving things in dissolution, things revealed versus things hidden. Then Tu Fu enters the poem to make this general pattern his own: he places himself in the autumn world. Through this two-part process can be seen the true meaning of poetry as an experience of the world, as interiorization, as an act of cognition—outer to inner, implicit to explicit, immanent meaning to reflective meaning. The poem becomes—and I believe Tu Fu would accept this definition of his poem—a means to know Tu Fu. This concept of poetry lies behind the use of poetry in the examination; it lies behind the practice of presenting a poem to a superior as an introduction; it lies behind the notion of poetry as a substitute for historical biography (Ts‘ao P‘i 曹不) to make oneself known to future generations. Poetry was conceived as that by which a person could be truly known. Correlative to this knowledge of Tu Fu is a knowledge of autumn. Through particular experience one perceives the immanent order of the world, its li 理. It is not a metaphorical Truth but an immanent truth that can be known only through its empirical manifestations. This is the second function of literature, stated grandly near the closing of the Wen-fu: 伊茲文之爲用

固衆理之所因

The true function of Literature [and of all wen, aesthetic pattern manifest] Is to be the means for all patterns of inherent order to come through.

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The Significance of the fu in the History of T’ang Poetry Paul W. Kroll Simplistic* faith in a sequence of generic “golden ages” in Chinese literary history would have us believe that the fu 賦 passed its peak with the fall of the Han dynasty. Nothing could be further from the truth. However, with that view for the most part accepted uncritically as dogma, one can almost hear the sighs of relief breathed by successive hosts of students learning the rudiments of Chinese literary history, upon reaching the safe harbor of the mature wu-yen shih 五言詩 in the early third century—no more to struggle with the daunting length, syntactic difficulties, lexical rarities, Corinthian profusion of synonyms that characterize the Han fu, now we can turn our attention to something we respond to more comfortably as real “poetry,” and something much less taxing as well. But to snub the medieval (Wei-Chin Nan-pei-ch’ao and T’ang) fu is to consign ourselves not only to wilful ignorance of what was during that period a prevalent and still vital genre of verse; it also guarantees a one-eyed view of the shih itself. Cicero says that poets vocibus magus quam rebus inserviunt (“are more devoted to words than to topics”). The truth of this helps to explain the frequency with which poets everywhere have commented on their craft as less a matter of creation than of discovery. It is, as Michaelangelo and Borges have suggested (and others in similar metaphors), most akin to the sculptor’s work of freeing from the stone the image already contained therein, as though it were merely waiting to be brought forth. Hence the sense of “fulfillment,” in both senses— of “possession,” if you will—that a good writer is aware of experiencing upon working a composition to its close: the feeling that the right words were somehow hovering “out there,” patient to be found, or perhaps even calling one to Source: “The Significance of the fu in the History of T’ang Poetry,” T’ang Studies 18–19 (2000–01): 87–105. * This is an expanded version of a paper read at the national meeting of the Association for Asian Studies, March 2001, Chicago. In a few places it includes some revised sentences from my “Seven Rhapsodies of Ts’ao Chih,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 120.1 (2000): 1–12, and “Poetry of the T’ang Dynasty (shih and fu),” in The Columbia History of Chinese Literature, ed. V. Mair (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 2001), 374–413.

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uncover them, through one or more attempts at inventio—that is, both invention and discovery. This is what, in our post-classical if not post-modern world, the Muse is: not so much a divinity breathing her song into the poet but rather the guiding, inchoate voice of a certain formulation of language pressing one to uncover it. The Muse is thus the active, internal force—one might say the te 德—of a language. Here is the real meaning of what we call tradition. Tradition is the registry, the certified catalogue, of the various sanctioned transcriptions, each in its own particular calligraphy, of those formulations. Now, much of the classical poetic tradition of China, from the Han through the T’ang, is embodied in the fu. Our too usual neglect of this fact owes, I fear, a great deal to the anxious desire mentioned above, that of avoiding the seemingly difficult (we might as well be honest about this). It also owes something to the obvious—so obvious that we often forget it—ambiguity of the word shih, confusing a particular form of verse with the domain of “poetry” in general: the confusion, for instance, that sees the Ch’üan T’ang shih 全唐詩 as containing the (putatively) complete collection of T’ang poetry, rather than a collection of T’ang shih, and indeed some tz’u 詞. Or which correspondingly interprets the Ch’üan T’ang wen 全唐文 as containing just T’ang “prose” and therefore dismisses the fu included there—as well as mounds of inscriptional verse that are in fact the artistic raison d’être of genres such as the ming 銘, tsan 讚, sung 頌, pei 碑, etc.—from the concern of poetry “specialists.” One need only look at the generic proportions of the sixth-century Wen hsüan 文選, indispensable anthology for all T’ang writers, to comprehend the significance of the fu in correlation with the shih. Even in the so-called hsiao fu 小/賦, or “lesser fu,” the imperative to display as full a palette as possible of lexical color and descriptive gloss reminds us that, linguistically (and to some degree conceptually) speaking, the fu provides the broader background against which the tighter, more controlled forms of verse, such as the shih, must be considered. This is certainly why, beginning in 681, the fu was the form of poetic composition usually required in the T’ang chin-shih 進士 examinations, to be only occasionally supplemented—never replaced—by the shih.1 When we talk of T’ang shih, we are not, then, talking of all of T’ang poetry but only one very important genre of it. As the Ch’ing poet, scholar, and bibliophile Wang Ch’i-sun 王芑孫 (1755–1818), noted: “The shih was never more thriving than in the T’ang, so too the fu was never more thriving than in the

1  On the changing requirements for the chin-shih degree, see Robert des Rotours, Le traité des examens, traduit de la Nouvelle Histoire des T’ang (chap, xliv, xlv) (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1932), esp. 151 and the long n. 3 on pp. 151–53.

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T’ang.”2 If we wish to gain an accurate view of T’ang verse and its fashioners, we may no longer pretend that the fu can be disregarded. What should we think of scholars who presumed to judge the genius of Horace merely from his satires, Dryden only through his plays, Macaulay solely by his essays? To judge the “poetry” of most Chinese men of letters from the Nan-pei-ch’ao and T’ang periods in disregard of their fu often promotes more or less comparable distortions. In the scope of just a few pages, let us see what we can learn. First, what is the extant corpus of T’ang fu? For convenience’ sake, we may turn first to the Ch’üan T’ang wen, always remembering that it is not a primary but at best a tertiary source. There we find 1,505 fu by 522 named writers and another 38 unattributed works—a total of 1,543 fu. Most of these—over 1,300— were copied into Ch’üan T’ang wen from the tenth-century Wen-yüan ying-hua 文苑英華, which followed the example of the Wen hsüan in placing the fu first among its generic categories. The tenth-century T’ang wen ts’ui 唐文萃 also was mined by the Ch’üan T’ang wen compilers, as were later encyclopedias such as Yü hai 玉海, Yüan-chien lei-han 元鑑類函, and Ku-chin t’u-shu chi-ch’eng 古今 圖書集成. The past century has seen a small but substantial amount of previously unknown fu added to the number, notably from materials recovered from Tun-huang and some rare manuscripts in Japan. Of the 1,600-plus T’ang fu currently available to us, very few have been seriously studied. One can count on just two hands and feet—and still have digits to spare—the number of T’ang fu that have been translated into English during the past century. This is not due to a paucity of such works, nor is it due to any lack of variety or style among our existing specimens. A quick survey is in order.3 The large-scale or epidectic fu characteristic of the Han dynasty was still written during the T’ang. Mention of only a few notable examples might include Wang Chi’s 王績 (590–644) autobiographical “Fu on Roaming the North Mountains” (Yu Pei-shan fu 遊北山賦, ctw 131.6a–12b);4 Li Po’s 李白 (701– 762?) “Fu on the Hall of Light” (Ming-t’ang fu 明堂賦, ctw 347.1b–6a) and “Fu on the Great Hunt” (Ta-lieh fu 大獵賦, ctw 347.6a–10b); Li Hua’s 李華 (?–774) “Fu on the Han-yüan Basilica” (Han-yüan tien fu 含元殿賦, ctw 314.1a–9a), a truly magnificent work on Ch’ang-an’s main hall of state, which bears comparison with the two famous “architectural” rhapsodies of Wang Yen-shou 王延壽

2  As quoted in Ma Chi-kao 馬積高, Fu shih 賦史 (Shanghai: Shang-hai ku-chi, 1987), 252. 3  In the following, citations of individual compositions will be made to the Ch’üan T’ang wen (ctw) only. 4  Thoroughly annotated and translated by Ding Xiang Warner, in her “Wang Ji (590–644) and the Idealization of the Recluse” (Ph.D. diss., Univ. of Washington, 1996), 193–251.

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(fl. 163) and Ho Yen 何晏 (?–249) in the Wen hsüan;5 Wu Yün’s 吳筠 (?–778) “Fu on an Unhindered Person” (I-jen fu 逸人賦, ctw 925.11a–15b) in honor of a contemporary Taoist adept;6 Ku K’uang’s 顧況 (ca. 725–ca. 814) magisterial “Fu on Kao-tsu’s Receipt of the Mandate and Establishment of T’ang” (Kao-tsu shou-ming tsao-T’ang fu 高祖受命造唐賦, ctw 528.1a–7a); and the stupendous (I use the word advisedly) “Fu on the Two Metropolises” (Liang-tu fu 兩都賦, ctw 740.1a–11b) by the otherwise unknown Li Yü 李庾 (?–874), celebrating Ch’ang-an and Lo-yang in explicit emulation of Pan Ku’s 班固 (32–92) and Chang Heng’s 張衡 (78–139) grand fu on the Han capitals seven or eight hundred years earlier.7 One of the longest of all T’ang fu, Li Yü’s work offers much detail on the layout and environs of the palace grounds and state buildings in both of the major cities, along with an overview of T’ang history through its first fourteen sovereigns. While it is therefore a deep well of mid-ninth-century information that still waits to be drawn on by medieval historians, it must be admitted that it is not a work of verbal velvet—in contrast to the other fu mentioned previously. We should note that the classical fu on a large scale was also the form of writing normally required in the special, decree exam known as the po-hsüeh hung-tz’u 博學弘詞, to demonstrate “catholic learning and magniloquence.” Unfortunately, the remaining examples that we know were produced—and which sometimes led to individual success—on such occasions, as well as examples composed for the imperial gaze at other times, are not all still laudable today. One thinks, for instance of Tu Fu’s 杜甫 (712–770) rhapsodies on the “three great ceremonies” of 751 with which he attracted the emperor’s attention (“Ch’ao hsien T’ai-ch’ing kung fu” 朝獻太淸宮賦, “Ch’ao hsiang t’ai-miao fu” 朝享太廟賦, and “Yu shih yü nan-chiao fu” 有事於南郊賦, ctw 359.1a–4a, 4a–6b, 6b–10a), but which are so turgid and overdone as to leave no doubt why he chose later to dedicate himself so obsessively to the writing of shih. 5  Viz., Wang’s “Lu Ling-kuang tien fu” 魯靈光殿賦, wh 11.508–22, and Ho’s “ Ching-fu tien fu” 景福殿賦, wh 11.522–43. For translations, see David R. Knechtges, Wen xuan, or Selections of Refined Literature, vol. 2: Rhapsodies on Sacrifices, Hunting, Travel, Sightseeing, Palaces and Halls, Rivers and Seas (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1987), 262–77 and 278–303, respectively. 6  For an annotated translation of another of Wang Yün’s fu, his “Rhapsody on Roosting in the Cliffs” (Yen-ch’i fu 巗棲賦, ctw 925.3b–4a), see P. W. Kroll, “Lexical Landscapes and Textual Mountains in the High T’ang,” T’oung Pao 84 (1998): 96–100. 7  Viz., Pan’s “Liang-tu fu,” wh 1.1–46, and Chang’s “Hsi-ching fu” 西京賦, wh 2.47–92 and “Tungching fu” 東京賦, wh 3.93–148. For translations, see Knechtges, Wen xuan, or Selections of Refined Literature, vol. 1: Rhapsodies on Capitals and Metropolises (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1982), 93–179, 180–242, 243–309, respectively.

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Continuing a trend evident during the Nan-pei-cha’o period, T’ang rhapsodists were partial to the hsiao-fu. The adjective, however, must be understood in a relative sense, for it is not uncommon for such pieces to run upwards of a hundred lines—small when compared with the display fu but still longer than most shih. This form was used in celebrating single objects in detail (yung-wu 詠物), in expressing one’s own feelings (shu-ch’ing 述情), and in commenting on contemporary topics and satirizing or indirectly criticizing government practices ( feng-tz’u 諷刺). The latter is a focus that, although inherent in the earliest examples of the fu, came to be more fully exploited during the T’ang than in any preceding era. To cite just a few remarkable examples: Hsiao Yingshih 蕭穎士 (707–759), writes in 749 a “Fu on Felling a Cherry Tree” (Fa yingt’ao fu 伐櫻桃賦) for the purpose of showing his scorn for the prime minister Li Lin-fu 李林甫 (?–752) who was then exercising virtually dictatorial control of the government; or seven years later, during the worst days of the An Lu-shan 安祿山 rebellion when Hsiao was posted in the territory of the old Ch’u 楚 kingdom in Hupei and heard that Lo-yang had fallen to the rebels and the officials had fled, Hsiao presents in his “Fu on Ascending the Old Walls of I-ch’eng” (Teng I-ch’eng ku-ch’eng fu 登宜城 古城賦, ctw 322.3a–5b) a sweeping portrayal of the background of the insurrection while also voicing his own frustrations and resolutions in a time of crisis; or three generations later, Tu Mu’s 杜牧 (803–852) “Fu on the O-pang Palace” (O-pang kung fu 阿房宮賦, ctw 748.1a–2b) is an exuberant description of this largest and most costly of the capital constructions of the First Emperor of Ch’in 秦始皇, meant analogously to criticize his own monarch Ching-tsung’s 敬宗 (reg. 824–27) plan to refurbish and expand the palace resort complex on Mount Li 驪山, infamous for its association with the revels of Hsüan-tsung 玄宗 (reg. 712–56) and Yang Kuei-fei 楊貴妃 (719–756); and then the nineteen remaining fu of Lu Kuei-meng 陸龜 蒙 (?–ca. 881) are unrivaled during the T’ang’s last fifty years for their pointed and sharp critiques. The early eighth century saw the appearance of the lü-fu 律賦 or “regulated fu, which (as the term suggests) corresponds with the lü-shih 律詩—or more specifically the p’ai-lü 排律—in its emphasis on syntactic parity between the lines of couplets and a balanced arrangement of words according to the twofold division of p’ing 平 and tse 仄 tones. The regulated fu was soon favored for use in the verse-composition portion of the chin-shih exam as well as the various decree examinations. Except for its rhyming imperative, the regulated fu is similar to parallel prose (p’ien-t’i wen 駢體文), which, after the Yung-ming 永明 era (483–94), made much use of tonal patterning itself. The fact that most official documents produced by the T’ang government were composed in the parallel style thus made the lü-fu an effective form with which to test the writing skill of potential bureaucrats—and also their command of literary Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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tradition, since an examination fu would have a set topic, usually historical or philosophical in nature, and a stipulated selection of rhymes the paradigms of which, when read as a complete sentence, would deliver an interpretive comment on the topic of the fu itself. But the regulated fu was gradually employed by writers for more personal expression too, and by the second quarter of the ninth century was used by poets speaking on all manner of topics. We also have the su-fu 俗賦 or “fu in common speech” that emerged late in the ninth century, making abundant use of vernacular and oral elements in its diction and syntax. Examples, by anonymous writers, are found among the Tun-huang materials.8 But the su-fu leans more toward prose in its presentation and often dispenses with rhyme. It therefore falls largely, if not entirely, outside the bounds of T’ang “poetry.” There is no recognized periodization for the T’ang fu. One that might be suggested on purely stylistic grounds would include three divisions. The “early” period extends, as with the shih, to the first decade of the eighth century. The “middle” period, marked by the rise of the lü-fu, lasts from the beginning of Hsüan-tsung’s reign in 712 to the mid-820s, a century or more during which the topics of such rhapsodies are generally of an “official” or court-oriented temper. The “late” period, from the mid-820s onward, corresponds with the use of the lü-fu in writing also of less public, more privately pertinent subjects. While fu in the older forms were, of course, written throughout the T’ang, the development of the regulated rhapsody is thus a convenient phenomenon by which to periodize the T’ang fu. But let us speak a bit about some of the insights that reveal themselves when we take account of the fu, both with regard to individual writers and to T’ang poetry as a whole. Since we do not have the space here to canvass the whole field, we shall attend to writers already famous for their shih. Interesting as are the shih of the so-called “Ch’u-T’ang ssu-chieh” 初唐 四傑 or “Four Elites of Early T’ang,” if we restrict ourselves just to their poems in that form, we miss much of what seemed to set them apart from their contemporaries. For instance, all five of Lu Chao-lin’s 盧照鄰 (ca. 630–ca. 685) extant fu are masterpieces and show a breadth of skill not as readily apparent in his shih;9 this is true also of the two long sao-style compositions, which might 8  Most readily available in Tun-huang fu hui 敦煌賦彙, ed. Chang Hsi-hou 張錫厚, (Nanking: Chiang-su ku-chi, 1996). 9  Two of the five are translated in P. W. Kroll, “Tamed Kite and Stranded Fish: Interference and Apology in Lu Chao-lin’s fu,” T’ang Studies 15–16 (1997–98): 41–77; this article also includes a translation of one of Wang Po’s fu. For another of Lu Chao-lin’s rhapsodies, see Stephen Owen, “Deadwood: The Barren Tree from Yü Hsin to Han Yü,” Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews 1 (1979): 160–62. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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well be considered fu, that he wrote near the end of his life and in which he expresses the agony of physical pain and personal loss in a manner unique in T’ang poetry.10 Many of Wang Po’s 王勃 (649–676) ninety shih are appreciated today, but they only begin to demonstrate his talents as a poet and writer. We also have a dozen of his fu, more than any writer of the seventh century, and they would mark him for immortality even were all his shih lost. Some of these compositions resemble in their freshness and momentum the narrative, songstyle shih of Lu Chao-lin and Lo Pin-wang 駱賓王 (ca. 619–ca. 687); and there are also beautiful large-scale rhapsodies—such as the one on “Spring-time Longings” (Ch’un-ssu fu 春思賦, ctw 177.2b–6a), which begins in Szechwan and then moves in thought to Ch’ang-an, the northwest frontier, Lo-yang, and Chin-ling, or the one on “Lotus-Picking” (Ts’ai-lien fu 採蓮賦, ctw 177.11b–16a), an avowed attempt to improve on the verse treatment of the lotus by previous poets, and also a highly interesting fu on the life of Śākyamuni Buddha (Shih-chia fo fu 釋迦佛賦, ctw 177.6b–7a). When it comes to Yang Chiung 楊烟 (650–694), we would wonder what was so special about him if we read only his shih, for they are quite commonplace and insignificant. However, his eight remaining fu are rich confections of scholarly lore and wordplay. Prominent among them are rhapsodies on “The Enveloping Sky” (Hun-t’ien fu 渾天賦, ctw 190.1a–6b) and on “The Old Man Star” (Lao-jen hsing fu 老人星賦, designating our Canopus, ctw 190.15b–16b), both of which contain much fascinating information about T’ang astral beliefs, and that on the Buddhist Ullambana festival (Yü-lan-p’en fu 孟蘭盆賦, ctw 190.8b–11a) held in 692 at Empress Wu’s behest in Lo-yang.11 Moving to the early eighth century, we might call attention first to Chang Chiu-ling’s 張九齢 (678–740) wonderful “Fu on the Lichee” (Li-chih fu 慕枝賦, ctw 283.1b–3a). Here Chang, a southerner from around Canton, celebrates the unappreciated (by northerners) glories of his native region and attempts to redress traditional geographic prejudice by rhapsodizing the most delicious of tropical fruits. We think we know Li Po, but if we do not know his fu, we do not know all of him. Though neglected in comparison with his shih, his eight fu are marvels. I have already mentioned two of his display fu. Also in the grand manner, but with a very personal thrust, is his “Fu on the Great P’eng-bird” (Ta p’eng fu 大鵬賦, ctw 347.10b–12b), in which the gigantic bird of the Chuang-tzu’s opening passage is personalized into a symbol of the self-assured Li Po himself 10  See P. W. Kroll, “The Memories of Lu Chao-lin,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 109 (1989): 581–92. 11  A few passages of the latter fu have been translated by Stephen F. Teiser, in his The Ghost Festival in Medieval China (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1988), 73–76.

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who is then ultimately humbled upon meeting the “rarely-held bird” that images the revered Shang-ch’ing prelate Ssu-ma Ch’eng-chen 司馬承視 (647–735).12 Li Po’s other fu are smaller, more lyrical compositions that are similar in form and style to some of his ku-t’i 古體 poems (compare, e.g., his fu on the Chienko mountain-pass [劍閣賦, ctw 347.15a/b]13 with his famous “Shu tao nan” 蜀道難), suggesting that neat “generic” distinctions were not always of great import to him. Nevertheless, it is indicative of Li Po’s reputation for his fu that in an early anthology of fu, the Ku-fu pien-t’i 古賦辨體 compiled by Chu Yao 祝堯 during the Yüan dynasty (it starts with selections from the Ch’u tz’u), six of Li Po’s eight surviving fu are included, accounting for fully half of the T’ang compositions reprinted there. Of Ts’en Shen 岑參 (715–770), mainly acclaimed now for his “ frontier poetry,” we get a very different picture if we read the autobiographical fu he wrote in 743 on his early years (Kan-chiu fu 感舊賦, ctw 358.5a–7b) and also his lengthy “Text to Summon Back a Visitor from the North” (Chao pei-k’o wen 招北客文, ctw 389.11a–14a), a gorgeously frightening depiction of the hazards of travel in Szechwan, written in 769, that blends expanded elements of Li Po’s “Shu tao nan” and “Chien-ko fu” with echoes of the “Summons to the Soul” (Chao-hun 招魂) from Ch’u tz’u 楚辭.14 A particularly interesting poet of the mid-century, much esteemed by his peers but largely forgotten now, is Ch’ien Ch’i 錢起 (ca. 720–ca. 783), who was something of a virtuoso in the regulated fu. His thirteen surviving compositions in this form range in topic from constellations (T’ai-chieh liu-fu fu 泰階六符賦, ctw 379.15a–16b) to the crunkling of cranes (Ch’ing-kao ho-li fu 晴皋鶴唳賦, ctw 379.22b–23b), from an ivory bracelet (Hsiang-huan fu 象環賦, ctw 379.17a/b) to the dancing of the hundred trained horses that performed annually at Hsüan-tsung’s birthday celebration (Ch’ien-ch’iu-chieh Ch’in-cheng-lou-hsia kuan wu-ma fu 千秋節勤政樓下觀

12  For an annotated translation of this fu, see Kroll, “Li Po’s Rhapsody on the Great F’eng-bird,” Journal of Chinese Religions 12 (1984): 1–17. 13  Excellently rendered by Elling Eide in his Poems by Li Po (Lexington, Kent.: Anvil Press, 1984), 4; rpt. in The Columbia Anthology of Traditional Chinese Literature, ed. Victor H. Mair (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1994), 437–48. For an annotated translation of another of Li Po’s rhapsodies, “In the Manner of [Chiang Yen’s] “Fu on Resentment,’ ” see the article by Michelle Sans elsewhere in this issue of T’ang Studies. 14  The latter composition is mistakenly attributed in ctw to Tu-ku Chi 獨孤及 (725–777), following the attribution in T’ang wen ts’ui. Ts’en Shen is named as the author in Wen-yüan ying-hua. For discussion of the question, see Ts’en Shen chi-chiao chu 岑參集校注, ed. Ch’en T’ieh-min 陳鐵民 and Hou Chung-i 侯忠義 (Shanghai: Shang-hai ku-chi, 1981), 5.453 n.1.

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舞馬賦, ctw 379.11b–12a).15 I have already mentioned Hsiao Ying-shih and Li Hua, whose fu are in both cases more engrossing than their shih. Moving to the ninth century and sticking still to famous names, we light on Liu Tsung-yüan 柳宗元 (773–819). Many have been the applauders of his prose essays who have turned to his shih poems and been disappointed (except, of course, for the old chestnut on “River Snow” 江雪). They should read his fu. We have an even dozen, which include outstanding examples of “old-style,” saostyle, and regulated types. Notable among them are those on “The Ox” (Niu fu 牛賦, ctw 569.3b–4a)16 and “The Wine-jar” (P’ing-fu 瓶賦, ctw 569.3a/b), which depict these objects in their actual and their allegorical significance. Also worth reading is “The Imprisoning Hills” (Ch’iu-shan fu 囚山賦, ctw 569.9b–10a), as well as the longer “Despairing over Life” (Min sheng fu 閔生賦, ctw 569.7a–8a) and “Reprehending my Faults” (Ch’eng chiu fu 懲咎賦, ctw 569.5a–7a), which address the author’s physical and emotional circumstances in his banishment; these are all masterly compositions. Then there are pieces that resemble nothing so much as the wen fu, or “prose fu,” of Sung times, such as “ Reviling the Corporeal Worms” (Ma shih-ch’ung wen 罵尸蟲文, ctw 583.3b–4b), “Dialogue at Witless Brook” (Yü-hsi tui 愚溪對, ctw 584.10b–12a), and “Lamenting a Death by Drowning” (Ai ni wen 哀溺文, ctw 583.12a–13a), which feature a full rhetorical mix of narrative, satire, and social philosophy; but these cannot be classified as verse. Nonetheless, the great historian of the fu, Ma Chi-kao, sees in Liu Tsung-yüan’s works the highest achievement of the T’ang fu.17 The shih of Liu Tsung-yüan’s friend, Liu Yü-hsi 劉禹錫 (772–842) have enjoyed a better reception. But lest one think of him too much as the sweetly primitivist poet of his famous “Bamboo-branch Lyrics” (Chu-chih tz’u 竹枝詞) and “Willow-branch Lyrics” (Yang-liu-chih tz’u 楊柳枝詞), one should take note of his eleven fu. Of special interest among them are those on “The Whetstone” (Ti-shih fu 砥石賦, ctw 599.6b–8a) which neatly applies the care one must give a sword to keep it sharp as an analogy for the sovereign’s need to keep worthy men in use and not let them rust in the provinces; on “Being Banished Nine Years” (Che chiu-nien fu 謫九年賦, ctw 599.13b–14a), which is a brief and surprisingly straightforward account of what might easily be a most lugubrious topic; and one on “The Sound of Autumn” (Ch’iu-sheng fu 秋聲賦, ctw 599.11b–12b). The latter composition, written in 841, the year before Liu 15  On the latter celebration, see Kroll, “The Dancing Horses of T’ang,” T’oung Pao 67 (1981): 240–68. 16  For a translation of this piece, see Madeline K. Spring, Animal Allegories in T’ang China (New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1993), 88–90. 17   Fu shih, 312–22. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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Yü-hsi died, to reply to a like-titled rhapsody by Li Te-yü 李德裕, ctw 697.10b– 11b), puts its final emphasis not on the traditional melancholy of autumn but rather on the season’s potential to rouse an aging man’s nature to action once more. Note that Ou-yang Hsiu’s 殿陽修 (1007–1072) famous “Ch’iu-sheng fu” should be seen at least partly against these earlier works of Liu and Li. The just-mentioned Li Te-yü (787–850), leader of one of the two major factions that dominated official politics during the second quarter of the century, had a special fondness for the fu. Thirty-two of his rhapsodies, all with prefaces telling the motive of their composition, are preserved. Most of these deal with physical objects—plants or animals, for which Li Te-yü had a consuming appreciation: he went to great effort to stock his grand P’ing-ch’üan 平泉 estate near Lo-yang with rare and beautiful specimens encountered on his official travels. His fu are both lively and elegant, even when the topic is historical, as with his rhapsody on “Knowing When to Stop” (Chih-chih fu 知止賦, ctw 697.3a–4b) in which he sings the praises of men from Ch’un-ch’iu to Western Han times who combined an appropriate commitment to government service with intervals of deliberate reclusion. For Han Yü’s 韓愈 (751–814) old-style fu, which reveal important aspects of his craft, I will simply refer all readers to David Knechtges’s illuminating article published in a previous issue of this journal.18 There are enough shih extant by Po Chü-i 白居易 (772–846), over three thousand, to last a lifetime of study. He has also left us sixteen fu. He excelled particularly in the lü-fu and was well represented with examples of his fu in contemporary handbooks of writing—like the recently recovered Fu-p’u 賦譜 (Ledger for the Rhapsody)19—that sought to teach proper compositional technique in the regulated fu. From our perspective, doubtless the most interesting among his rhapsodies is a “Fu on fu” (Fu fu 賦賦, ctw 656.16b–17b), rhyming to the words of Pan Ku’s famous quotation, “fu che ku-shih chih liu” 賦者古詩 之流 (“fu is a current [genre, technique] of the ancient Songs”), which Po here prefers to understand as “the fu is the mainstream of ancient poetry.” What of lesser known figures, writers of some genius who are not mentioned at all in our histories of T’ang shih, little represented or completely absent from the Ch’üan T’ang shih, but who deserve acclamation for their fu? There are plenty of them. I will mention only two, who will need to serve as examples. The first is Wang Ch’i 王起 (760–847), who received his chin-shih degree in 798, was a player (sometimes an important one) at various levels 18  “The Old-Style fu of Han Yu,” T’ang Studies 13 (1995): 51–80. 19  On this text, see Stephen R. Bokenkamp’s path-breaking work, “The Ledger on the Rhapsody: Studies in the Art of the T’ang fu” (Ph.D. diss., Univ. of California, Berkeley, 1986); also Bokenkamp (Po I 伯夷), “Fu-p’u lüeh-shu” 賦譜略述, Chung-hua wen-shih lunts’ung 中華文史論叢 49 (1992): 149–64. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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of the bureaucracy for the next fifty years until his death, and was a life-long friend of Po Chü-i. His official biographies in the T’ang histories concentrate on his political career,20 but we are also told: “He was freakish in his lust for study. Even when his official position was elevated and weighty, he would indulge his passion [for study] without stint, applying himself with assiduous effort from morning till night, practically oblivious of sleep or meals. There was no book that he did not scrutinize, and whatever he passed his eyes over would never be lost to him.”21 The bibliographic monograph of the Hsin T’ang shu lists Wang Ch’i’s collected works, held in the imperial library of the Northern Sung, as totaling 120 chüan.22 Of his poems only six shih have come down to us,23 but we have sixty-five of his fu. This is the largest number of fu remaining for any T’ang author, most of them (fifty-seven) thanks to the Wen-yüan yinghua. All are lü-fu of medium length, running about fifty or sixty lines. They bear impressive witness to Wang’s voracious reading and his steady eloquence. As we might expect, there is quite a range of subject matter, but Wang has a preference for historical incidents and allusive phrases as topics, around which he can muster his encyclopedic knowledge. If I had to recommend a couple of his fu, to sample the flavor of his writing, let it be the “Fu on Clasping Jade while Clad in Hodden” (Pei-ho huai-yü fu 被褐懷玉賦, ctw 641.28b–29a) and that on “A Sword’s Aura was Seen amidst the Dipper” (Tou-chien hsien chien-ch’i fu 斗間見劍氣賦, ctw 642.17b–18b). Obviously these works were appreciated, at least up through the eleventh century. Political clout cannot be the main reason for this, or else we would expect to have seen more of Wang Ch’i’s other writings preserved too—but only eight of his compositions done in fifty years of official assignment have been saved. Our second example of a forgotten fu poet is also named Wang Ch’i 王楽, his given name being homophonous in Mandarin with that of our preceding figure but not so in the T’ang dynasty and, in any case, represented by a different graph. This Wang Ch’i won his chin-shih in 862, was active in government though with not quite the same success as his predecessor,24 and has left us only a single shih (which he wrote for the 862 exam25) but forty-six fu. The 20   ChTS 164.4278–81, hts 177.5117–19. 21   ChTS 164.4279. 22  hts 60.1607. 23  See cts 464.5271–72. 24  See Hsü Sung’s 徐松 (1781–1848) extensive note on him in Teng-k’o chi k’ao 登科記考 (Peking: Chung-hua, 1984), 840–41. 25  Ibid., 843. His exam fu, on the subject “Laying the weapons of war away, upside-down” (Tao-tsai kan-ko 倒載干戈), is also extant; see ibid., 842–43, ctw 769.14b–15b.

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regulated fu was his forte also. He has an engaging style and often reveals a surprisingly frisky sense of humor. He deserves a dissertation from some enterprising student, to be called “The Last Great Master of the T’ang fu.” Worth looking at first in such a study are his “Fu on Dreaming of being a Fish” (Meng wei yü fu 夢爲魚賦, ctw 770.11b–12b), on “The Brow-mites that Nest in Mosquitoes’ Eyelashes” (Chiao-ming ch’ao wen-chieh fu 蟭螟巢蚊睫賦, ctw 770.12b–13b), and the very interesting “Fu on the Number One” (I fu 一賦, ctw 769.6a–7a). Hundreds of more beauties and curiosities could be adduced. As we can see from this very cursory survey, the horizons of T’ang poetry expand before us. Although our sixteen hundred fu reckon only three-plus percent of the fifty thousand T’ang shih at our disposal, when we compare the actual quantity of text (rather than the number of titles) the fu accounts for nearly twenty percent of our extant T’ang verse. Can we afford to pass over such a significant portion of T’ang poetry? But the biggest gain that awaits us in including the fu in our studies of T’ang poetry is, of course, a much enhanced and deepened knowledge of the T’ang literary lexicon. Reading that is solely or largely restricted to shih poetry masks the fact that the diction of shih—even allowing for variation among individual poets—is a limited selection of the language’s total resources. The reading of T’ang fu expands one’s awareness of the possibilities available to T’ang poets and radically sharpens one’s appreciation of the choices made by shih writers in the crafting of their works. We suddenly see a focus and scale that helps us better define various registers of language. If all one reads is shih, one risks making of it a literary vacuum bottle, artificially maintaining a desired temperature and untouched by other currents that daily affected the lives and expression of the writers themselves. Moreover, if we read widely enough in other types of T’ang writing—including such now little-visited genres as inscriptions, paeans, eulogies, epitaphs, etc., not to mention Buddhist and Taoist texts, all of which are avoided by “literary” specialists even more resolutely than fu—we find that many of the tropes and images we think of as remarkable in T’ang shih are actually much used and well worn in the language of the day. Which reminds us that the triumphs of shih poetry must be revealed in more than just decoded meaning. The most important distinguishing feature of shih poetry was not its semantic burden (which is what most of us focus on almost exclusively) but, at least equally, its musical or phonetic qualities, i.e., how the sound of the words interacts tightly with and affects their sense—not just the intent of one’s heart but the melodic patterning of one’s words (recall the “Great Preface” to the Shih: 詩 者, 志之所之也。在心為志, 發言爲詩。情動於中而形於言, 言之不足故嗟嘆 之。。。。情發於聲, 聲成文, 謂之音). We too often forget that T’ang shih are

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really more akin to the works of Pope, let us say, than to those of Wordsworth, much less those of W. C. Williams or Gary Snyder.26 Western study of T’ang poetry during the nineteenth and early twentieth century, pursued mostly in France and Germany and only sporadically elsewhere, was mainly circumscribed by the works found in the T’ang-shih sanpai-shou 唐詩三百首. That anthology continued to be a focus, or compass, of scholarship throughout the first half of the twentieth century (and often still today), but by the 1920s and ’30s we began to push out into other shih by the major poets; and the past eighty years can be seen as a cumulative process of deepening and refining our studies of the major poets, while also cautiously exploring other poets through a gradually expanded reading of the Ch’üan T’ang shih (and the increasing number of annotated editions of individual poets published in China). The next step in advancing the perimeter of scholarship in T’ang verse should be the inclusion of the fu. For all the valuable work that has been done so far by countless scholars in different languages, there still is much to discover, plenty we must learn before we can claim a comprehensive view of the whole field of T’ang poetry. In the past decade, some Chinese scholars on both the mainland and Taiwan have begun to study T’ang fu seriously. This is a good sign. A few individuals on this continent have done so too; perhaps more will take up the challenge. Perhaps we are on the verge of a new era of scholarship on T’ang literature, one that will look beyond accustomed ambits and will recapture portions of a vanished world that have been blurred, and texts that have lain unread, for too long a time. Abbreviations cts ChTS ctw hts wh

Ch’üan T’ang shih (Peking: Chung-hua, 1960). Chiu T’ang shu (Peking: Chung-hua, 1975). Ch’üan T’ang wen (Taipei: Hua-wen, 1961). Hsin T’ang shu (Peking: Chung-hua, 1975). Wen hsüan (Shanghai: Shang-hai ku-chi, 1986).

26  Alas, the lack of attention to the auditory qualities of T’ang poems is another self-protective reflex, usually justified by saying we haven’t the time to bother with matters of historical linguistics and, anyway, had best leave them to “specialists”—as if being a scholar of “literature” should somehow absolve one from learning about the phonetic details, the actual language of the texts one studies.

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An Offering to the Prince: Wang Bo’s Apology for Poetry Ding Xiang Warner In an essay titled “The Significance of the fu in the History of T’ang Poetry” published a dozen years ago, Paul W. Kroll made this poignant observation on the dismal state of Tang fu studies: Of the 1,600-plus T’ang fu currently available to us, very few have been seriously studied. One can count on just two hands and feet—and still have some digits to spare—the number of T’ang fu that have been translated into English during the past century. This is not due to a paucity of such works, nor is it due to any lack of variety or style among our existing specimens.1 This neglect, Kroll went on to remark, stems rather from the unexamined supposition that after the fall of the Han dynasty, which was the universally acknowledged golden age of the fu genre, no fu written thereafter could be good enough to warrant the attention of literary connoisseurs or scholars, especially when there are so many artistically superior, technically inventive, and—better yet—far more accessible gems in the shi form to keep everyone occupied well beyond the foreseeable future. “But to snub the medieval (Wei-Chin-Nanpei-ch’ao and T’ang) fu,” Kroll reminds us, “is to consign ourselves to not only willful ignorance of what was during that period a prevalent and still vital genre of verse; it also guarantees a one-eyed view of the shih itself.”2 This warning applies equally to the study of individual poets, not least to the one who occupies my attention in this essay: Wang Bo 王勃 (649–676) of the early Tang. To omit consideration of Wang Bo’s fu in any critical account of his oeuvre likewise “guarantees a one-eyed view” of his literary career if not an impoverished understanding of early Tang conceptions and uses of poetry. Yet despite the study of medieval Chinese literature having in other respects Source: “An Offering to the Prince: Wang Bo’s Apology for Poetry,” in Paul W. Kroll (ed.), Reading Medieval Chinese Poetry: Text, Context, Culture, Leiden: Brill, 2014, 90–129. 1  T’ang Studies 18–19 (2000–2001): 87. 2  Ibid.

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advanced in the decade following the publication of Kroll’s essay, such that scholars have begun to “look beyond accustomed ambits” in order to “recapture portions of a vanished world that have been blurred, and texts that have lain unread, for too long a time,”3 we have not seen a significant surge in scholarship on Wang Bo’s or other Tang fu. Indeed, Wang Bo studies in general have fared poorly. I have commented recently on the scarcity of books and essays offering any careful or sustained analysis of Wang Bo’s literary output.4 The least attention is given to his fu, even though Wang Bo boasts the largest extant corpus in this form among early Tang writers—twelve compositions in all, representing approximately onetenth of the surviving corpus of early Tang fu.5 A search on WorldCat yields only one article exclusively focused on Wang Bo’s fu, written in Chinese by a Korean scholar.6 There are of course treatments of Wang Bo’s life and literary career that include some discussion of his fu, but with few exceptions they are perfunctory and platitudinous.7 In this essay, I reveal something of what we miss by not giving Wang Bo’s fu more than the scant attention they have so far attracted, taking for my example his “Cailian fu” 採蓮賦 (Fu on Picking Lotus). This piece would seem to merit more study on biographical grounds alone, for it was the last fu that Wang Bo wrote, and it seems clearly enough to convey the state of mind he was in during what would prove to be the final year of his life. But even in this regard, as in others, what meanings and what poetic effects Wang Bo meant to convey have not at all been clear to scholars. At the lexical and syntactic level, for example, this fu puts on display Wang Bo’s trademark technical mastery, and his prodigious learning is showcased in its dense tapestry of literary 3  Ibid., 104. 4  Ding Xiang Warner, “ ‘A Splendid Patrimony’: Wang Bo and the Development of a New Poetic Decorum in Early Tang China,” Toung Pao 98 (2012): 113–44, esp. 113. 5  This statistic is noted on the first page of Paek Sǔng-sǒk’s (Bai Chengxi 白承錫 in Chinese) “Wang Bo fu zhi tantao” 王勃賦之探討, Shehui kexue zhanxian 社會科學戰線 1995.2: 207– 14 (hereafter “Wang Bo fu”). The same essay is published also in Jiangsu shehui kexue 江蘇社 會科學 1995.2:111–16. 6  This is the above-cited essay by Paek Sǔng-sǒk, author also of the unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, “Chu Tang fu yanjiu” 初唐賦研究 (Taiwan guoli zhengzhi daxue, 1994). 7  The exceptions are Paul W. Kroll, “Tamed Kite and Stranded Fish: Interference and Apology in Lu Chao-lin’s fu,” T’ang Studies 15–16 (1997–98): 41–77, which offers critical analysis of Wang Bo’s “Xun yuan fu” 馴鳶賦 (Fu on a Tamed Kite), written to match a fu of the same title by Lu Zhaolin (70–74); and Tim Wai Keung Chan, “In Search of Jade: Studies of Early Tang Poetry” (Ph. D. diss., University of Colorado, Boulder, 1999), which treats of the lyrical mode employed by Wang Bo in “Chunsi fu” 春思賦 (Fu on Thoughts of Springtime), 142–47, complemented by a fully annotated translation of this piece in an appendix, 292–310. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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allusions and borrowings. This quality by itself can sometimes win admiration from readers,8 but it is at least as likely to invite disappointment in the poem for amounting to but a pastiche of hackneyed phrases from the old masters, hardly worthy of Wang Bo’s reputed talent. These impressionistic evaluative reactions get us nowhere, however— whether we would ascribe them to the fine discrimination of one’s critical palate or to a jaded presumption of the degenerative trajectory of fu in medieval China. A more productive investigation, in my view, would be to consider what Wang Bo might have been up to in writing this piece: what purpose was “Cailian fu” supposed to serve in the historical moment in which he wrote it, and what literary strategies did he employ toward the achievement of that purpose? My judgment is that he did not write “Cailian fu” merely to show off his learning or his technical skill, nor merely to express the disappointment and sorrow that he felt after having encountered some serious setbacks in life. I would submit instead that Wang Bo had something to say about poetics, and about the role of poets and poetry in the world. Let us first review the rather bracing sequence of events that led up to Wang Bo’s writing of this work.9 In the summer of 674, while serving as an adjutant in the prefectural office of Guozhou 虢州, Wang Bo, for reasons unknown to us, took in a run-away government slave—a criminal offense—and soon regretted his decision. In an attempt to hide the crime, he reportedly had this fugitive under his protection murdered, an even more grievous offence punishable by death. Wang Bo only escaped this sentence because Emperor Gaozong 高宗 (r. 15 July 649–27 December 683) issued a grand amnesty to commemorate the inauguration of the Shangyuan 上元 reign period (on 20 September 674). Wang Bo was freed but stripped of his official status, and his father, Wang Fu-zhi 王福峙, was summarily banished to Jiaozhou 交州, to serve as the district

8  E.g., Paek Sǔng-sǒk (see n. 5 above); Kou Sichao 寇思超, “Wenzhang miaochu wu neng shi, zhengzai shancheng shuiyi zhong—lun Wang Bo shanshui xiejing fu” 文章妙處吾能識, 正在山程水驛中一論王勃山水寫景賦, Qiqiha’er shifan gaodeng zhuanke xuexiao xuebao 齊齊哈爾師範高等專科學校學報 2008.2: 57–58; and Yang Xiaocai 楊曉彩, “Wang Bo pianwen chuangzuo de shengcheng dongyin” 王勃餅文創作的生成動因, Mingzuo xinshang 名作欣賞 2009.8: 30–32. 9  The ensuing sketch is drawn from Wang Bo’s official biographies in the two Tang Histories: Jiu Tang shu (hereafter jts), 190A.5004–5 (all references to the twenty-four dynastic histories in this essay are to the Zhonghua shuju edition) and Xin Tang shu (hereafter xts), 201.5739– 40. Cf. Yang Jiong’s 楊炯 (650–695) account of Wang Bo’s life in his preface to Wang Zi’an ji 王子安集, in Jiang Qingyi 蔣清翊 (19th c.), ed. and annot., Wang Zi’an ji zhu 王子安集註 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995; hereafter Ji zhu), juanshou 卷首 63–76, esp. 68 and 75. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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magistrate of Jiaozhi 交趾.10 A year later, Wang Bo traveled to Jiaozhi to visit his father, presumably in penitent spirit for the pain that he had caused, if not also just to remove himself from society’s view. This was, after all, not the first but the second time that he had brought disgrace to himself and his family.11 Six years earlier, he had been expelled from the establishment of the Prince of Pei 沛王 (Li Xian 李賢 [651 or 653–684]) for having written in jest an elaborate callto-arms (xi 檄)—a form of official proclamation used to announce a punitive campaign against an unworthy ruler—on behalf of the prince’s rooster, which amused the emperor not at all.12 Wang Bo kept his father company in Jiaozhi for a few months during the summer of 676, and then he set out to journey home in early fall; but he died en route, following a boat accident while crossing the South China Sea.13 The earliest known account of Wang Bo’s “Cailian fu” is in his Jiu Tang shu biography, which states that he composed the piece while traveling to Jiaozhi. The account reads, In the second year of the Shangyuan reign period (675), Bo traveled to Jiaozhi to visit his father. When he was traveling down the Yangtze River en route, he composed a “Cailian fu” to express his sentiments. It is quite a beautiful composition. 上元二年，勃往交趾省父，道出江中，為 「採蓮賦」以見意，其辭甚美。  14 10  Jiaozhi was a district (xian 縣) to the northwest of modern Hanoi under the jurisdiction of the Jiaozhou Protectorate (duhu fu 都護府), and it was the administrative seat of Jiaozhou prefecture in Wang Bo’s lifetime. The prefecture itself approximated modern Tonkin of northern Vietnam plus a small stretch of the coast to its south. This put it roughly seven thousand two hundred fifty li from the Tang capital of Chang’an. See jts, 41.1750; Edward H. Schafer, The Vermilion Bird: T’ang Images of the South (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Univ. of California Press, 1967), 5–7. 11  Wang Bo professes great remorse for his actions in a letter, “Shang Baili chang yan shu” 上百里昌言疏, addressed to his father after the latter had arrived at his post in Jiaozhi; see Ji zhu, 6.187–89. 12  For an account of this incident, see jts, 190A.5005, and xts, 201.5739; also see Sima Guang’s 司馬光 (1019–1086) account in Zizhi tongjian 資治通鑑 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1956; hereafter zztj), 200.6325. After his expulsion from the Prince of Pei’s establishment, Wang Bo went into self-imposed exile in Sichuan. He spent two years visiting well-known sites in the region while awaiting an opportunity for rehabilitation, which finally came in winter 671. For a discussion of the relation between Wang Bo’s earlier career and his intellectual and artistic development in that period, see my essay cited above, n. 4. 13  Scholars have generally accepted 675 as the year of Wang Bo’s death, taking the jts account to be authoritative. I return to this matter below. 14  jts, 190A.5005. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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Scholars may not be unanimous in admiring this fu’s beauty, but they have accepted the biographical details of this account, which indeed would seem to be supported by the palpably brooding mood of the poem, its evident representation of a forlorn, despondent talent ruminating on his personal misfortunes. I will come back to these matters shortly. In Wang Bo’s own preface to the fu, he gives little hint as to the date of its composition or his whereabouts. He tells us only that he “had much leisure” (xiajing 暇景) at the time,15 apparently an oblique reference to his discharge from official service. What he does state explicitly, on the other hand, is his ostensible motive for writing a fu on the subject of lotus. This preface is in stark contrast to the personal, introspective narrative that introduces Wang Bo’s “Chunsi fu” 春思賦 (Fu on Spring Sentiments), written in 671 during a sojourn in Shu (modern Sichuan),16 and which modern scholars frequently mention in tandem with “Cailian fu” as twin examples of Wang Bo’s innovations on conventional themes and poetic modes in his fervent quest for new lyrical forms of expression.17 The preface to “Cailian fu” is, surprisingly, resolutely non-autobiographical, as if the grim situation in which he found himself at the time really was not on his mind at all. It is instead somewhat academically polemical, in the sense that Wang Bo defines his aim to be the remedying of perceived failures in every previous effort to treat the lotus in fu form. He writes, Many people in the past have composed fu on the lotus. There are marvelous songs by Prince Cao [Zhi] and Commandant Pan [Yue], and there are exquisite rhymes by Sun [Chu], Bao [Zhao], Jiang [Yan] and the Xiaos. But they are all laden with the display of ornate embellishments and artful refinements; all are bloated pastiches of borrowings and allusions. Could this be what connoisseurs regard as “having explored every possible way to depict the mesmerizing beauty [of lotus]” or “having exhausted all available poetic modes to rhapsodize [about it]”? Recently, I took advantage of having much leisure at hand and surveyed all the fu on lotus. Hunching over my desk, I perused them for days on end; but I found myself left with dissatisfaction. Thereupon, I composed this piece of my own.

15   Ji zhu, 2.44. 16  See n. 12 above for the circumstances of Wang Bo’s sojourn in Shu. 17  See, for example, Paek Sǔng-sǒk, “Wang Bo fu,” 208–10. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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Notice that Wang Bo offers no explanation for his attraction to the lotus as a theme for fu. There is no expression of wonder at the novelty of seeing the plant in its natural habitat—no indication that his senses were stimulated by the sight or scent of the beautiful flower. Neither does he yet invoke any of the lotus’s classical allegorical associations with the virtues of the superior man, a tradition to be traced all the way back to Qu Yuan’s 屈原 “Li sao” 離騷 (On Encountering Sorrow). We expect such conventional “contextual clues,” not only because they are conventional but because Wang Bo’s prefaces to his earlier fu contain them.19 Not here, however. Neither does Wang Bo seem wholly straightforward about the basis of his dissatisfaction with the lotus fu written by the masters of the Wei, Jin, and Six Dynasties periods. He says they are overwrought with “ornate embellishments and artful refinements,” overburdened with “borrowings and allusions,” but these are the very same features that some readers complain of in his fu that follows. He asks rhetorically if those other fu that he “perused” for “days on end” could possibly have exhausted all the possible means “to depict the mesmerizing beauty [of lotus]” or all the “available poetic modes to rhapsodize [about it],” with the implied answer clearly being “Not even close.” Yet he does not explain what different means or modes he will employ. In the end, the preface offers little guidance on what to look for in reading Wang Bo’s fu, other than the evident assertion that this is the model that the world has been lacking. This, he wants us to understand, is the Mother of All Lotus Fu.

18   Ji zhu, 2.44. A full translation of “Cailian fu” is appended to this essay, to which I refer readers for annotations on textual variants, Wang Bo’s borrowings and allusions, and other matters. There too I provide an explanation of the translation conventions that I have followed. 19  In particular these include the fu written during Wang Bo’s sojourn in Shu: e.g., “You Miaoshan fu” 遊廟山賦 (On a Visit to Miaoshan), “Jiangqu gufu fu” 江曲孤鳧賦 (On the Lone Duck by the River Bend), “Jiandi hansong fu” 澗底寒松賦 (On the Cold Pine Deep Down in the Ravine), “Cizhu fu” 慈竹賦 (On Spiny Bamboo), “Qingtai fu” 青苔賦 (On Green Moss), “Chunsi fu” 春思賦 (On Spring Sentiments). Only two of Wang Bo’s fu from this period lack a preface, namely “Xun yuan fu” 馴鳶賦 (On a Tamed Kite) and “Hanwu qifeng fu” 寒梧棲鳳賦 (On the Phoenix Perched on a Cold Paulownia Tree), either because none was written or in each case it was lost.

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Organizationally, we may read “Cailian fu” as an episodic poem consisting of a preamble and eight vignettes in which lotus picking figures. The preamble begins with a pronouncement that is startling for being both bold and odd: “Of those things that bring one to rhapsodize without ascending high,” Wang Bo asserts, “Nothing can match lotus picking!” 非登高可以賦者, 惟採蓮而已矣 (ll. 1–2). He then elaborates: 況洞庭兮紫波 復瀟湘兮綠水 或暑雨兮朝霽 乍涼飆兮暮起 黛葉青跗 煙周五湖 紅葩絳蘤 電鑠千里

It is all the more so when the waves of Lake Dongting are coated purple Or when the waters of Xiaoxiang River are colored green, When the summer rain is just giving way to a clear morning sky Or when the cool breeze suddenly stirs in the falling dusk. Deep-green leaves and virescent sepals of lotus Spread like mist permeating the Five Lakes; Their carmine blossoms and crimson blooms Irradiate thousands of miles in a blaze of brilliance.20  (ll. 3–10)

The fine beauty of the lotus, Wang Bo continues, is appreciated and treasured by everyone everywhere, regardless of one’s station or predilection. Men of lofty mind and ideals—the “solitary sojourners” (youke 幽客), the “superior men” (junzi 君子)—and the innocent, carefree damsels alike, all respond to lotus with an instinctual affinity. “Don’t you understand why this is so?” he asks in bringing the preamble to conclusion. His answer introduces the vignettes that follow and points ahead, as we will see, to the fu’s lessons: “Our attraction to things follows their bidding; / But our inner feelings direct our emotional response” 賞由物召, 興以情遷 (ll. 33–34). In the succeeding episodes of the poem, Wang Bo depicts an array of characters in diverse situations and diverse states of mind. There is the imperial consort feeling unfulfilled in her glamorous but isolated and loveless existence behind the palace walls. She nurses her loneliness and sorrow by gathering lotus blossoms, whose beauty, like her own, is soon to fade. There is the lovestruck maiden blissfully basking in the affection and embraces of her prince

20  See n. 39 below regarding the anomalous rhyme scheme in the last four lines of this excerpt.

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charming. She picks lotus flowers with glee as her doting suitor takes her cruising along the streams and around the ponds. There are also the enchanting lady companions partaking in revelries at the “homes of nobility” and “residences of imperial kin,” where exotic lotuses transplanted from distant lands have deeply settled their roots. Their resplendence awakens these ladies to the ephemerality of their own beauty, stoking an even greater desire within them to seize their day while it lasts. Then there is the exemplary wife whose husband is called away to missions and military campaigns. The pain of separation and yearning brings her to the lotus-covered waters day after day, but her picking the flowers brings no solace, only deeper sorrow. We are also told of “female singers and performers and alluring ladies’ maids” full of the vivacity of youth and eager to find love. They abandon themselves to the joys of an outing, paddling along the shoreline, sporting improvised attire made from lotus plants, racing and chasing each other through lotus patches. Still more, there are attending maids “donning beautiful slippers embroidered with variegated mandarin ducks,” “carrying precious zithers inlayed with tortoise shell and carnelian petals,” who entertain their young masters with songs of lotus on expeditions in search of “new finds” and “hidden wonders.” Notwithstanding the differences in these details, the underlying theme is consistent: from one vignette to the next, Wang Bo invites the reader to observe these ladies in different states of mind in different sympathetic relations with the lotus, experiencing an affinity with the flower that is specific to their condition. Whatever the sentiment or emotion that is already within them, it is intensified by the sight of lotus, by picking lotus, or even just by singing about picking lotus. Thus Wang Bo remarks: 伊採蓮之賤事 信忘情之蓋寡 雖迹兆於水鄉 遂風行於天下 感極哀樂 聲參鄭雅

In this lowly affair of picking lotus, Truly few will have unstirred emotions. A custom first begun in regions of lakes and rivers, It is now popular throughout the land. It brings out utmost joy and sorrow from within us, Which are then fused into the sound of “Airs of Zheng” and “Elegantiae.” (ll. 225–30)

This is a critical point: the agency of the lotus in these vignettes is never to instill feelings; and neither are those “stirred emotions”—the joy or sorrow brought out from within—anything lying dormant in sub-consciousness. The ladies in “Cailian fu” are already acutely aware of the emotions that they bring to their experience of the lotus and that the lotus accentuates. Because of this special property, Wang Bo reminds us,

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An Offering To The Prince 莫不 候期應節 沿濤汎湄 薄言采之 興言報之 發文扃之麗什 動幽幌之情詩 使人結眷 令人想思

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No one does not  Eagerly anticipate the coming of the time and  excitedly greet the arrival of the season,  When one can follow the current and coast the  water margins.  Ho, they go to pick lotus;  Lo, they come offering its blossoms.  Beautiful cantos push open ornately bedecked gates;  Sweet love lyrics draw apart securely shut curtains.  It causes one’s heart to pang with affection;  It makes one’s mind churn with longing. (ll. 235–42)

“So superb is the lotus,” Wang Bo next declares, that 色震百草 香奪九芝 棲碧羽之神雀 負青䶲 之寶龜 紫帙流記 丹經祕詞 豈徒 加繡柱之光彩 曄文井之華滋

 Its beauty eclipses the radiance of all other plants;  Its aroma surpasses even the nine-peduncle magic  mushrooms.  Blue-plumed magic birds roost on its flowers;  Azure-shelled precious tortoises rest on its pads.  Purple satin pouches sheathe scrolls of transmitted  accounts [of lotus];  Books of cinnabar record instructions for secret  [lotus] incantations. How can it merely be consigned To add luster to the embroidered columns Or to amplify the resplendence of ornate ceilings? (ll. 243–50)

It is at this point, having praised the lotus with utmost hyperbole, that Wang Bo invites his readers to imagine life without the beauty and delight of lotus— to imagine a world in which the sighting of one is as rare as catching a glimpse of the mythical phoenix or birds of synced-wings (biyi niao 比翼鳥). The picture he paints is decidedly bleak: 必能使 眾瑞彩沒 群貺色沮 湯武齋戒

Verily, Myriad things will lose their magical brilliance; A multitude of others will cease to emanate their heavenly luster; It will lead Kings Tang and Wu to fast and be heedful of auguries;

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It will make Yiyin and Gaoyao halt and stand still. What hope can there be for Pageboys in Chu, manservants in Zhao, Sing-song girls, and dazzling beauties To fondle lotuses and to play with them, To pick their flowers and to cull their blossoms? (ll. 257–64)

All this might reasonably seem the fu’s conclusion, the driving home of Wang Bo’s points in praise of the lotus, but in fact it serves as prelude to a final vignette, this time not featuring ladies but a “solitary man from the eastern outskirts” (l. 266). This not so thinly veiled self-representation could hardly be lost on anyone familiar with Wang Bo’s circumstances at the time. Once fortune’s child, our solitary man “is now unmoored at the end of the earth and on the extremity of the sea,” “gripped by desolation,” “stranded interminably” (ll. 274– 76), in fear “that his enduring name will soon be lost to eternity” (l. 290). Yet he retains hope of recuperation, and so preserves himself in the wild: 餐素實兮吸鋒芳 荷為衣兮芰為裳 永潔己於丘壑 長寄心與君王

He subsists on the pure white lotus seeds and inhales fragrance from their crimson blooms; He sews lotus leaves to make a coat and fashions water-caltrop leaves into a skirt. He tends to his everlasting purity in the crevasse of the mountain; He gives pledge from his heart, forever, to his prince. (ll. 295–98)

The poem then closes with the solitary man singing a song in praise of the radiant and graceful lotus—his offering to that faraway prince. At this juncture it becomes necessary to account for two features of this piece that invariably elicit the remark of scholars, but as yet no satisfactory interpretation of either has been offered. The first is the obvious structural resemblance between Wang Bo’s “Cailian fu” and Jiang Yan’s 江淹 (444–505) “Bie fu” 別賦 (Fu on Separation), written two centuries earlier. Most noticeably Wang Bo adopts the episodic format of “Bie fu,” which for its part comprises seven different vignettes of people bidding their farewells, their emotions at the moment described by Jiang Yan in detail, ranging from quiet melancholy to intense grief: there are banquet guests taking leave of their host; a knighterrant saying goodbye to his kin; soldiers going off on military campaign; an

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envoy setting out on his mission; a husband parting from his wife; a Daoist alchemist leaving this mundane world; and young girls having to part, for a while, from their lovers. The first six lines of Wang Bo’s opening stanza, moreover, clearly invoke the first lines of Jiang Yan’s fu, as the following table illustrates: table 1 Line #

2 4 6

8

22

from Jiang Yan’s “Bie fu”a

from Wang Bo’s “Cailian fu”b

黯然銷魂者 唯別而已矣 況秦吳兮絕國 復燕宋兮千里 或春苔兮始生 乍秋風兮踅起 是以   行子腸斷   百感悽惻

非登高可以賦者 惟採蓮而已矣 況洞庭兮紫波 復瀟湘兮綠水 或暑雨兮朝霽 乍涼飆兮暮起

…………..

……………

是以   吳娃越艷   鄭娩秦妍

a Xiao Tong 蕭統 (501–531), comp., Wen xuan 文選, comm. Li Shan 李善 (d. 689) (Taipei: Wenjin chubanshe, 1987; hereafter wx), 16.750; trans. David R. Knechtges, Wen xuan or Selections of Refined Literature, vol. 3: Rhapsodies on Natural Phenomena, Birds and Animals, Aspirations and Feelings, Literature, Music, and Passions (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1996; hereafter Refined Literature, 3), 201. b Ji zhu, 2.44.

As we see from this comparison, both poets employ the same line structure and follow the same narrative progression: X 者，唯 Y 而已矣! 況__，復 ___，或 ___，乍___ (Of the things that do X, / Nothing can match Y. / It is all the more so when [A happens] / Or when [B happens], / When [C happens] / Or when suddenly [D happens]). An important difference between the two pieces is Wang Bo’s much fuller introduction of his fu’s topic, which extends for seven more couplets, so that not until line 21 does he state the theme of

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his poem—at which point he returns to Jiang Yan’s model, using the same adverbial conjunction shiyi 是以 (“therefore”; “that is why”) that serves as transition marker in line eight of Jiang Yan’s “Biefu.” Wang Bo continues to follow Jiang Yan’s structural pattern throughout the sequence of his own vignettes. Again I provide a table that shows Wang Bo employing some of the exact or synonymous transition markers used by Jiang Yan: Table 2

Opening

Exemplification Episode 1 Episode 2

from Jiang Yan’s “Bie fu”

from Wang Bo’s “Cailian fu”

X 者唯 Y 而已矣 況X復Y 或X乍Y 是以 故 至若 乃有

X 者唯 Y 而已矣 況X復Y 或 X 乍 Y … 是以 故 至若 復有 (cf. Episode 6

Episode 1 Episode 2

於時 … 則有 若乃 又若 乃有 向使 時有 且為歌曰

Episode 3 Episode 4 Episode 5 Episode 6 Episode 7 Episode 8 Closing

below)

Episode 3 Episode 4 Episode 5

或乃 至如 又若

Episode 6 Episode 7 Closing

儻有 下有 是以

Opening

By means of this close structural correspondence, Wang Bo unmistakably invites us to draw comparisons between his fu and Jiang Yan’s, but we should take care also to be precise about what distinguishes them. The two works are alike in the way they both offer a series of “mini-studies” on their topic. But Jiang Yan’s interest is to depict a variety of parting or separation situations to show how they elicit different manifestations of “a single emotion”—sorrow—as he states in his introduction: “Thus, although [the sorrow of] separation is a single emotion, / Its manifestations are of myriad kinds”

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609

故別雖一绪，事乃萬族.21 Wang Bo’s “Cailian fu,” in contrast, depicts the very much wider spectrum of emotions that are stimulated by people’s encounter with or even just their thinking about a single thing—the lotus—and so he writes instead: “Thus, / Although it is the same lotus in which we immerse ourselves, / The joys and sorrows that it fuels are tied to myriad threads” 故游 泳一致，悲欣萬緒, (ll. 35–36). Accordingly, too, the respective aims of the two poets are different. For Jiang Yan, to “explore every possible way” and “exhaust all available poetic modes” to describe different manifestations of sorrow at times of parting is an end in itself; but for Wang Bo, I shall proceed to argue, his series of studies is a means to an end: he has a specific message to deliver, prompted by a specific event, intended for a specific audience. The key to this understanding resides in the symbolic function of the lotus, which requires us to look closer at that singular assertion at the very opening of Wang Bo’s fu which earlier I observed to be at once bold and odd: the claim that “Of [all] those things that bring one to rhapsodize without ascending high, / Nothing can match lotus picking” (ll. 1–2). The notion of ascending high to express one’s ideas, feelings, and aspirations—denggao er fu 登高 而賦—has its origin in an adage ascribed to Confucius in Han shi waizhuan 韓詩外傳 (Exoteric Traditions of the Han Version of the Songs). According to this source, Confucius once instructed his disciples, “The superior man always expresses [his feelings and thoughts] when he climbs to a height” (君子登高必賦).22 Subsequently, Liu Xin 劉歆 (d. ad 23) turned this adage into the definitive statement on fu as a literary genre, in this frequently cited passage from his Shi fu lüe 詩賦略:

The commentary says: “To song 誦 (recite/chant) without singing is called fu. Upon climbing high, if one can fu 賦 (recite/chant), he may become a great officer.” This means that he is aroused by the circumstances and creates his theme. When his talent and wisdom are profound and excellent, it is possible to consult with him on state affairs. Therefore, he can be ranked with the great officers. 21  wx, 16.751; trans. Knechtges, Refined Literature, 3: 203. 22  See Han Ying 韓嬰 (fl. 150 bc), Han shi waizhuan 韓詩外傳 (Shangwu yinshuguan, 1917 edition), 7.10b: Confucius once was ambling atop Mt. Jing. Zilu, Zigong, and Yan Yuan accompanied him. Confucius said, “The superior man always expresses [his feelings and thoughts] when he climbs to a height. My lads, what is on your mind? Why don’t you speak out, whatever your wish may be, and I will advise you.” 孔子遊於景山之上。子 路、子貢、顏淵從。孔子曰：君子登高必賦。小子願者何。言其願，丘將 啓汝。

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Warner 傳曰：不歌而誦謂之賦，登高而賦可以為大夫。言感物造耑，材知深美，可 與圖事，故可以為列大夫也。23

In other words, the ability to ascend high and to fu—to express one’s thoughts and feelings with eloquence, facilitated by recitations of the Songs—attests to a man’s superiority of character, his fitness for becoming a “great officer” at court. Indeed we might go farther and say that classical tradition obligates the “superior man”—anyone who counts himself “great officer” material—to prove himself by his poetry. Hence the singularity of Wang Bo’s pronouncement. It is understood that there are some themes that demand ascending, but—for some reason that will have to be explained—of those themes that do not require it, there is no higher one, no nobler one, than lotus picking, such that the superior man himself, when he is not highly ascended, is nonetheless apt to make it his theme too, as Wang Bo reminds us. “Solitary sojourners especially hold [lotus] dear,” Wang Bo contends, and “Superior men sing about them wholeheartedly” 尤見重於幽客, 信作謠於君子 (ll. 11–12). That claim for lotus is certainly unprecedented in all those earlier fu that Wang Bo said he studied in preparation for writing his own. Clearly he means to pre-empt any judgment that his is another xiaofu 小賦, a “small-scale fu” like those others, on a mere pretty flower. He insists instead that his theme is an important one, suited to the grander form in which “Cailian fu” is in fact written—the dafu (大賦) or epideictic fu. Likewise this theme is even grander than the superior man’s frustration at his lot. To be sure, the common understanding that Wang Bo’s lotus functions as it does in the Li sao tradition—to represent the superior man whose “beauty” and “fragrance” go unappreciated—is accurate enough for three of the eight vignettes. But scholars who assume that it has that function throughout the poem sidestep the other vignettes in which the lotus stirs joy as intensely as it can sorrow. Wang Bo indeed has a different purpose. “Cailian fu” is a manifesto: an Apology for Poetry. There are clues enough to perceive that the lotus not only is touted by Wang Bo as a frequent inspiration for poems—“bring[ing] out utmost joy and sorrow from within us, / Which are then fused into the sound of ‘Airs of Zheng’ and ‘Elegantiae’ ” (ll. 229–30), as he writes; Wang Bo as well ascribes that quality of lotus to poetry, and he asserts it as the basis for poetry’s value in the world, thereby also making such an assertion the ground for his own bid for rehabilitation. And it is very interesting, to my mind, that nothing is implied here of poetry’s utilitarian or moral function. It is not used to advise or admonish a 23   Han shu, 30.1755; trans. David R. Knechtges, The Han Rhapsody: A Study of the Fu of Yang Hsiung (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1976), 12–13.

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king to restrain his appetites and keep to the paths of virtue, or to guide him to craft wise policies. Nor is it even praised as a vehicle for expressing the poet’s “true self,” his “noble mind,” his zhi 志. The focus of the vignettes is on the lotus’s affective power, and their lesson is really a kind of reader-response theory of literature: when picking lotus, as when reading poetry, people are not instilled with new feelings, but rather, as if by some cooperative process, whatever feeling it is they bring to the moment, whether a joy or a sorrow, they feel it more acutely—to the “utmost.” In this way the lotus, like poetry, enriches the experience of life—gives it “luster.” Without it, as Wang Bo invites us to imagine in the seventh vignette, the world would lack so much of its brilliance that sage kings and sagacious ministers would be brought to distress and alarm (ll. 259–60). Poetry, in other words, may not always serve the purposes of wise rulership in the practical ways that other things do, but hardly is it just decorative. Without lotus to be picked, without poets writing poems to read and chant, sage kings and sagacious ministers would have charge of a world too bleak to be much worth ruling. What is more, despite his recent disgrace and distant removal from court circles at the time he composed this fu, Wang Bo clearly harbored optimism that its message would reach a pair of receptive ears. To see this, we need briefly to revisit the chronology of his fateful journey to Jiaozhi. As we recall from Jiu Tang shu, Wang Bo was pardoned in fall 674 for killing a fugitive government slave but was stripped of official status. The following year, either in late summer or early fall, he set out for the south to visit his father. The evidence from his writings further establishes the following timeline: As of the end of May 675: Wang Bo still was at home.24 By early September 675: Wang Bo was passing through Huaiyin  淮陰 (modern Jiangsu province) en  route to Jiaozhi.25 24  See Wang Bo’s letter to his father cited above, n. 11, which opens with an acknowledgment of his having received Wang Fuzhi’s instructions sent from Jiaozhi dated “the first day of the fifth month,” i.e. 30 May 675 (鄕人奉五月一日誨). 25  See Wang Bo, “Guo Huaiyin ye Hanzu miao jiwen fengming zuo” 過淮陰謁漢祖廟祭 文奉命作, retrieved by Luo Zhenyu 羅振玉 (1866–1940) and preserved in his collection, Wang Zi’an ji yiwen 王子安集佚文 (hereafter Yiwen). See Luo Zhenyu, Luo Xuetang xiansheng quanji (chubian) 羅雪堂先生全集 (初編), 20 vols. (Taipei: Wenhua chuban gongsi, 1968), 3: 20a/b (pp. 1191–92): 維大唐上元二年, 歲次乙亥, 八月壬申朔, 十六 日丁巳(應作亥), 交州交趾縣令等, 謹以清酌之奠, 敬祭漢高皇帝之靈曰 … The sixteenth day of the eighth month in the second year of Shangyuan corresponds to 10 September 675. The text as transmitted reads 丁巳 for 丁亥; however, the sixteenth day

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28 December 675: Wang Bo was in Nanhai (in modern  Guangdong) about to make his crossing  of the South China Sea to Jiaozhi.26 Here the longstanding uncertainty over the date of Wang Bo’s death interposes itself, and it is important to our understanding of “Cailian fu” that the matter be clarified. Jiu Tang shu, as I noted earlier, states that Wang Bo wrote his fu while traveling south in the second year of the Shangyuan reign period (675) and that he died while crossing the South China Sea. Yang Jiong, on the other hand, in his preface to Wang Bo’s anthology, reports that Wang Bo died in the eighth month of the third year of Shangyuan—between 13 September and 12 October, 676.27 The latter date is the more plausible for two reasons. First is the testimony of one of Wang Bo’s own writings, a dated prefatory piece that of the eighth month of that year is not a 丁巳 date but a 丁亥 date. Presumably this is an error introduced at some stage in the text’s transmission. 26  See Wang Bo, “Panjian tu ming xu” 鞶鑑圖銘序 ( Ji zhu, 9.288): 上元一(應作二)年，歲 次乙亥，十一(應作二)月庚午朔，七日丙子，予將之交趾，旅次南海。Similar to the case mentioned in the previous note, the received text reads 一年 for 二年 and 十一月 for 十二月, but the first year of Shangyuan fell on jiaxu 甲戌 in the ganzhi cycle, whereas the second year of Shangyuan was indeed, as indicated, an yihai year. Likewise, the date of the new moon in the eleventh month of the second year of Shangyuan was a xinchou 辛丑 day, while the date of the new moon of the following month was gengwu, as recorded. The graph 一 evidently replaced 二 at some stage in the transmission of this text. Confusions of numbers, after all, are among the most common of scribal errors, especially in the case of 一, 二 and 三 and of 七 and 十. See the discussion of these problems by L. S. Yang (Yang Liansheng 楊聯陞) in “Numbers and Units in Chinese Economic History,” Studies in Chinese Institutional History (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univ. Press, 1963), 75–84. 27  See Yang Jiong, “Preface,” Ji zhu, 75. Yang Jiong’s dating of Wang Bo’s death is also corroborated in an offering (jiwen 祭文) written by one of Wang Bo’s kinsmen, Wang Chenglie 王承烈, on the anniversary of Wang Bo’s death. For the full text of the latter, see Luo Zhenyu, Yiwen, fulu 附錄, 3.2b–3a (pp. 1196–97). The offering is dated 文明元年八月 廿四日 (8 October 684), and from its language it is quite clear that the piece was not composed at the time of Wang Bo’s death, as has been asserted by He Lintian 何林天 first in “Lun Wang Bo” 論王勃, Jinyang xuekan 晉陽學刊 1983.2: 94–99, esp. 94–95, later in such publications as his preface to Chongding xinjiao Wang Zi’an ji 重定新校王子 安集 (Taiyuan: Shanxi renmin chubanshe, 1990) and in “Wang Bo zhi si xinzheng” 王勃 之死新證, Jinyang xuekan 晉陽學刊 1994.2: 90–91. On the other hand, this testimony that a sacrificial offering was performed in Wang Bo’s honor on the twenty-fourth day of the eighth month strongly suggests that this day was the approximate one of the very month in which Wang Bo died in 676 (i.e., in the eighth month, as Yang Jiong reports).

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he composed upon viewing an ornately stylized inscription on a bronze mirror, which begins: It is the second year of Shangyuan, the year of yihai. The new moon of the twelfth month fell on the gengwu day. On the seventh day of the month, which is a bingzi day, I am en route to Jiaozhi and have made a stopover in Nanhai.28 Wang Bo seems to have been alive and well, then, on 28 December 675. Accepting the information that he died in fall 676 would allow him enough time to have reached Jiaozhi, stay for seven months or so, and then begin his journey northward. In this version of events, Wang Bo died on his return trip. The other reason for preferring this account is that “Cailian fu” itself gives clear indication of having been written in Jiaozhi, not while Wang Bo was en route there. Consider again the vignette of the “solitary man from the eastern outskirts,” unmistakably representing Wang Bo in his self-imposed exile. In the second stanza of this episode, the solitary man is compared to 蓬飄梗逝 天涯海際 似還邛之寥廓 同適越之淫滯 蕭索窮途 飄飆一隅 …………. 殊方別域 重瀛複嶂 虞翻則故鄉寥落 許靖則生涯调恨

A tumbleweed blown in the wind, a peach-tree branch tossed in the current, He is now unmoored at the end of the earth and on the extremity of the sea, Gripped by desolation as was the man who returned to Linqiong, Stranded interminably like the man who went to Viet. Lonely and in dire straits, He is adrift in the remotest corner of the world. …………. This is a land so different, a region so alien, Where sea upon sea stack up to form a barrier, Where homeland is beyond reach for Yu Fan, Where life is but disappointment and melancholy to Xu Jing. (ll. 273–78, 285–88)

No distant corner of the empire could more aptly be described as “the end of the earth” at “the extremity of the sea” than the land of Viet—“the remotest corner of the world,” “a land so different, a region so alien / Where sea upon 28   Ji zhu, 9.288. See n. 28 above for the original text and comments on my emendations to it.

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sea stack up to form a barrier.” These are the familiar clichés of the Jiaozhi exile. And to ensure they are recognized as such, Wang Bo in this same passage makes two Jiaozhi-specific historical allusions. One is to Yu Fan of the Three Kingdoms period, banished to Jiaozhi for life by his overlord Sun Quan 孫權 (182–252);29 the other to Xu Jing of the Eastern Han, who to avoid persecution by his enemies fled to Jiaozhi to live in voluntary exile, returning home only in advanced age.30 I take these references as Wang Bo’s means to communicate to his readers—to one reader particularly—his location and condition at the time. That intended reader, I further submit, was Li Xian, former Prince of Pei, whom Gaozong had designated crown prince on 2 July 675.31 It was, as we recall, on behalf of Li Xian’s rooster that Wang Bo wrote his imprudent callto-arms that led to his removal from the prince’s household in 669. We may surmise, therefore, that when news of Li Xian’s promotion reached him, either Wang Bo was making final preparations for his journey to the distant outpost where the father was paying the price for the crimes of the son, or he had just set out. But quite clearly he interpreted Li Xian’s designation as Gaozong’s successor to be a ripe opportunity for his own rehabilitation to favor. After arriving in Jiaozhi, therefore, presumably with ample leisure and, conveniently at hand, the famed and lovely lotus for added inspiration, Wang Bo composed his letter of self-recommendation by way of a defense of poetry, a lotus fu to outdo all lotus fu, arguing for poetry’s value while displaying his own unrivaled poetic talent. Again, consider how the “solitary man from the eastern outskirts” (dongbi youren 東鄙幽人) describes himself. He was, Wang Bo writes, 西園舊客 常陪帝子之輿 經侍天人之籍 詠綠竹於風曉 賦朱華於月夕

Formerly a guest at gatherings in the Western Garden, At times a carriage escort to the child of a god, Once a studio attendant to the immortal. Together they used to recite poems on green bamboo in the morning breeze And rhapsodize about vermilion lotus under the midnight moon. (ll. 266–70)

29  See Sanguo zhi 三國志, 57.1317–24. 30  Ibid., 38.963–67. 31  See jts, 86.2831–32; Wang Pu 王薄 comp., Tang huiyao 唐會要 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1991), 4.46–47.

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Wang Bo would have himself recognized in this idyllic portrait, and importantly, he would have the crown prince recognize himself in it too—for the alternative is that grim life of emotional impoverishment depicted immediately beforehand, in that imagined time of a world without the lotus. Wang Bo invites his former patron to share in his nostalgia for their “conversations at banquets on the pond in Ye”; for “the joy and pleasure … relished in the garden by the Sui River” (ll. 283–84). Wang Bo is ready to return to the prince’s establishment, to bring back to it the brilliance and luster of his poetic talent. This hopeful message reaches its stunning crescendo in the solitary man’s song that closes the poem. Here, the fu’s allegory of lotus as poetry is performed in the very act of making finally explicit its status as tributary gift and personal plea. 榮華息 功名惻 奇秀兮異植 紅光兮碧色 禀天地之淑麗 承雨露之霑飾 蓮有蕅兮蕅有枝 才有用兮用有時 何當婀娜花實移 為君含香藻鳳池

Behind glory and splendor comes languishment; With merit and fame comes distress. Oh, these marvelous flowers, rare plants Of red radiance and jade-blue hue, They possess the elegant beauty bestowed by heaven and earth; They are nourished by rain and moistened by dew! Lotuses need roots; roots need peduncles. Talent needs to be used; to use it one needs to seize the time. How truly graceful, when the lotus flowers swing and their cups sway! They hold their fragrance and luster in the Phoenix Pond, all for their prince! (ll. 299–308)

As we see, and hear, each successive couplet of this song lengthens incrementally, mimicking prosodically the gradual opening up of a lotus blossom.32 32  In so doing, this is an early example of a technique employed also in a number of poems from the later Tang period. In these, too, we witness an incremental lengthening of the lines to match, and help convey, the poems’ theme of some sort of gradual expansion. This type of poetry became known in post-Tang times as “stepped poems” ( jieti shi 階梯詩) or “pagoda poems” (baota shi 寶塔詩), but the surviving Tang examples are typically designated by their particular form: “poems expanding from one syllable to seven” (cong yiyun zhi qi 從一韻至七). Good examples may be seen in a pair of exchange poems on the subject of “things of spring” by Liu Yuxi 劉禹錫 (772–842) and Wang Qi 王起 (jinshi 798). Liu’s begins by describing the chatter of orioles (ying 鶯) at daybreak, proceeds next to listing the other sounds that join in, even that “harmonize” with those of the birds as

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Additionally, we might suppose that Wang Bo’s readers, familiar as they must have been with creative calligraphic manipulations such as were especially common in Daoist talismanic art, had the ability to imagine these same lines mimicking pictorially the shape of a lotus bud just about to bloom, as my reformatting of the text illustrates: 且為歌曰 榮華息 功名惻 奇秀兮異植 紅光兮碧色 禀天地之淑麗 承雨露之霑飾 蓮有蕅兮蕅有枝 才有用兮用有時 何當婀娜花實移 為君含香藻鳳池

In either respect, I submit, these lines epitomize Wang Bo’s offering to Li Xian: a lotus—a lotus fu—to bring out the prince’s feelings of “utmost joy,” to define for him this very virtue of poetry, and, while he is at it, to reserve a place for at least this one most gifted poet at the future sage king’s banquet table. Appendix 1

An Annotated Translation of Wang Bo’s “Fu on Picking Lotus” Prefatory Notes on this Translation Sources Used

Unless otherwise noted, I follow the text in Jiang Qingyi 蔣清翊 (19th c.), ed. and annot., Wang Zi’an ji zhu 王子安集註 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995), 2.42–58 ( Ji zhu in notes).

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Textual Emendations

In evaluating Jiang Qingyi’s adoption of textual variants in his edition, I have consulted the following sources:

morning advances, and it then has a concluding couplet on the “chorus” of birds that “clamor” as bright daylight arrives. In response, Wang Qi’s poem describes flowers in bloom, starting with a close-up observation of a few opening buds, expanding to a view of flowering groves, and ending with the sight of a profusion of flower petals dancing in the wind like snowflakes. See Liu Yuxi, “Tong liushou Wang puye ge fu chun zhong yiwu cong yiyun zhi qi” 同留守王僕射各賦春中一物從一韻至七, and Wang Qi, “Fu hua” 賦花, in Tao Min 陶敏 and Tao Hongyu 陶紅雨, eds., Liu Yuxi quanji biannian jiaozhu 劉禹錫 全集編年校注, 2 vols. (Chengdu: Yuelu shushe, 2003), 1: 11.743. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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(1) Li Fang 李昉 (925–996) et al., comps., Wenyuan yinghua 文苑英華(wyyh in notes), (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1966), 148.1a–5a (pp. 684a–86a). The wyyh editors record all their observations of textual variants in the sources they examined, which included an unspecified edition of the Wang Zi’an ji (cited as Ji 集 in their notations). (2) Wang Zi’an ji (sbck), 2.1a–6b (the Zhang edition in my notes). This is a facsimile of the woodblock edition of Wang Zi’an ji in the Chu Tang sizi ji 初唐四子 集 series produced by Zhang Xie 張燮 (died before fall 1640), with a preface by Cao Quan 曹荃 dated to autumn 1640 (崇補庚辰中秋望後八曰). The Zhang edition preserves all the variants in “Cailian fu” noted by the wyyh editors. In cases where I deem it necessary to emend the Ji zhu reading with an alternative one recorded in wyyh, I do so with the notation, “Reading X for Y, following Ji.”

3

Translation Conventions

For this translation I have adopted the format devised by Paul W. Kroll for his translation of Qian Qi’s 錢起 (ca. 720–ca. 783) “Fu on the Dancing Horses”: (a) hypermetrical lines are marked in italics, flush-left, and are excluded from the line-count; (b) nonmetrical lines are flush-left; (c) metrical lines are set four n-spaces in, except (d) tetrametrical lines are set six n-spaces in and (e) trimetrical lines are set eight n-spaces in; (f) rhyme changes are marked by stanza breaks. For further details see Kroll, “Four Vignettes from the Court of Tang Xuanzong,” T’ang Studies 25 (2007): 1–27, esp. 20–25.

4 Annotations

In the interest of space economy, I minimize discussion of Wang Bo’s allusions and borrowings. Those that are already discussed in the essay are not annotated again; instead, cross-references are provided. I limit my annotation of literary borrowings to identification of Wang Bo’s sources for direct (i.e., verbatim) citations and clear reformulations, without further commentary.



Fu on Picking Lotus Wang Bo

Many people in the past have composed fu on the lotus. There are marvelous songs by Prince Cao [Zhi] and Commandant Pan [Yue],33 and there are exquisite rhymes 33  Prince Cao (Caowang 曹王) refers to Cao Zhi 曹植 (192–232), Prince of Chensi 陳思. Commandant Pan (Panling 潘令) refers to Pan Yue 潘岳 (247–300), who at one point in his early career was district magistrate of Heyang 河陽 and later of Huai 懷. wyyh notes that Ji reads 曹王潘陸 for 曹王潘令 (148.1a [p. 684a]), which is retained in the Zhang edition. If we were to follow this, we would have a line comprising names of not two but Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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by Sun [Chu], Bao [Zhao], Jiang [Yan] and the Xiaos.34 But they are all laden with the display of ornate embellishments and artful refinements; all are bloated pastiches of borrowings and allusions. Could this be what connoisseurs regard as “having explored every possible way to depict the mesmerizing beauty [of lotus]” or “having exhausted all available poetic modes to rhapsodize [about it]”? Recently, I took advantage of having much leisure at hand and surveyed all the fu on lotus. Hunching over my desk, I perused them for days on end; but I found myself left with dissatisfaction. Thereupon, I composed this piece of my own.

4

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I. Of [all] those things that bring one to rhapsodize without ascending high—35 Nothing can match lotus picking!36 It is all the more so when the waves of Lake Dongting are coated purple Or when the waters of Xiaoxiang River are colored green, When the summer rain is just giving way to a clear morning sky Or when the cool breeze suddenly stirs in the falling dusk. Deep-green leaves and virescent sepals of lotus Spread like mist permeating the Five Lakes; Their carmine blossoms and crimson blooms Irradiate thousands of miles in a blaze of brilliance.37

four master poets of the past, namely, Cao Zhi, Wang Can 王粲 (177–217), Pan Yue, and Lu Ji 陸機 (261–303). Structurally, this makes a perfect match for 孫鲍江蕭 in the responding line of the couplet, but on the other hand, no works on lotus (or references to such) by Wang Can or Lu Ji are known, and evidently they were unknown also to the wyyh editors, who emended 潘陸 to 潘令, a reading accepted by Jiang Qingyi. 34  The Xiaos likely refer to Emperor Jianwen 簡文 of Liang, Xiao Gang 蕭綱 (r. 549–551); Emperor Yuan 元 of Liang, Xiao Yi 蕭繹 (r. 552–555); and Prince Zhaoming of Liang, Xiao Tong 蕭統 (501–531). Fragments of fu on lotus composed by them as well as those by Sun Chu 孫楚 (d. 293), Bao Zhao 鮑照 (414–466), and Jiang Yan 江淹 (444–505), also mentioned in this line, are preserved by Ouyang Xun 歐陽詢 (557–641) in Yiwen leiju 藝文類聚 (rpt., Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1982; hereafter ywlj), 82.1402–5. The compositions by Xiao Gang and Xiao Yi, moreover, bear the same title as Wang Bo’s: “Cailian fu.” 35  On the allusion in this line see pp. 609–11 above. 36  See pp. 606–9 for a discussion of structural resemblances between Wang Bo’s “Cailian fu” and Jiang Yan’s “Bie fu.” 37  Lines 7–10 (黛葉青跗 / 煙周五湖 / 紅葩絳蘤 / 電鑠千里) have an anomalous rhyme scheme. Whereas the stanza otherwise has even-numbered lines ending with a deflected tone (ze 仄), here line 8 ends with a level tone (ping 平). Since lines 9–10 both end with a

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Solitary sojourners especially hold them dear; Superior men sing about them wholeheartedly. Moreover Species of rare lotus range wide and in abundance; Varieties of beautiful lotus grow far and wide. They grace the limpid riverbend where the He and Wei converge; They blanket the rippling waters where the Ju and Zhang join;38 Bright and resplendent, they illuminate the pellucid firth; Dense and luxuriant, they outspread across expansive water.39 They are not just Ubiquitous in the land of lakes and everglades, But also copious in river valleys and coastal regions. That is why Pretty girls in Wu, beautiful lasses in Yue, Sweet belles in Zheng, and fetching damsels in Qin Become enlivened when sensing their divine vivacity at the advent of the season And enraptured upon seeing their fabulous splendor in mid-year. Brocade sails instantly illume the inlets; Chiffon garments at once crowd the river. They send flying oars painted with magnolia designs; They dart forward barks bedecked with lotus pattern. “Where are you going?” one asks; “To pick lotus in the deeps of water,” they say. Ah, enough!

deflected tone, possibly a transposition of lines 8 and 9 (which does not affect the sense of the passage) occurred early in this fu’s transmission. 38  The He 河 (Yellow River) is joined by its largest tributary, the Wei 渭, at Tongguan 潼關 in northwest China, where the borders of modern Shaanxi, Shanxi, and Henan provinces meet. The Ju 沮 (of Hubei) and Zhang 漳 are two major rivers in central China. They course in parallel southward through modern Hubei province, converging about a hundred li south of Dangyang 當陽 (in central modern Hubei), becoming the Juzhang River 沮漳河. This courses southward into the Zhi River 枝江, which for its part flows into the Yangtze River. Thus reference to these two pairs of rivers functions metonymically, with the He and the Wei representing all the rivers in the north, the Ju and the Zhang all those of the south. 39  Reading 亙 for 立, following Ji.

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Don’t you understand why this is so? Our attraction to things follows their bidding; But our inner feelings direct our emotional response.40 II. Thus,

36

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44

Although it is the same lotus in which we immerse ourselves, The joys and sorrows that it fuels are tied to myriad threads. Take for instance A beautiful consort in gilded chamber Or a pretty lady in jade palace: She bemoans her loneliness on the Phoenix Terrace And grows weary of idleness behind the locked simurgh gate. While attending to her lord at feasts by the south ford, Or keeping him company at revels on the north islet, She gazes at the bends and straights of the sandbank And watches the flutters and flaps of the streamers. In the magic pool of the Shanglin Park41 Or on the imperial pond of the Fragrant Grove Garden,42 Where shadows of towers perch on islets

40  賞由物召,興以情遷. Cf. the Xi ci 繫辭 commentary on Yijing: “Change and action speak to us in terms of the expression ‘advantageous.’ Good fortune and misfortune shift from one to the other in accordance with the innate tendencies involved” 變動以利言, 凶吉 以情遷 (Zhou Yi zhengyi, in Ruan Yuan [1764–1849], ed. and comm., Shisanjing zhushu 十三經注疏 [Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979; hereafter ssj], 8.79a [p. 91]; trans. Richard John Lynn, The Classic of Changes: A New Translation of the I Ching as Interpreted by Wang Bi [New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1994; hereafter Changes], 95–96). 41  Shanglin Park is the Han imperial hunting park, most famously celebrated by Sima Xiangru 司馬相如 (179–117 bc) in his “Rhapsody on the Imperial Park” (Shanglin fu 上林賦). See wx, 8.361–78; trans. David R. Knechtges, Wen xuan or Selections of Refined Literature, vol. 2: Rhapsodies on Sacrifices, Hunting, Travel, Sightseeing, Palaces and Halls, Rivers and Seas (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1987; hereafter Refined Literature, 2), 73–113. 42  Fragrant Grove is the name of a Han imperial garden featured in Zhang Heng’s 張衡 “Eastern Metropolis Rhapsody” (Dongjing fu 東京賦). See wx, 3.104; trans. David R. Knechtges, Wen xuan or Selections of Refined Literature, vol. 1: Rhapsodies on Metropolises and Capitals (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1982; hereafter Refined Literature, 1), 258, ll. 187–88n.

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And brilliance of basilicas rides on ripples, Imperial honor guards have aligned in salute on the banks of Luo; Royal plume banners have unfurled in full along the shores of Feng; Dragon Torsos begin to slither at the sound of panpipes and drums; Heron Heads start to glide in the clamors of the scaled and the plumed.43 All are beautifully adorned and gorgeously decorated; Bolting forward, they sprint abreast of each other, Causing duckweeds to entangle, snagging the oars, And water mallows to smash against the boats, jouncing them violently. But she is gazing at roseate clouds that saunter and meander in open sky, And staring at the streams half obscured by dense woods. In raging torrents deep and wide, she sees a multitude of lotus flowers congregated; On green waters limpid and clear, she finds a sea of lotus blossoms outspread. She rues that the blooming season will too quickly grow late; She laments that her lord is oblivious to this. She breaks off violet pods brimming with mulberry-yellow lotus seeds; She clasps carmine blossoms in her arms by their jade-green peduncles. With each swirl of her silk skirts, she heaves a sigh inwardly; At each step in her chiffon slippers, she marvels to herself privately— All out of Astonishment at their sweet aroma, affection for their beauty, Fear of leaving them, and distress at deserting them.

72

III. Then there is A young man at the Marsh Palace44 Or a junior lord among the Imperial Guards, Who enthralls the damsel of lustrous hair and delicate brows, Of ruby lips and sparkling teeth.

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52

56

60

64

43   Longwen 龍紋 (lit. “dragon pattern,” my “dragon torsos”) and yishou 鷁首 (heron head) refer to two types of boats, one with the body of a dragon painted on its hull and the other a heron head on its prow. “The scaled and the plumed,” likewise, are metonymic substitutes for these types of boats. 44  Marsh Palace (Ze gong 澤宮) is the name of the palace where, according to ancient ritual prescriptions, the sovereign held archery contests prior to performing annual ritual sacrifices at the advent of the New Year. For further details, see the “She yi” 射義 chapter of Li ji 禮記 (ssj), esp. 62.461a–b (p. 1689).

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Adorned in make-up, she rendezvouses with him in her magnolia apartment45 And imbues him with her fragrant scent in the Pepper Chamber.46

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Again and again, She pledges her undying love in gratitude for his fondness; She seals her letters with yearning in requital of his affections. He returns in kind with feasts of exquisite delicacies in her honor; He enchants her with excursions escorted by a convoy of colorful banderoles. At dusk, they cuddle inside the kingfisher tent held by brocade-sheathed posts; At dawn, they cruise on the pellucid pond in a pheasant-bedecked azure boat.47 Grabbing lotus by their peduncles, she picks the stamens As the boat moves up and down the stream. The middle of the pond is wide and water-grass sparse; The mouth of the bay is narrow and duckweed dense. She hums along to the Wei tune that the scull-lady plays on a flute; 45  The exact reference of fufen 敷粉 (my “adorned in make-up”) in this line is ambiguous. Most modern commentators follow the interpretation of Jiang Qingyi (Ji zhu, 2.47), who suggests that it is metonymy for “dandy,” citing a disparaging remark by Yan Zhitui 顏之推 about young, vain dandies of the noble classes during the Qi dynasty who gave themselves to “perfuming their clothes, shaving their face, and wearing powder and rouge” instead of pursuing classical learning (see “Mianxue pian” 勉學篇, in Wang Liqi 王利器, ed., Yanshi jiaxun jijie 顏氏家訓集解 [Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1993], 8.148). If we accept this interpretation, the present line would be rendered: “Beautifully made up, he slipped into the palace of Magnolia Terrace.” However, touxiang 偷香 in the next line is a commonplace euphemism for a young maiden engaging in an illicit affair (see next note); moreover, the preceding two lines appear to describe a beautiful maiden also. I suggest therefore that this context warrants understanding 敷粉 in this line to refer to the activity of the young girl rather than the young man. 46  This is an allusion to a story recounted by Liu Yiqing 劉義慶 (403–444) in Shishuo xinyu 世說新語 (Yang Yong 楊勇, annot., ~ jiaojian 校箋 [Taipei: Zhengwen shuju, 1988], 35.690–91) of a certain Han Shou 韓壽 of the Jin dynasty, said to be dashingly handsome. Han served on the staff of the prominent court official Jia Chong 賈充. By happenstance, Jia’s daughter caught a glimpse of Han one day and was so enthralled by his fine features and attractive mien that she secretly offered herself to him. When Jia detected the scent of a rare exotic perfume emanating from Han, which he knew could have been worn only by his daughter, and adding this clue to his observation of his daughter’s sudden changes in appearance and mood, he surmised that the two must be having an affair. Keeping silent about his discovery, he quickly betrothed his daughter to Han, thereby averting a scandal. 47   Qing han zhou 青翰舟 (my “pheasant-bedecked azure boat”), i.e., a boat painted an azure color with the hull bearing images of pheasants.

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She croons the Qi barcarole in duet with the boat-girl: “Gone, oh, gone, the light of the water at dusk; Pick, oh, pick, the lotus blossoms of autumn. I wish to make you happy till the end of time; I wish to forever carry your mat and be your one and only mate.”

100

IV. At a time when All is quiet north of Ji,48 Music is resounding west of the Pass,49 Fog hangs still in the Yangtze valley; Haze hovers placidly above the great desert. Unearthly vapors dissipate on Rivers Yuan and Li; Rosy radiance glows off the waters of He and Luo. Exotics brought from foreign lands Give occasions for dance after dance and verse after verse; Princes and noblemen, chancellors and officials Entertain each other with songs and music.

104

Then there are Homes of nobility behind gates ornately decorated, Residences of imperial kin with gardens full of aromatics,50 Streams are culverted to their pond from the bend of Ba River;51 Brooks are channeled to their pools from the headwater at Heyang.52

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48  Ji 薊 (southwest of modern Beijing) was the capital of the ancient state of Yan 燕. I interpret “north of Ji” here to mean the northern borderlands of the Tang empire. 49  The Pass refers to the Hangu Pass 函谷關 (in modern Henan), which was one of the strategically important military fortresses protecting Chang’an to its east. “West of the Pass” is thus understood as Chang’an, and “music begins to resound” (shiyue 始樂) signifies the beginning of a time of peace and prosperity. 50  Qili 戚里 (Imperial Kin’s Ward) was the name of the district east of the imperial palace in ancient Chang’an where imperial relatives by marriage lived. See Yan Shigu’s 顏師古 annotation to Ban Gu’s biography of Shi Fen 石奮 in Han shu, 46.2193. In observation of the parallelism I render the term as a common noun, not a proper noun. 51  Ba 灞 River is an affluent of the Wei River (discussed in n. 38 above), coursing east of ancient Chang’an. 52  Heyang 河陽 is the name of the prefecture situated on the north bank of the Yellow River (hence the name) across from Luoyang.

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By the dikes outside Gukou,53 Near the islands below the Serpentine Slopes,54 Every kind of special tree is planted; All varieties of magic plant are propagated. Lotuses from north of the Gui River send their vermeil rhizomes deep down;55 Lotuses from southern Jing spread out their purple roots.56 Lush and luxuriant, lotus plants engulf the waters like mist; Radiant and resplendent, lotus flowers swarm and swirl like clouds. Come time when Scent of lotus permeates the air stretching from the capital to the frontier, Blazingly colored lotus blossoms amass in rivers and on land, When a slight chilliness is still felt in the “Wheat Rain,”57 But a hint of warm air is already palpable in the monsoon gale,58

53  Gukou 谷口 (in modern Shaanxi province) sits on the course of the Jing 涇 River where the Zheng Canal 鄭渠, constructed by Zheng Guo 鄭國 of the ancient Qin state, began. For further detail, see Knechtges, Refined Literature, 1: 110, l. 108n. 54  The Serpentine Slopes translates Huanyuan shan 轘轅山, located in Goushi prefecture (southeast of modern Yanshi 偃師 county in Henan Province). See Li Jifu 李吉甫(758– 814), comp., Yuanhe junxian tu zhi 元和郡縣圖志 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983), 5.133. I am uncertain which islands Wang Bo might be referring to, as there does not appear to be a major body of water in the immediate vicinity of Goushi except for the Luo 洛 River, some distance away. 55  Li Daoyuan 娜道元 (ca. 470–527) states in Shuijing zhu 水經注 that the Gui River 桂水 is a byname for the Huang River 湟水, an affluent of the Kuang River 涯水 that courses through Guiyang 桂陽 (in modern southeastern Hunan). See Yang Shoujing 楊守敬 and Xiong Huizhen 熊會貞, comms., Shuijing zhu shu 水經注疏 (Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1989), 39.3202–3. 56  Jing 荊 historically refers to the Jiang and Han river valleys specifically and to the south more broadly, extending as far south as northeastern and northern Guizhou, Guangxi, and part of Guangdong. See Knechtges, Refined Literature, 1: 134, l. 313n. The parallelism in this couplet suggests that “southern land of Jing” should be read as connoting the more specific location. 57  “Wheat Rain” (maiyu 麥雨) refers to rainy weather during winter-wheat harvesting time, usually from mid-May through June in China. 58  “Monsoon gale” (meibiao 梅飈) refers to the storms that periodically sweep through the Yangtze River valley and Yangtze delta regions during the rainy season from mid-June to mid-July. Because this period coincides with the time when apricots are ripening, this season acquired the name meiyu 梅雨 (Apricot Rain) or huangmei yu 黃梅雨 (Apricot Yellowing Rain).

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Enchanting lady-companions are called to the Stone Citadel;59 Jovial friends are whistled up to the Golden Dell.60 Upon this Green Pearl is bade to ply the oars;61 Azure Zither is charged to work the sculls.62 Goblets after goblets of delicious wine float, Trays after trays of exquisite delicacies are paraded through. They cruise on the rolling waves of the Jade-Blue Pool;63 They round the curves and bends of the Golden Canal.64 Rocks crouching near the water are coated with thick algae; Banks adjoining the mountains are flanked by rows of trees. Pushing apart water-caltrops, they race to pull ahead of one another; Cutting through reed beds, they rush to outrun each other. Plunging into the deeps of water, surfing the crest of waves, Their coattails flutter and their chiffon robes flap. 59  Jiang Qingyi identifies the Shicheng 石城 (my “Stone Citadel”) as the Shitoucheng 石頭城 in Jinling 金陵 (modern Nanjing), the capital of the Six Dynasties period (early third century through late sixth century). See Ji zhu, 2.49. Especially in poetry of the Tang, Shitoucheng (alt., Shicheng) often stands in for Jinling. 60  Golden Dell (Jingu 金谷) is the namesake of the country villa owned by Shi Chong 石崇(249–300) of the Western Jin dynasty. It was located on the northwestern outskirts of Luoyang and memorialized in Jingu shi 金谷詩, a now lost collection of occasional poems written on an outing at Shi Chong’s villa. See Shi Chong’s “Preface to Jingu shi” 金谷詩敘 recorded in Shishuo xinyu, 9.401. For a study of the social prominence of Shi Chong and his Jingu Villa, see Hellmut Wilhelm, “Shih Ch’ung and his Chin-ku-yüan,” Monumenta Serica 18 (1959): 314–27. 61  Green Pearl (Lüzhu 綠珠) is the name of a girl of the Jin dynasty said to be a stunning beauty and a skilled flutist, whom the above-mentioned Shi Chong retained as his personal attendant. According to Shi Chong’s official biography, Shi was so fond of Green Pearl that he refused to give her up to any suitor regardless of the price offered, and she repaid his favor with unfaltering devotion (Jin shu, 33.1004–9, esp. 1008). 62  The earliest extant reference to Azure Zither (Qing Qin 青琴) is in Sima Xiangru’s “Shanglin fu” 上林賦, to which a note by Fu Yan 伏儼, one of the Wen xuan commentators, that “this is an ancient goddess” 古神女也 (wx, 8.375), provides as much as is known of her. 63  Jade-Blue Pool (Yutan 玉潭) most likely is meant to be read as a common noun referring to the translucency of the pool water. So also it is likely that Golden Canal (Jinqu 金渠) in the next line refers to the silvery sheen of the canal water. However, to preserve the neatness of the original’s parallelism, I have rendered these phrases as proper nouns. 64  遶金渠之隈隩 Cf. Bao Zhao 鮑照, “Furong fu” 芙蓉賦: 遶金渠之空曲 (ywlj, 82.1404).

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Wind presses down green lotus peduncles; Water splashes onto yellow lotus seeds. Honored guests become boisterous, their jubilant spirit unabated; Lovely ladies grow tipsy, their cheeks turning crimson.65 They fear that the radiance of lotus might rival their beautiful complexions;66 They desire their perfumed garments to be sweeter than the scent of waterlily. To and fro, notes of Ying tunes float; Sad and doleful, chords of Yan ballads waft: “Oh, we wish to revel to our hearts’ content in all the thrills on water, Oh, we vow to enjoy to the fullest all the delights of the mountain. Let’s invite the Maiden of Han; Let’s call on the Xiang Beauty.67 In north valley the lotus blossoms are still dense; Around south islet the lotus blossoms are even more plentiful; What a pity that nothing can arrest this splendor from fleeting! Who can help to keep the sweet scent of lotus everlasting?” V. Now take for instance The exemplary wife of southern Yan68 Or the faithful woman hailed in eastern Wu.69

65  美人醉兮顏將酡. Cf. “Zhaohun” 招魂 (Summons of the Soul) in Chuci 楚辭：美人既 醉,朱顔酡些 (Hong Xingzu 洪興袓 [1070–1135], comm., Chuci buzhu 楚辭補註 [skqs; rpt., Taipei: Yiwen yinshuguan, 1986], 9.10b–11a [pp. 344–45]). 66  This is an allusion to the reputed lotus-like face (臉際常若芙蓉) of Zhuo Wenjun 卓文君, a stunning beauty of the Western Han and a wealthy widow who forfeited her life of luxury to elope with the financially straitened rhapsodist Sima Xiangru. See Liu Xin 劉歆 (d. 23), comp., Xijing zaji 西京雜記 (skqs; rpt., Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1991), 2.3b (pp. 1035–38). 67  Han nü 漢女 and Xiang E 湘娥 are names of river goddesses. 68  Yan 鄢 was the secondary capital of the ancient state of Chu (southeast of Yicheng county in modern Hubei). Ji reads Chu 楚 for Yan, but either reading supplies the intended reference to Chu. 69  This is an allusion to Zhenji 貞姬, wife of Mi Sheng 羋勝, who was the grandson of King Ping 平 of Chu, later enfiefed Lord of Bai 白. After Mi Sheng died, Zhenji spent her days spinning silk, refusing to be remarried. According to tradition, the King of Wu greatly admired Zhenji upon learning of her reputation as a chaste and steadfast woman, so he dispatched a special envoy to ask for her hand, presenting her with lavish gifts of gold and a pair of jade disks. But she resolutely turned down the king’s marriage proposal. He then conferred on her the name Zhenji (Virtuous Consort), by which she is remembered in

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Suddenly her lord has to go on a journey; The good man is sent on a distant expedition. Southward he goes to pacify Jiuzhen and the Hundred Yues;71 Westward he goes to defend frontiers in Rooster Field and Swan Fort. Thinking of their separation, her spirit is seized with fright; Looking at him, her bones shake with terror.72 When standing over spring isle to send him off,73 She sees autumn pool all placid and calm. Ever since her beloved took his leave, She has been gazing into the farthest edge of misty waves; She thinks of the coldness that he has to endure, And of his arduous passages through mountains and rivers, Water swashes and splashes on the purple lotus leaves; Wind thrashes and thrusts crimson waterlilies.74 She clips the prase-green petioles, sobbing unceasingly;75 She breaks off the carnelian-red flowers, enshrouded in sadness. history. See “Zhen shun zhuan” 貞順傳 (Biographies of the Virtuous and the Acquiescent), in Liu Xiang 劉向 (79–8 bc), comp., Lienü zhuan 列女傳 (sbby), 4.6b–7a. 70  I.e., she properly assumed her role as a man’s wife. 71  From the Qin dynasty to the Tang, Jiuzhen 九真 (located in the area of modern Than Hoa, Vietnam) was a commandery of the Chinese empire. Baiyue 百越 (alt., 百粵) is a collective term for the various aboriginal Yue peoples (alternatively written 越 and 粵) living throughout the south, from modern-day Zhejiang, Fujian, Guangxi, and Guangdong to Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand. 72  念去魂駭，相視骨驁. Cf. Jiang Yan, “Fu on Separation” (Bie fu 別賦): 有別必怨，有 怨必盈。使人意奪魂駭，心折骨驁 (Separation always leads to regret; / And when regret comes, it overflows one’s breast, / Thus causing a man’s mind to despair, his spirit to tremble, / His heart to shatter, and his bones to shake), in wx, 17.756; trans. Knechtges, Refined Literature, 3: 209. Li Shan notes in his commentary that Jiang Yan has created a syntactic contortion in the last line of this passage by transposing the verbs jing 驚 (jitter; jumpy) and zhe 折 (break, snap), most likely for the sake of observing parallelism. Wang Bo accordingly retained Jiang Yan’s original phrasing of gu jing 骨驚 in observance of the parallel structure of the donor couplet. 73  Reading 春渚 for 枉渚, following Ji. 74  Reading 荷花 for 荷葉, following the Zhang edition. 75  I am uncertain of the exact connotation of the word 帶 in 瑤帶 (lit., “jade cincture”) in this line, having found no example in the usual commonplace sources of this word used

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After having Coasted the cove and lingered on the fjord, She reverses her paddles and back-propels her sculling oar. Glancing over at the fragrant plants already withering, She imagines the hardship that he so far away must be enduring. Craning her milky neck at the distant edge of the expansive waters, She reaches her bare snow-white wrists into the enchanted shallows.76 She laments having no road to lead her to their reunion; It only makes her yearn for him even more, but what is there to soothe her? VI. Again, imagine Female singers and performers, and alluring ladies’ maids, Each calling to her companions and beckoning to her cohort,77 On the waters of the Qi and the Luo, And from the heights of the Xiang and the Ru.78 Seeing the islands covered by halcyon-blue grass, Their oars ruffle the water, leaving a wake scaly like Black Dragons. They wish to untie their pendants to win the heart of their lovers;79 They think of girding their skirts to follow their lords.80

in reference to any part of a lotus plant. The context, however, seems to warrant understanding 帶 to refer to a stem of the plant, specifically the stem of the lotus leaf. 76  延素頸於極漲，攘皓腕於神滸. Cf. Cao Zhi, “Luoshen fu” 洛神賦 (Fu on the Goddess of the Luo): 紆素領，迴清揚 (She turns her white neck, / Looks back with her bright shining eyes [wx, 19.900; trans. Knechtges, Refined Literature, 3: 365]); and 攘皓腕於神 滸兮，採溫瀬之玄芝 (Extending her albescent arms toward the margin of the divine stream, / She plucks dark mushrooms from the raging rapids [wx, 19.898; trans. Knechtges, Refined Literature, 3: 361]). 77  倡姬蕩媵，命侶招羣. Cf. Cao Zhi, “Luoshen fu”: 衆靈雜遝，命儔嘯侶 ([A] host of spirits, in teeming throngs, / Calling to cohorts, shouting to companions [wx, 19.899; trans. Knechtges, Refined Literature, 3: 363]). 78  Qi 淇 River is a tributary of the Yellow River that courses through modern northern Hebei province. The Ru 汝 is a river that courses southeastward through the central region of modern Henan province. 79  願解佩以邀子. Cf. Cao Zhi, “Luoshen fu”: 願誠素之先達兮，解玉佩以要之 (Hoping that my sincere feelings first be made known, / I untie my jade girdle and offer it as a pledge [wx, 19.898; trans. Knechtges, Refined Literature, 3: 361]). 80  思褰裳而從君. Cf. “Qian chang” 褰裳 (ms #87): 子惠思我，褰裳涉溱。子不思 我，豈無他人。狂童之狂也且. (If you tenderly love me, / Gird your loins and wade across the Zhen; / But if you don’t love me—/ There are plenty of other men, / Of madcaps

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They fear that the season is soon getting late; They worry that the day is soon turning dusk. Their jingling bracelets tinkle softly; Their glittering pearls and jewels glint brilliantly. Enamored of the roseate vapor above the dawning meadow, Infatuated with the azure clouds in a clear blue sky, They paddle around the sandbank, brushing aside willow branches; They row toward the islet, pushing apart water-caltrops. They hold lotus leaves by their green petioles to make sunshade; They string together vermilion lotus sepals to make skirts. Their paddles bob in a dizzying confusion, Like rain blown in a windstorm or downpour; Their poles whoosh, on and on, unceasing, As the fog lifts and the mist dissipates. Their boats fly like young dragons, curving and swerving; Their barks dart like startled geese, swarming in confusion; Their rafts hesitate before the crashing tide; Their bamboo poles recoil from rocks in the shallows. Silky lotus fibers cling to their hands and wrap around their wrists; Prickly lotus peduncles snag their garments and rip their skirts. VII. Then there are Sons of noblemen and scions of royal clans, Who seize moments of leisure and set out for a grand tour of famed sites. Dandies fair as He Pingshu glow in radiance;81 Gents handsome like Pan Anren look resplendent in their finery.82 They relax the reins, letting their stallions gallop on the Metal Dike;83 They entreat that their duck-boats coast the Stony Bank.

maddest, oh! [Maoshi zhengyi, in ssj, 4.74b–75a (pp. 342–43); trans. Arthur Waley, The Book of Songs (New York: Grove Press, 1996), 72]). 81  Pingshu 平叔 is the courtesy name of He Yan 何晏 (189?–249), who reputedly had such a fair complexion that Cao Pi 曹丕 (Emperor Wen of Wei, r. 220–226) suspected him for some time of wearing powder. See Sanguo zhi, 9.292; Shishuo xinyu, 14.462. 82  Anren 安仁 is the courtesy name of Pan Yue (see n. 33 above), legendary for his handsome looks. See Shishuo xinyu, 14.467 and 468. 83  Metal Dike (Jindi 金隄) is the byname for Dujiang yan 都江堰 on the Min 岷 River (located east of modern-day Guan xian 灌縣, Sichuan). See Shuijing zhu, 33.2743–46.

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Varicolored silk ropes bounce and jounce; Silvery masts glint and glitter. As the sun tilts toward the horizon and daylight begins to fade, Wind jolts the water and high waves start to surge. They search all over north islet for new finds to make presents; They explore east glen to their hearts’ content for more hidden wonders. Girls donning beautiful slippers embroidered with variegated mandarin ducks, Lasses carrying precious zithers inlayed with tortoise shell and carnelian petals, Drum on the side of the boat and tap at the oar, Caroling Wu ditties and incanting Yue ballads: “On rivers Zhen and Wei, lotus leaves blanket the waters; Along rivers Huai and Ji, lotus flowers jut out by the steep banks. A bright moon is rising at sundown; Vermeil aurora is glowing at nightfall.84 Hot Pepper Lay gives pang to my thoughts;85 Peony Madrigal brings sorrow to my heart.”86 VIII. In this lowly affair of picking lotus, Truly few will have unstirred emotions. A custom first begun in regions of lakes and rivers, 84  逄丹霞之夜臨. Cf. Cao Pi, “Furong chi zuo shi” 芙蓉池作詩：丹霞夾明月，華 星出雲間 (Vermeil aurora enfolds the bright moon, / Twinkling stars peer out of the clouds). For the full text of this poem, see Lu Qinli 逯欽立, comp., Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi 先秦漢魏晉南北朝詩 (rpt., Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983), 400. 85  The “hot pepper” (zhuyu 茱萸) in the title of the song refers to Zanthoxylum ailanthoides, a plant of the prickly-ash genus. It is known variously as shi zhuyu 食莱黃, Yue jiao 越椒, or lazi 辣子, and bears small, piquant fruits used both in cooking and as medicine. See Gao Mingqian 高明乾 et al., comps., Zhiwu gu Hanming tu kao 植物古漢名 圖考 (Beijing: Daxiang chubanshe, 2006), 242; and G. A. Stuart, Chinese Materia Medica: Vegetable Kingdom (rpt., Taipei: Southern Materials Center, Inc., 1987), 462. Jiang Qingyi identifies “Hot Pepper Lay” as a reference to a yuefu poem by Cao Zhi titled “Fuping pian” 浮萍篇 (see Ji zhu, 2.54). For the full text of this poem, see Zhao Youwen 趙幼文, ed., Cao Zhi ji jiaozhu 曹植集校注 (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1984), 2.311–12. 86  Again, according to Jiang Qingyi (Ji zhu, 2.54), “Peony Madrigal” (Shaoyao qu 芍藥曲) refers to Maoshi #95, “The Zhen and Wei” 溱洧, the refrain of which reads: 維士與女, 伊其相謔, 贈之以勺樂 (That knight and lady, / Merrily they sport. / Then she gave him a peony”; see Maoshi zhengyi, in ssj, 4.78c (p. 346); trans. Waley, The Book of Songs, 76). Waley explains in his endnote to the translation of this poem, “[The root of peony, or shaoyao 芍藥] probably figured in courtship first as a love-philter, and later (as in this poem) merely as a symbol of lasting affection, like our rosemary. A popular etymology makes it mean the ‘binding herb.’ ” Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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It is now popular throughout the land. It brings out utmost joy and sorrow from within us, Which are then fused into the sound of “Airs of Zheng” and “Elegantiae.” That is why People comb the bottom of every valley And sweep all extremities of the earth; They traverse to the furthest end of rivers Feng, Hao, Lao, and Jue in the north; They trace the entire course of the Tuo of Ba and the Yi of Yue in the south. No one does not Eagerly anticipate the coming of the time and excitedly greet the arrival of the  season, When one can follow the current and coast the water margins. Ho, they go to pick lotus;87 Lo, they come offering its blossoms.88 Beautiful cantos push open ornately bedecked gates; Sweet love lyrics draw apart securely shut curtains. It causes one’s heart to pang with affection; It makes one’s mind churn with longing. So superb is the lotus Its beauty eclipses the radiance of all other plants; Its aroma surpasses even the nine-peduncle magic mushrooms.89 Blue-plumed magic birds roost on its flowers; Azure-shelled precious tortoises rest on its pads. Purple satin pouches sheathe scrolls of transmitted accounts [of lotus]; Books of cinnabar record instructions for secret [lotus] incantations. How can it merely be consigned To add luster to the embroidered columns Or to amplify the resplendence of ornate ceilings? 87  薄言采之. This is a formulaic refrain appearing in several poems in The Book of Songs. See especially Maoshi #8, “Fumu” 芣苜 (Plantain), and #178, “Cai qi” 采芑 (Pluck White Millet). 88  興言報之. This is an allusion to Maoshi #64, “Mugua” 木瓜 (A Quince), which repeats the same lines in all three stanzas with the exception of varying the object in lines 1 and 2 of each. The basic refrain reads: 投我以 X, 報之以 Y。匪報也, 永以為好也 (She threw an X to me; / In requital I gave a Y. / No, not just a requital; / But meaning I would love her forever); trans. Waley, The Book of Songs, 54. 89  The nine-peduncle magic mushroom (jiuzhi 九芝 or jiujing zhi 九莖芝) refers to an extremely rare type of coral-like mushroom, of the ganoderma genus, but with a cluster of nine interconnected caps, reportedly found in the garden of Sweet Spring Palace in 109 bc during the reign of emperor Wu 武帝 of Han (r. 140–88 bc); see Han shu, 9.193. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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IX. Enough! Now suppose There is ever a time when no lotus of any kind exists, Or there is ever an era when no lotus of any type is to be had. They live only in the realm of Supreme Clarity;90 They do not grow on the land of the Central Kingdom. They take after the phoenixes, which appear very occasionally; They pair up with birds of synced-wings, which arrive ever so rarely. Verily, Myriad things will lose their magical brilliance; A multitude of others will cease to emanate their heavenly luster. It will lead Kings Tang and Wu to fast and be heedful of auguries;91 It will make Yiyin and Gaoyao halt and stand still.92 What hope can there be for Pageboys in Chu, manservants in Zhao, Sing-song girls, and dazzling beauties To fondle lotuses and to play with them, To pick their flowers and to cull their blossoms? X. Here now is A solitary man from the eastern outskirts, Formerly a guest at gatherings in the Western Garden,93 At times a carriage escort to the child of a god, Once a studio attendant to the immortal.94 Together they used to recite poems on green bamboo in the morning breeze And rhapsodize about vermilion lotus under the midnight moon.

90  I.e., the highest level of the celestial heaven. 91  Kings Tang 湯 and Wu 武 were sage kings of the Shang and Zhou dynasties respectively. 92  A reference to two model ministers of legendary times: Yiyin 伊尹 was Shang King Tang’s able vassal, and Gaoyao 皋陶 served as minister of justice in the court of King Shun 舜. 93  I.e., court of the noble lord, an allusion to Cao Zhi’s “Gongyan shi” 公讌詩 (Poem on Lord’s Feast). For the full text of this poem see Cao Zhi ji, 1.48–49. 94  An allusion to Handan Chun’s 邯鄲淳 reported remark about Cao Zhi being an immortal (tianren 天人), based on his highly favorable first meeting with him. An account of this meeting was originally recorded in Wei lüe 魏略 but is no longer extant; nevertheless, the relevant passage is preserved in a note attached to the biography of Wang Can 王粲 (177–217) in Sanguo zhi, 21.603.

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As summer gives way to winter, So swiftly and so far into the distance time fleets. A tumbleweed blown in the wind, a peach-tree branch tossed in the current, He is now unmoored at the end of the earth and on the extremity of the sea, Gripped by desolation as was the man who returned to Linqiong,95 Stranded interminably like the man who went to Viet.96 Lonely and in dire straits, He is adrift in the remotest corner of the world. He had previously heard of the Seven Marshes; Now he has seen the Five Lakes. He has listened to quite a few Songs of Water-Caltrops And has gazed at quite a few seedpods of lotus plant. But they are not the same as the conversations at banquets on the pond in Ye;97 They differ from the joy and pleasure he relished in the garden by the Sui River.98 Furthermore This is a land so different, a region so alien, Where sea upon sea stack up to form a barrier, Where homeland is beyond reach for Yu Fan,99 95  An allusion to Sima Xiangru’s desolate condition after eloping with the beautiful widow Zhuo Wenjun 卓文君 to Chengdu. See “Biography of Sima Xiangru,” in Shiji, 117.3000, and Han shu, 57A.2530–31. 96  An allusion to the story in Zhuangzi about a man from Song who travelled all the way to Yue (specifically, in this tale, Viet) to peddle ceremonial caps, only to discover that the indigenous peoples there had no use for his wares because they customarily wore their hair short and covered their bodies with tattoos. Hence he lost all his capital and found himself stranded. See Wang Shumin 王叔岷, ed. and annot., Zhuangzi jiaoquan 莊子 校詮 (Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan lishi yuyan yanjiusuo, 1988), 1.30. 97  Reading 池 for 地, following Jiang Qingyi’s emendation. Jiang speculates that this is a likely allusion to the above-mentioned “Furong chi zuo shi” by Cao Pi (n. 84). See Ji zhu, 2.57. 98  Sui 睢 is the name of a river that once flowed by the region of Sui county in modern day Henan (see Shuijing zhu, 24.2001–27). The garden, Dong yuan 東苑, was built for Liu Wu 劉武, Prince Xiao of Liang 梁孝王 and the youngest son of Emperor Wen 文 of Han (r. 176–157 bc), and was the reputed site of many gatherings of literary talents of the time. See Han shu, 47.2208. 99  Yu Fan 虞翻 was a military official in the court of Sun Quan 孫權 (182–252) of the Eastern Wu. According to Yu Fan’s biography in Wu shu, he on several occasions displeased Sun Quan with his blunt remonstrations. His naturally aloof disposition, furthermore, made some other officials at court resentful of him, and they made him a target of slander.

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Where life is but disappointment and melancholy to Xu Jing.100 Though thankful that these fragrant plants have come to bloom in good time, He is fearful that his enduring name will soon be lost to eternity.101 He then Withdraws to the north slope of Ying River, erasing his tracks,102 And retreats to the sunny bank of Wei River, covering his traces;103 He pillows his head on the solitary rock in Mt. Jixiu104 And lets his boat drift on the small pond in Panxi.105 He subsists on the pure white lotus seeds and inhales fragrance from their crimson blooms;106

Eventually Sun banished him to Jiaozhi on charges of misconduct. He died there tensome years later. See Sanguo zhi, 57.1317–24. 100  Xu Jing 許靖, a native of Runan 汝南 in modern Henan province, entered official service during the reign of Emperor Ling 靈帝 (r. 168–189) of the Eastern Han. After the emperor’s death, the court fell into a state of turmoil and the powerful warlord Dong Zhuo 董卓 (d. 192) seized control of the capital Luoyang. In order to solidify his political standing, Dong Zhuo tried to recruit men of ability (shanshi 善士) to his administration, including Xu Jing, who was offered the governorship of Ba Commandery 巴郡 (near modern Chongqing). Xu declined, and after Dong Zhuo executed certain of Xu’s associates, Xu fled to Yangzhou in the south. When Sun Quan’s army advanced toward Yangzhou to extend his control over the Yangtze River delta, Xu fled even further south to Jiaozhi, where he spent most of his remaining years in self-imposed exile. See his biography in Sanguo zhi, 38.963–67. 101  感芳草之及時，懼修名之或喪. Cf. “Li sao” 離騷 (Encountering Sorrow): 老冉冉其 將至兮，恐修名之不立 (Old age steadily approaches, soon it will be upon me; / I fear I may not have an enduring name to claim); see Chuci, 1.10a (p. 27). 102  Ying 潁 River alludes to the story of Xu You 許由, the legendary recluse who refused the offer of the empire from the sage king Yao and withdrew instead to the bank of Ying River at the foot of Mt. Ji (see Huangfu Mi 皇甫謐 [215–282], comp., Gaoshi zhuan 高士傳 [sbby], 1.2b–3a). 103  This is an allusion to Lü Shang 呂尚 (a.k.a. Jiang Taigong 姜太公), a recluse living in obscurity. Legend has it that King Wen of Zhou found Lü angling, hook-free, on a rock by the Wei River and recognized that he was a man of special wisdom, so he persuaded him to join his court as prime minister. See Lü Shang’s biography in Shi ji, 32.1477–81. 104  Jixiu 箕岫 is an alternative name for Mt. Ji, to which Xu You withdrew (see n. 102). 105  Panxi 蟠溪 was the spot where King Wen first encountered Lü Shang (see n. 103). 106  餐素實兮吸絳芳. Cf. “Li sao”: 朝飮木蘭之墮露兮，夕餐秋菊之落英 (At dawn, I drink the dew drops collected on magnolia, / At dusk, I feed on the fallen blossoms of chrysanthemum); see Chuci, 1.10a [27]).

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He sews lotus leaves to make a coat and fashions water-caltrop leaves into a skirt;107 He tends to his everlasting purity in the crevasse of the mountain; He gives pledge from his heart, forever, to his prince.108 And he writes a song that goes: Behind glory and splendor comes languishment; With merit and fame comes distress. Oh, these marvelous flowers, rare plants Of red radiance and jade-blue hue, They possess the elegant beauty bestowed by heaven and earth; They are nourished by rain and moistened by dew! Lotuses need roots; roots need peduncles. Talent needs to be used; to use it one needs to seize the time. How truly graceful, when the lotus flowers swing and their cups sway! They hold their fragrance and luster in the Phoenix Pond, all for their prince!

107  荷為衣兮芰為裳. Cf. “Li sao”: 製芰荷以為衣兮，集芙蓉以為裳 (I make watercaltrop and lilies into a coat, / And braid lotus into a skirt); see Chuci, 1.14a [35]). 108  This line is borrowed verbatim from Cao Zhi’s “Luoshen fu” (see wx, 19.900).

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Tamed Kite and Stranded Fish: Interference and Apology in Lu Chao-lin’s fu Paul W. Kroll The* so-called “Four Elites of the Early T’ang” (ch’u-T’ang ssu-chieh),1 namely Lu Chao-lin (ca. 632–ca. 685), Lo Pin-wang 駱賓王 (ca. 619–ca. 687), Wang 王勃 (649–76), and Yang Chiung 楊炯 (650–95?) have of late been the subject of increasingly scholarly attention. This has included collective studies on all four writers, such as those by Shen Hui-le 沈惠樂 and Ch’ien Wei-k’ang 錢偉康,2 Ko Hsiao-yin 葛曉音,3 Lo Hsiang-fa 駱祥發,4 Shang Ting 尚定,5 Huang Ch’ing-hui Source: “Tamed Kite and Stranded Fish: Interference and Apology in Lu Chao-lin’s fu,” T’ang Studies 15–16 (1997–98): 41–77. * This article is dedicated to John K. Villa, amicus certus et diuturnus. 1  Chieh 傑 signifies something (be it plant, animal, or human) that stands out saliently from the crowd, rather equivalent to our egregious < “out of or apart from (ex) the flock (grex), not of the common herd.” Unfortunately, English has no suitable noun form of that word, even if one could ignore the now nearly ubiquitous narrowing of its meaning to the pejorative. Nor do we have usable noun forms for “outstanding, salient, distinguished,” all of which are good renderings of chieh as an adjective. However, elite < electus, “the pick of, the choice(st) or elect of,” is a close synonym, even containing a tangent whiff of hauteur, which in many cases is not unknown in the usage of chieh (cf. Shuo-wen’s definition of chieh as ao 傲). Indeed, some early uses of the phrase ssu-chieh occur in contexts suggesting a certain arrogance attaching to the four men. (There will be more to say about this presently.) Although we now mostly use elite as a collective noun, it is not incorrect to apply it to an individual person or item. In any event, the oft-used equivalent “hero” cannot be allowed in reference to the ssu-chieh, nor can the bland “talent(s)” or the too exalted and vaguely clerical “eminence(s).” 2  Ch’u-T’ang ssu-chieh ho Ch’en Tzu-ang 初唐四傑合陳子昂 (Shanghai, 1987; rpt. Taipei: Ch’ün-yü-t’ang ch’u-pan shih-yeh, 1991). 3   “Ch’u-T’ang ssu-chieh yü Ch’i-Liang wen-feng” 初唐四傑與齊梁文風,” Ch’iu-so 求索 55 (1990): 87–93. This article has been reprinted, along with several others that touch on the ssu-chieh and various other topics in early T’ang poetry, which Ko has published during the past decade, in her Shih-kuo kao-ch’ao yü sheng-T’ang wen-hua 詩國高潮與盛唐文化 (Peking: Pei-ching Ta-hsüeh ch’u-pan-she, 1998). 4  Ch’u-T’ang ssu-chieh yen-chiu (Peking: Tung-fang ch’u-pan-she, 1993). 5  “‘Ssu-chieh’ yü ’tang-shih-t’i’”「四傑」與「當時體」, in his Tsou-hsiang sheng-T’ang 走向 盛唐 (Peking: Chung-kuo she-hui k’o-hsüeh ch’u-pan-she, 1994), 125–98. Shang’s book, basically his 1991 doctoral dissertation from Peking University, is an exceptionally stimulating

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黃晴惠,6 and others. Nor have more closely focused studies on one or another

of the four individuals been lacking. Ten years ago, in an article dealing with some of Lu Chao-lin’s sao 騷-style verse, I said the following:

Only rarely have scholars made the effort to savor or re-evaluate properly the works of these four individuals. There are at least two reasons for this—beside the fact of these poets’ unfortunate prevenience to the “High T’ang.” First, many of their works are difficult and highly embellished, assuming a command of classical diction, wit, and the Chinese literary heritage that is quite daunting to a modern reader. Second, to make a valid appraisal of their work, one must consider not only their shih-poetry but their fu (rhapsodies) as well, and this is something oddly fearful to many present-day scholars of T’ang poetry who do their best to avoid encounters with the latter, very demanding verse-form; hence poets such as these four, whose achievements are not encompassed by their shih, suffer because of our own inadequacies.7 While the picture described in the first sentence has changed considerably for the better in the past decade, it is still in general the case that the fu 賦 of the Four Elites are usually examined in the margin—most often for the biographical ore that can be mined from them—when they are noticed at all. To the extent that the fu remains outside scholarship on T’ang “poetry,” we are without the full range of view that is necessary for the appreciation of any individual poet or for the writing of a truly integrated history of T’ang verse.8 Here I intend to focus on two of Lu Chao-lin’s rhapsodies, along with works related to them (including a fu by Wang Po), in hope of extending in some measure our critical horizon.9 study, containing a wealth of insights on early T’ang literature from social and political perspectives as well as from those of literary criticism, literary history, and cultural history. 6  “Ch’u-T’ang ssu-chieh chuan-chi k’ao-pien chi ch’i wen-hsüeh szu-hsiang yen-chiu” 初唐四 傑傳記考辨及其文學思想研究, M.A. thesis, National Taiwan University, 1996. 7  P. W. Kroll, “The Memories of Lu Chao-lin,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 109.4 (1989): 583. 8  I have attempted a first step toward a fuller view in “The Poetry of the T’ang Dynasty (shih and fu),” a survey chapter in the forthcoming Columbia History of Chinese Literature, ed. Victor H. Mair. 9  On T’ang fu, see especially Stephen R. Bokenkamp, “The Ledger on the Rhapsody: Studies in the Art of the T’ang fu,” Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1986, centering on a fu manual from the early ninth century lately recovered in Japan; also Bokenkamp (Po I 柏夷), “Fu-p’u lüeh-shu” 「賦譜」 略述, Chung-hua wen-shih lun-ts’ung 中華文史論叢 49 (1992):

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Each of the ssu-chieh has his own literary appeal and deserves separate hearing. They formed in no sense a coterie. Among them Lu Chao-lin was probably the most adventurous and various in terms of topic and form.10 But each of them seems to have had a healthy sense of his own abilities and special worth; nor were any of them shy about bruiting their own virtues. In the case of Lu Chao-lin, his birth into the kin-group of the Lus of Fan-yang 范陽, an old northeastern clan that was regarded as one of the five most prestigious in the empire,11 must have contributed to an early sense of superiority. Although

149–64. English-language studies and translations of individual T’ang fu are not numerous. See, e.g., P. W. Kroll, “Li Po’s Rhapsody on the Great P’eng-bird,” Journal of Chinese Religions 12 (1984): 1–17; Edward H. Schafer, “The Dance of the Purple Culmen,” T’ang Studies 5 (1987): 45–68; David R. Knechtges, “The Old-Style fu of Han Yü,” T’ang Studies 13 (1995): 51–80. Stephen F. Teiser translates a portion (less than half) of Yang Chiung’s fu on the Ullambana festival of 692, in his The Ghost Festival in Medieval China (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1988), 73–76. 10  A decade ago there were no annotated editions, traditional or modern, of Lu Chao-lin’s works. Since then three have appeared, a sinological proof of Rupert Sheldrake’s theory of morphic resonance. Each of these has its merits and none can be used to the exclusion of the others: Lu Chao-lin chi pien-nien chien-chu 盧照鄰集編年箋注, ed. Jen Kuo-hsü 任國緒 (Harbin: Hei-lung-chiang jen-min ch’u-pan-she, 1989; hereafter cited as Jen); Lu Chao-lin chi chien-chu 盧照鄰集箋注, ed. Chu Shang-shu 祝尚書 (Shanghai: Shang-hai ku-chi ch’u-pan-she, 1994; hereafter cited as Chu); Lu Chao-lin chi chiao-chu 盧照鄰集校 注, ed. Li Yün-i 李雲逸 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1998) (hereafter cited as Li). Prior to this the best modern edition was that of Hsü Ming-hsia 徐明霞, Lu Chao-lin chi, Yang Chiung chi 虛照鄰集楊炯集 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1980; hereafter cited as Hsü). 11  Besides the Lus of Fan-yang, these included the Ts’uis 崔 of Po-ling 博陵, the Ts’uis of Ch’ing-ho 清河, the Lis 李 of Chao-chün 趙郡, and the Chengs 鄭 of Hsing-yang 滎陽. The Wangs 王 of T’ai-yüan 太原 a bit farther west, were also often included among this top echelon. In 659 Kao-tsung, continuing his father T’ai-tsung’s attempts to diminish the power of these great clans that had been politically and socially influential for centuries and who thought themselves (and were generally regarded as) above even the imperial family, proscribed intermarriage among them. But this decree was ineffective and even seems to have added to their stature. Tzu-chih t’ung-chien 資治通鑑 (Hong Kong: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1956), 200.6318; Hsin T’ang shu 新唐書 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1975; hereafter cited as hts), 95.3842. See the standard studies of David G. Johnson, The Medieval Chinese Oligarchy (Boulder: Westview Press, 1977) and Patricia Buckley Ebrey, The Aristocratic Families of Early Imperial China: A Case Study of the Po-ling Ts’ui Family (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1978) for the subject in general; also the recent monograph by Dušanka D. Miščevič, “Oligarchy or Social Mobility: A Study of the Great Clans of Early Medieval China,” Bulletin of the Museum of Far Eastern Antiquities 65 (1993): 5–283, for new data and some alternate interpretations. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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Chao-lin seems to have come from a minor branch of the clan,12 he was able to be sent as a young boy to study successively under the great scholars Ts’ao Hsien 曹憲 (fl. 605–49) and Wang I-fang 王義方 (615–69), the one a master philologue and doyen of Wen hsüan 文選 studies,13 the other a savant of the “Five Classics.”14 Lu Chao-lin’s impressive command of the literary tradition surely owes much to his early training with these eminent scholars. When barely out of his teens he was appointed a secretary (tien-ch’ien 典籤) in the suite of Li Yüan-yü 李元裕 (d. 665), seventeenth son of T’ang Kao-tsu and holder of various prefectships, governorships, and noble appanages including that of Prince of Teng 鄧王 by which he is most commonly known. Li Yüan-yü was perhaps the most scholarly of the T’ang founder’s offspring and boasted an extensive library in his palatine establishment, a resource that Lu Chao-lin must have appreciated and put to good use. The prince reportedly referred to Lu as “my own [Ssu-ma] Hsiang-ju” and established a close personal friendship with him that even led on occasion to his sending Lu on official missions as his direct envoy. It is unclear whether Lu remained in Li Yüan-yü’s service up to the time of the prince’s death in 665, or whether he had begun to make his own way some years before. But Lu’s career as a public official was in any event not all smooth going. We do not yet have a definitive curriculum vitae for Lu Chao-lin. Several different attempts have been made to construct a dated sequence for the known events of his life, which just shows how uncertain we are about some of the specifics.15 But there is no doubt that his three stays in Shu 蜀, spanning a 12  There is no information extant regarding Lu Chao-lin’s father (other than that he died ca. 672) or grandfather, which suggests descent from a minor branch of the clan. Chaolin himself claimed he was a ninth-generation descendant of Lu Yen 盧偃, patriarch of the northern line of the Fan-yang Lus that did not emigrate south with the fall of the Western Chin. Lu Ch’eng-ch’ing 盧承慶 (595–669), who had a long official career under both T’ai-tsung and Kao-tsung, even serving briefly as a chief minister in 659, was an older cousin in Chao-lin’s kinship generation, but at least four collateral lines removed. See Chu, 555; Chiu T’ang shu 舊唐書 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1975; hereafter cited as ChTS), 81.2748–50; hts 106.4047. 13  Lu’s apprenticeship with Ts’ao Hsien would have been near the end of the latter’s long life, in the mid-640s. Among other students, Ts’ao Hsien also trained Li Shan 李善 (d. 689) who was to complete in 658 the most important individual commentary to the Wen hsüan. For Ts’ao’s biographies, see ChTS 189A.4945–46 and hts 198.5640. 14  Lu probably studied with Wang I-fang when the latter was holding office at Yüan-shui 洹水 (near present-day An-yang, Hopei) around 649–50. For Wang’s biographies, see ChTS 187A.4874–76 and hts 112.4159–61. 15  The main contributors are the following: Takagi Masakazu 高木正一, “Ro Shōrin no denki to bungaku” 盧照鄰の傳記と文学, Ritsumeikan bungaku 196 (Oct. 1961): 777–809, esp. 777–85; Liu K’ai-yang 劉開陽, “Lun ch’u-T’ang ssu-chieh,” in his T’ang-shih lun-wen Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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good bit of the 660s, marked an important change in his life. During that time he served at least one term of two years as pacificator (wei 尉, functionally commissioner of police) in Hsin-tu 新都, just northeast of Ch’eng-tu. Whether this was in the early 660s, or in 665, or extended to 670, depending on how one interprets and extrapolates from certain poems, he would never hold official position again. In 671 he left the Shu area forever.16 And soon afterward came the onset of the disease17 that crippled his feet and gnarled one hand and made the last dozen or so years of his life such a torture that he finally put an end to his existence himself. The works he produced during that last, dark decade when he adopted the sobriquet “Master of Intense Distress” (Yuyu-tzu 幽憂子),18 especially the two multi-part sao-style compositions called “Five Grievings” (“Wu-pei” 五悲) and “Text to Dispel Illness” (“Shih-chi wen” 釋疾文), are among the most moving and emotionally painful writings of all medieval literature. Discussion of them will await another occasion.19 Here we chi (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1961), 1–28, esp. 2–6; Ch’en I-hsin 陳貽焮, “Lu Chao-lin,” in his Lun-shih tsa-chu 論詩雜著 (Peking: Pei-ching Ta-shüeh ch’u-pan-she, 1989), 83–99; Jen Kuo-hsü, 514–24 et passim; idem, “Lu Chao-lin sheng-p’ing shih-chi hsin-k’ao” 盧照 鄰生平事跡新考, Wen-hsüeh i-ch’an 文學遺產 1985.2: 51–56; Ko Hsiao-yin, “Kuan-yü Lu Chao-lin sheng-p’ing te jo-kan wen-t’i” 關於盧照鄰的生平若干問題, Wen-hsüeh i-ch’an 1989.6: 68–73, rpt. in her Shih-kuo kao-ch’ao (see n.3 above); Lo Hsiang-fa, Ch’u-T’ang ssu-chieh yen-chiu, 43–77, 367–452; Kōzen Hiroshi 興膳宏, “Sho-Tō no shijin to shūkyō: Ro Shōrin no ba-ai: 初唐詩人と宗教: 盧照鄰の場合, in Chūgoku ko dōkyōshi kenykū 中國古道教史研究, ed. Yoshikawa Tadao (Kyoto: Kyōto Daigaku Jimbun Kenkyūjo, 1991), 417–70, esp. 419–32, this being perhaps the most interesting of all recent studies on Lu Chao-lin; Chu Shang-shu, 554–75 et passim; Li Yün-i, 482–510 et passim. Fu Hsüants’ung’s 傅璇琮 “Lu Chao-lin, Yang Chiung chien-p’u” 簡譜, in Hsü, 195–233, is minimal with dating of specific events in Lu’s life. I have not seen Chang Chih-lieh’s 張志烈 Ch’uT’ang ssu-chieh nien-p’u (Chengtu: Pa Shu shu-she, 1992) or Jen Kuo-hsü’s Lu Chao-lin nien-p’u (Harbin: Hei-lung-chiang jen-min ch’u-pan-she, 1992). 16  Prior to his assumption of the post of wei in Hsin-tu, whenever that was, Lu had visited the area at least once as envoy from Li Yüan-yü. 17  Probably severe rheumatoid arthritis. 18  The phrase recalls the legendary figures Tzu-chou Chih-fu 子州支父 and Tzu-chou Chihpo 子州支伯 to whom the sage-kings Yao 堯 and Shun 舜, respectively, tried to yield the throne. Each declined, saying he was just then treating an “intensely distressing” (yu-yu) illness and could not turn attention to the ills of the world. See Chuang-tzu chi-shih 莊子 集釋 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1989; hereafter cited as CTCS), 28.965. Detached from its locus classicus, Lu’s title might even be rendered, as I have done previously, “Master of Shrouded Sorrow.” 19  For one part of the “Five Grievings,” see Kroll, “The Memories of Lu Chao-lin.” Liu Ch’engchi’s 劉成紀 article, “Lu Chao-lin te ping-pien yü wen-pien” 盧照鄰的病變與文變, Wen-hsüeh i-ch’an 1994.5: 43–49, does not live up the promise of its title, being superficial and moralistic in its approach and results. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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will look at two rhapsodies that similarly focus on topics of frustration but allegorically so, and which predate Lu’s years of physical affliction. These are his “Fu on a Stranded Fish” (“Ch’iung-yü fu” 窮魚賦) and “Fu on a Tamed Kite” (“Hsün-yüan fu” 馴鳶賦). The first of these, we know from its preface, was specially placed by Lu Chao-lin at the head of his collected writings, though it was removed from this position in post-T’ang editions of his work. It was, he tells us, written to celebrate his release from prison where he had been detained on an unnamed charge—the preface simply says “for untoward matters.” A benefactor, also unnamed, procured Lu’s release; this fu was composed in gratitude to him. Exactly where and when Lu was detained is not known for sure, although it is clear that he was incarcerated in autumn.20 Speculation about the year, usually given with the force of certainty, ranges from the early 650s (Ch’en I-hsin21), ca. 656–57 (Chu Shang-shu), to 661 (Chu again22), early 660s in Yen-chou 兗州 (Ko Hsiao-yin, Huang Ch’ing-hui23), 668 in Shu (Lo Hsiang-fa24), and 669 in Shu (Jen Kuo-hsü, Li Yün-i25). It would be tedious and not necessarily enlightening to rehearse the reasons argued for these various opinions. I will simply say I think it unlikely that Lu would have been arrested while serving Prince Teng, hence a very early date is improbable. Moreover, had that happened, surely the prince would have been Lu’s savior; but the rescuer in the poem speaks as though Lu and he were once equal comrades but that he has now risen to higher rank allowing him to exercise newly gained influence in Lu’s behalf. This would be inapt for the prince but not for a colleague earlier known by Lu in the prince’s service. For this and other reasons I am myself inclined to favor a late date—most likely, 669. But whether the incident occurred before Lu’s years in Shu, when he was still serving Li Yüan-yü, or instead during or shortly after his tour of duty in Hsin-tu is not critical for our understanding or

20  See his poem “In Prison, Imitating the Sao Style” (“Yü-chung, hsüeh sao-t’i”), Yu-yu-tzu chi 幽憂子集 (hereafter cited as YYTC), ed. Chang Hsieh 張燮, 1640 (SPTK), 4.13a; Ch’üan T’ang shih 全唐詩 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1960; hereafter cited as CTS), 41.519–20; Hsü 4.58; Jen 4.288–90; Chu 4.258–59: Li 4.237–38; for translation, see “The Memories of Lu Chao-lin,” 592, ignoring the statement that “the incarceration is metaphorical.” 21  Ch’en, “Lu-chao-lin,” 85–87. 22  Chu suggests the earlier date on p. 12 in his notes to the fu, the later one on pp. 561–562 in his chronological biography. 23  Ko, “Kuan-yü Lu Chao-lin sheng-p’ing te jo-kan wen-t’i,” 70–71; Huang, “Ch’u-T’ang ssuchieh chuan-chi k’ao-pien,” 83, 185, specifying the year 662. 24  Lo, Ch’u-T’ang ssu-chieh yen-chiu, 401. 25  Jen 1.11–12, 519–20; Li 1.9, 496. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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appreciation of this poem’s literary art.26 What is critical, though, is to have in mind the poem from five hundred years earlier that Lu Chao-lin says27 he modeled his composition after. That was the “Rhapsody on a Stranded Bird” (“Ch’iung-niao fu” 窮鳥賦) by the second-century writer, Chao I 趙壹, which we must read before turning to Lu’s poem. This is a little fu of twenty-eight tetrasyllabic lines, introduced by a preface longer than the poem. It is found at the beginning of Chao I’s biography in the Hou Han shu, from which we quote: … Stalwart and hardy in form and appearance, [Chao I] was unusually tall.28 With handsome beard and bushy eyebrows, he was quite magnificent to see. But, too confident in his abilities, in arrogance of pride, he was reprehended by the local cliques—upon which he wrote [the composition] “To Resolve Reprehension” (“Chieh pin” 解擯).29 Later his actions brought him frequent punishment. When he was about to be put to death, a friend lent aid, effecting his release. Chao I then sent the following writing, in gratitude for his kindness: [Preface.] Long ago Grandee Yüan 原大夫 redeemed the life of someone who would otherwise have expired beneath a mulberry tree—and tradition esteemed him humane.30 Ch’in Yüeh-jen 秦越人 restored to normal the knotted pulse of the Grand Heir of Kuo 虢太子—and the world celebrated his god-like skill.31 Had these two men of the past not met with such humaneness nor encountered such divinity, then indeed their short and knotted breath would have been spent completely. But 26  This does not mean I favor an ahistorical approach to literature. Quite the contrary, as will be apparent from what follows. But there are some cases where, while it would be satisfying to know the exact temporal and physical circumstances of composition, the lack of such knowledge does not baffle one’s reading. 27  See the preface to his poem, below. 28  The literal “nine feet tall,” equal to approximately 6’8”, is not meant as an exact measure. 29  Only one dismissive-sounding line of this piece, written in response to Chao I’s being expelled from his home town, is preserved today: “The swan-goose of cinnabar-red may do away with lice and fleas.” See T’ai-p’ing yü-lan 太平御覽 (Taipei: Shang-wu yin-shukuan, 1975), 951.1b. 30  Referring to Chao Tun 趙盾 who was prime minister in Chin 晉 in the late seventh century BC. For the story of his stopping his carriage and sharing food with a starving man, see Lü-shih ch’un-ch’iu 呂氏春秋 (SPPY), 15.18b; also Tso chuan 左傳 Hsüan kung 2. 31  Referring to the great physician better known as Pien Ch’üeh 扁鵲 (late sixth/early fifth century BC). For the story of his reviving the heir-apparent of the state of Kuo, see Shih chi 史記 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1972), 105.2788–92. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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as it happened, the dried meat of provender appeared for the one from behind a carriage’s grillwork and the probing needle was turned for the other between [the physician’s] fingers and nails. What I rely on at present is not the dried-meat provender from behind a carriage’s grillwork or the probing needle held between fingers and nails. Rather it is something received from the Dipper 斗 and Pole-star 極, it is owing to the [constellation] Arbiter of Fate 司命! To make dry skin be filled once more with blood, withered bones be covered again with flesh—this conforms with what is called “meeting with humaneness, encountering divinity,” and is worthy to be celebrated in our traditions. However, as I fear interdiction and dare not present my words too plainly, I have ventured to write a “Rhapsody on a Stranded Bird.” It reads:

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A lone stranded bird there was, Its wings furled, in the wilds of the plain. Nets and meshes were set above, Snares and pitfalls awaited below. In front appeared a grizzled falcon, Behind appeared the game-drivers. Corded-darts and crossbow-pellets were readied to the right, And Master I 羿子 drew his bow on the left.32 Flying shot and speeding arrow Collected together then, in me! I wished to fly but could not do so, Wanted to cry but was unable, Or to lift my head but dreaded being hit, Or to budge a foot but feared I might fall. Innermost alone, in panic and dismay, Now like ice, and then again like fire! I was lucky to rely on someone of great worth, Who to me was compassionate, to me was sympathetic. In the past he had saved me in the south, And now came to my aid in the west. The bird—well, even though it be obtuse, Still it recognizes this close kindness, Within to be written upon the heart,

32  The mythical archer who is said to have shot down the nine superfluous suns that threatened to burn up the world in the time of Yao. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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Without to be declared unto Heaven. May Heaven, oh! bless this Worthy One, Remit to this Worthy One years eternal. And let there be Dukes, let there be Marklords, Sons upon sons, and grandsons after grandsons!33

This is one of the earliest fu designed as an animal allegory. Slightly later, by the Chien-an period (196–220), the theme of the shot or captured bird was seen regularly in poems, both fu and shih, that aimed to suggest the high-flying talents of the poet or, sometimes, his frustration at being kept from spreading his wings. The standard allegory informing such works shows the remarkable creature, fit to soar on high, careless and unconstrained in its freedom, suddenly snared or felled for the pleasure of a lord (usually an understanding one) whose kind treatment thereafter prompts the bird to requite its master’s care with gratitude and a pledge of good service.34 In Chao I’s poem, though the initial capture is made by some nameless thugs, the bird is rescued by a “Worthy One” (hsien 賢), but there is no indication within the context of the fu itself that the bird has been returned to the wild—it has become a pet of its savior. In the early sixth century Ho Hsün 何遜 (d. 527?) took up Chao I’s theme again, specifying Chao’s generic “bird” as a “crow” in his “Fu on a Stranded Crow” (“Ch’iung-wu fu” 窮烏賦), but in the manner in which this has been preserved, through quotation in T’ang encyclopedias, no explicit mention is made by Ho Hsün of his precursor.35 Lu Chao-lin, as we have mentioned, plainly acknowledges his own appropriation of Chao I’s theme, even while he exchanges in his poem bird for fish. Lu’s deliverer, however, appears in the form of the great p’eng-bird 鵬鳥, known from the opening passage of Chuang-tzu to be the seasonal transformation of the gigantic k’un-fish 錕魚. Lu’s poem, longer and more varied in meter and content than Chao I’s, begins, like the latter’s, with a preface explaining the circumstances of composition. 33   Hou Han shu 後漢書 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1965), 80B.2628–29. Cf. the translation by Su Jui-lung, in Gong Kechang, Studies on the Han Fu, ed. David R. Knechtges, tr. Knechtges et al. (New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1997), 334–35. 34  The best known examples are those of Mi Heng 禰衡 (ca. 173–98) and Ts’ao Chih 曹植 (192–232). On the former’s most famous composition, see William T. Graham, Jr., “Mi Heng’s ‘Rhapsody on a Parrot,’” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 39 (1979): 39–54. For some of the latter’s bird allegories, see P. W. Kroll, “Seven Rhapsodies of Ts’ao Chih,” forthcoming in Journal of the American Oriental Society 120.1. 35   I-wen lei-chü 藝文類聚 (Taipei: Wen-kuang ch’u-pan-she, 1974), 92.1593; Ch’u-hsüeh chi 初學記 (Taipei: Ting-wen shu-chü, 1976), 30.733; Ch’üan Liang wen 全梁文, 59.10a/b, in Ch’üan Shang-ku San-tai Ch’in Han San-kuo Liu-ch’ao wen 全上古三代秦漢三國六朝文, ed. Yen K’o-chün (Canton: Kuang-ya shu-chü, 1893; hereafter cited as Yen K’o-chün). Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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[Preface.] Once, for untoward matters, I was held in detention through the workings of a band of inferiors.36 When this was leading on to serious deliberation, a friend lent his aid and protection, effecting my release. In empathy with the incident of Chao I’s “Stranded Bird,” I composed accordingly a “Rhapsody on a Stranded Fish.” And, mindful always of requiting such goodness, I place it at the head of my writings. It says: A lone huge finned being there was, Magnate of the waves from the Eastern Sea,37 Washed and placid by a moonlit cove, 4 Soaked in cinnabar at the brocade ford.38 In reflection of scarlet lotuses, it fulfilled its nature;39 At play in the cyan-blue waves, it kept itself whole. But tossed about, it slipped from the water,40 8 And came to rest on the sunward shore.

36  Cf. Shih 26/4.1–4: “With downcast heart sadly still,/ I am resented by a band of inferiors./ Meeting with sorrows already many,/ I suffer affronts not a few.” 37   東海波臣, recalling the silver carp stranded in a wheel-rut that Chuang-tzu said he met. The carp begs him for a dipperful of water to stay alive and when Chuang-tzu promises to have a river diverted into the road, once he talks with the kings of Wu and Yüeh, the carp says that by that time one will find him in the “dried-fish shop.” CTCS 26.924. Thus the allusion already hints at the unfortunate fate to befall the poet. Perhaps the opening lines of Lu’s poem suggest his former, contented existence as a “magnate” or “servant” under Prince Teng, whose early governmental appointments were in the east. 38  The “brocade ford” 錦津 may refer to a ford suffused with the colored light of dawn or sunset or perhaps to the Brocade River 錦江 skirting the south wall of Ch’eng-tu, by local tradition said to be dyed red from the washing of polychrome cloth in it. The “moonlit cove” 月浦 may be one shaded by a stand of moon-trees, i.e., osmanthus; if it is a proper name (“Cove of the Moon”), its location has not been established convincingly. 39  Another possible reference to the happy days with Prince Teng, since the phrase “lotus curtain” (蓮幕) had from the fifth century the connotation “headquarters of a local official.” Ch’en I-hsin, “Lu Chao-lin,” 85. But note the aptness of the literal imagery. Also note the Mao commentary to Shih 221/1: “The fishes, because they keep close to the cattails and pondweed, are able to fulfill their nature.” Mao Shih cheng-i 毛詩正義 (Shih-sanching chu-shu), 15.1a. Shih 221 was traditionally seen as a celebration of the happiness of the rightly placed king and his court. 40  Cf. the words of Keng-sang-tzu: “If a fish big enough to swallow a boat is tossed about so it slips from the water, even an ant will then be able to trouble it.” CTCS 23.773–74. In light of line 16 below, note the variant of the final clause in Han Shih wai-chuan: “… it will then be at the mercy of crickets and ants”; Han Shih wai-chuan chi-shih 韓詩外傳集釋 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1980), 8/35.305. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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A fisherman observed it there, and proceeded To set right his rod and line, To collect his pals and mates. Like ducks they came scurrying or sparrows skipping, 12 Like the wind rushing or lightning darting. They fought to let down the fish-hook of Sir Jen,41 And vied to spread out the net of Yü Chü.42 When the crickets and ants saw it, they were glad of heart;43 16 When all the otters heard of it, they applauded with their paws. Thereon The long-tongued and the sharp-mouthed Cast their lines, hung down their hooks.44 They tugged its dorsal fin and tore at its bristles, 20 Pounded its back, clutched at its throat.45 To move, to budge, was not now possible; To leap or to jump was beyond its means.46 The hope it held was for but a little moisture, 24 Rather than wishing for a full-flowing current.47

41  Sir Jen 任公 baited his hook with fifty bullocks and after a year landed an enormous fish. CTCS 267.399–400. 42  Yü Chü 豫且 (var. 余且), a fisherman, caught in his net a giant turtle which appeared to Lord Yüan of Sung 宋元君 in a dream but could not escape its fate. CTCS 26.402–3. Cf. Shih chi, 128.3229, which dates the incident to 530 BC. 43  See note 40 above. Cf. also and especially the concluding lines of Chia I’s 賈誼 (200– 168 BC) famous fu “Lament for Ch’ü Yüan” (“Tiao Ch’ü Yüan fu” 弔屈原賦), written while Chia was in exile in Ch’ang-sha and identifying himself with the slandered and unappreciated Ch’ü Yüan: “The muddied trench here, of no more than average size,/ Surely could not contain this swallower of boats?/ But this huge leviathan that is wont to cross the Kiang and the lakes / Must now indeed be at the mercy of crickets and ants.” Shih chi, 84.2495. 44  Reading 垂 for 爭, with Wen-yüan ying-hua and Ch’üan T’ang wen. 45  Cf. “In fighting with someone, unless you clutch at his gullet and pound his back, you won’t be able to win a complete victory”: the words of Liu Ching 劉敬 to the founding emperor of the Han in 202 BC Shih chi, 99.2716. 46  Cf. lines 12–15 of Chao I’s fu. 47  Again recalling the silver carp stranded in the road (see note 37 above), for whom a mere dipperful of water to stay moist and barely alive now is better than waiting for a whole river to be turned too late to save him.

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A great p’eng-bird, passing over, pitied it and said, “A while back, when I was a k’un-fish, I swam about with you, did I not? But from after my own feathered transformation, 28 You, it seems, were left alone.”48 Quickly, wings whirring, the bird descended; Bearing up a burden, it hastened away— To let it float south in the Seven Meres,49 32 Or drift along east amid the Five Lakes.50 This fish, it is Now oblivious of others in the Kiang and the sea,51 While the fisherman 34 Yet looks on despondent in the muck and the mire.52 Lu Chao-lin’s fu is a much more flexible composition than the model provided by Chao I. Whereas Chao’s poem is made up entirely of tetrasyllabic lines, with only one rhyme-change, Lu’s varies between lines of four and six syllables, plus a couplet (lines 9–10) of three-syllable lines, one line (29) of five syllables, and also several hypermetrical prose tags either introducing stanzas (i.e., rhyme changes, preceding lines 9, 17, 25) or individual lines (preceding 33, 34).53 While Chao closes, in staid wording identical to that on many Han and even pre-Han bronze inscriptions, with a conventional wish for the long life and multiplying progeny of his benefactor, Lu ends with the hopeful denouement of the

48  If the allegory can be held, the savior p’eng once was a colleague of Lu’s in the pleasant waves of Prince Teng’s lotus-shaded preserve; he has since become fully fledged in his own right. It is impossible to fit this imagery to the prince himself, as Ch’en I-hsin (“Lu Chao-lin,” 85) wants to do. 49  The Seven Meres 七澤 along the middle Yangtze, in the old state of Ch’u 楚. 50  The Five Lakes 五湖 along the lower Yangtze, in the old Wu-Yüeh 吳越 area. 51  Cf. CTCS 6.242: “When a spring dries up and fish find themselves next to each other on dry land, one will mouth the other for moisture and dampen the other with spittle; but far better to be oblivious of others in the Kiang and the sea!” Also 6.272: “Fish are oblivious of others in the Kiang and the sea; men are oblivious of others in the practices of the Way.” 52   Y YTC 1.4a/b; Wen-yüan ying-hua 文苑英華 (Taipei: Hsin-wen-feng ch’u-pan kung-ssu, 1979; hereafter cited as WYYH), 139.4a/b; Ch’üan T’ang wen 全唐文 (Taipei: Hua-wen shuchü, 1961; hereafter cited as CTW), 166.3b–4a; Hsü 1.3–4; Jen 1.17–22; Chu 1.11–15; Li 1.9–12. 53  Rhyme carried by the last word of the couplet is the organizing principle in fu, just as in shih, and, if carefully noted, allows an accurate charting of rhythm and pacing even when verse-lengths vary or short bursts of prose intervene.

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narrative he has set up, with the once stranded fish now sporting freely in safe waters. Nor can Lu Chao-lin suppress the urge, in his final line, to deliver a last slap at the chief tormentor, that “fisherman” who led the hectoring mob. The opposite destinies of the saved fish and the thwarted fisherman are emphasized phonetically by Lu’s deft use of a pair of echoic binoms: while the fish is once again in his element, “oblivious of others” (相忘, M. C. syang mywang), the fisherman is stuck in the swamp, where he but “looks on despondent” (悵望, M. C. t’yang- mywang-). It is also vital for a full reading to realize that this couplet is calqued on two parallel lines in Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju’s 司馬相如 (ca. 145–ca. 85 BC) prose letter, “Rebuking the Paternal Elders of Shu” (“Nan Shu fu-lao” 難蜀父老), which derides the lack of understanding shown by the men of Shu for the reigning emperor’s great plans. The relevant lines read: “While the splendrous gryphon has now soared off to unmeasured infinity, the setter of nets is yet looking round about in the marshy fens.”54 (Lu’s personalizing of this reproach of Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju to the men of Shu may strengthen the argument that his detention occurred there.) We may appreciate as well that the several Chuang-tzu allusions, pointed out in the notes, function as a kind of diapason and allow for—even demand—the elated transport (in both senses) of the poem’s conclusion. One thinks of proud Coriolanus leaving Rome: “There is a world elsewhere.” Chao I’s work was first and finally an allegorical offering of thanks. Lu Chao-lin’s is that but is also a more aesthetically supple, imaginatively coherent, and personally forward composition. The intertextual connections of this piece lead forward as well as back. I think it is clear, for instance, that more than half a century later Li Po 李白 (701–62?) is borrowing a turn from Lu Chao-lin when, in his “Ta-p’eng fu” 大鵬賦, the great p’eng-bird (the poet) is itself taken on to more sublime levels of flight by the “Rarely Held Bird” (hsi-yu niao 希有鳥, the Taoist master Ssu-ma Ch’eng-chen 司馬承禎).55 The self-assurance or impudence, take your pick, that peeks out around the edges of even so professedly deferential a composition as Lu’s “Ch’iung-yu fu” is characteristic of many of his writings. Surely he had not “Deserved/ this so dishonored rub, laid falsely/I’ th’ plain way of his merit.” Indeed, much of the same tone of brazen (one might almost say Byronic) impertinence that readers and critics are fond of remarking in Li Po’s poetry, seeing it as a sign of 54   Shih chi, 117.3052; also a slight variant (“… to the eaves of unmeasured infinity”) in Wen hsüan 文選 (Shanghai: Shang-hai ku-chi ch’u-pan-she, 1986; hereafter cited as WH), 44.1995. “Splendrous gryphon” is a fanciful rendering for chiao-ming 鹪明 (var. chiaop’eng 鹪鵬 or k’un-p’eng 鶤鵬), defined variously by commentators but in any event a bird of mythic antiquity. 55  See Kroll, “Li Po’s Rhapsody on the Great P’eng-bird.”

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his daring individuality, is already apparent in Lu Chao-lin’s verses—and Li Po knew Lu’s poems well. Here, though, we shall remain focused for the moment on Lu’s lonely fish and birds. Before taking up the second fu promised, let us detour briefly to consider a shih in which Lu depicts himself as a bird arrantly nonpareil. This is his “Presented to the Officialdom of I-fu” (“Tseng I-fu ch’ünkuan” 贈益府群官), a poem in pentasyllabic lines, nicely structured as two octets at beginning and end framing a quatrain and a sestet. I-fu designates the city and vicinity of Ch’eng-tu, known as I-chou 益州since the T’ang founding in 618 and made a “metropolitan protectorate” (tu-tu-fu 都督府) in 662.56 Lu’s three commentators, Jen Kuo-hsü, Chu Shang-shu, and Li Yün-i, agree in dating this poem to year’s-end 670, following Lu’s completion of his term in office in Hsin-tu.57 It is unclear whether this was his first and only two-year stint in the post of pacificator or a second, repeat appointment. What is clear is that he now chose not to sit for the “selection” (hsüan 選) exam that was open to officials at the end of their terms, and so removed himself from consideration for either reappointment or promotion.58 To his former colleagues he addresses the following verses:

8

A lone bird from out of Yen in the north,59 Came flying on toward Shu in the west, Singly to nest atop Sword Gate,60 Solitary to dance at the foot of Mount Min.61 Proud and redoubtable, with much of olden seeming, It deprecates sadly the need for newer songs. Phoenixes in a flock joined it on this journey, And asked of it, just what were its wishes?



It answered them, “An offspring of colder lands, Who has glided on high for over a myriad li,

4



56   ChTS 41.1664. 57  Jen, 1.98; Chu, 1.70; Li, 1.67. It is also evident, as shown by most scholars who have looked into the question, that Lu did not give up his post (as claimed in his ChTS biography) because of the onset of illness; he was still in good health at the time. 58  On the procedures and problems associated with the hsüan exam, see the informative monograph by P. A. Herbert, Examine the Honest, Appraise the Able: Contemporary Assessments of Civil Service Selection in Early Tang China (Canberra: Faculty of Asian Studies, Australian National Univ., 1988). 59  Yen 燕 is the area in which Fan-yang was located. 60  Chien-men 劍門, the famous pass that connects Shu (Szechwan) to Ch’in (Shensi). 61  The Min Shan 岷山 range in northern Shu.

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I do not rest in the limbs of ignoble trees And do not drink the waters of Robber’s Springs.62



Always I yearn for a ‘rice-and-millet encounter,’63 But prefer to make my nest in the wu-t’ung tree.64 Yet those that are wise make to me no invitation,

62  That is, it stays aloof from even the appearance of impropriety. These lines recall the opening quatrain of Lu Chi’s 陸機 (261–303) “Meng-hu hsing”: “When thirsty, I do not drink the waters of Robber’s Spring;/ When hot, I do not rest in the shade of ignoble trees./ Surely the trees are not without limbs,/ But a gentleman of resolve has more of a painstaking heart.” WH 28.1293. Li Shan’s commentary quotes a passage from Shih-tzu 尸子 in which Confucius is said to have abjured drinking from Robber’s Spring 盜泉 (in Shantung) because he thought its name ill-omened; also a passage from Kuan-tzu 管子, no longer included in the standard text of the book even in Li Shan’s day but given as quoted in a work by Chiang Sui-chih 江遂之 (fl. mid-5th-c), to the effect that if a gentleman who keeps a heart of unbending integrity (keng-chieh chih hsin 耿介之心), thinks it shameful to rest in the shade of an ignoble tree, he will be even less inclined to consort with ignoble people. Lun-yü 15.9 is also cited: “The gentleman of resolve, the humane man, does not seek to live by impairing humaneness, but will sacrifice his own person in order to keep humaneness intact.” All of this informs Lu Chao-lin’s phrasing. 63  He would like the bounty of an appreciative patron. Han Shih wai-chuan 2/23.60–62 records the words of T’ien Jao 田饒 upon his departing dissatisfied from the service of Duke Ai of Lu 魯哀公 (r. 494–468 BC): “… Now, the yellow swan 黃鵠 in a single flight came a thousand li and stopped at the pond in milord’s garden. It has fed on your fish and turtles, pecked at your wheat and millet. It lacks the [aforementioned] five virtues [of the domestic cockerel], so why do you still value it? Just because the place it came from is so far away. Therefore I will be leaving milord, flown away like the yellow swan.” The “wheat and millet” 黍粱 enjoyed by the swan was cited as “rice and millet” 稻粱 by Li Shan when quoting this passage in a commentary to Pao Chao’s 鮑照 (ca. 414–66) “Pai-t’ou yin,” WH 28.1237; it is also so cited in the early T’ang encyclopedia I-wen lei-chü 90.1565. Ts’ao Chih also knew the phrase as “rice and millet,” as evidenced in his “Fu on a Wildgoose Met by a Corded-Arrow” (“Yen li cho fu”) where the bird of the title, once felled, is kept by a lord who cares for it so solicitously that, “When hungry it shall feed on rice and millet,/ When thirsty it shall drink from a clear current.” I-wen lei chü, 91.1580; for full translation, see Kroll, “Seven Rhapsodies of Ts’ao Chih.” Notice how neatly the original image in the locus classicus, of the high-flying bird come from afar but unappreciated for its own qualities, here firmly roots Lu Chao-lin’s line. 64  Cf. CTCS 17.605: “Now, the yüan-ch’u 鵷雛 phoenix having set off from the southern sea, flies to the northern sea, never alighting save on a wu-t’ung 梧桐 tree …” Note the original context of the story: Chuang-tzu, identifying himself with the yüan-ch’u, is ridiculing Hui-tzu 惠子 for holding on greedily to his official position like an owl clutching a rotten mouse. This is obviously in the background of Lu Chao-lin’s use of the allusion.

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And the witless sort I myself do not attend to. This is why I’ve become one who stands alone, In steady integrity, as the year draws on to evening.”65



At dusk of day, suffering the wind and frost, Yearning to go home, to proceed to Lo-yang,66 Its feathered coat of plumes and pinions now is short, And the roads over passes and mountains are long. The luminous moon sets adrift a visitor’s yearnings, As white clouds confuse the way to one’s homeplace. Who is there can borrow the easefulness of the wind, In a single flight skimming the cerulean sky?67



20



24



26

The answer to the poet’s concluding question is, of course, “Only I.” Like T’ien Jao in the buried allusion of line 13 (see note 63), he will go a “yellow swan’s flight” away from this place where the appreciation given him is only a sham. In its conceit as in its disdain, this is hardly the kind of valediction that a member of the T’ang bureaucracy writes to his congenial brethren. The I-fu “officialdom” (ch’ün-kuan 群官 or “flock of officials”) appears satirically here as the “phoenixes in a flock” (ch’ün-feng 群鳳.) of line 7 who are trying to understand the intentions of the “lone bird” from Yen. Everything about him sets him apart from them, whether they be deemed wise (line 15) or witless (line 16)—we see actually that, though they all must think themselves “wise,” they are all in truth “witless.” Dismissive of them and scornful, the bird wants to find his way home, even though “its feathered coat of plumes and pinions now is short”—i.e., Lu is no longer vested with a bureaucrat’s robe; perhaps also a reference to his imprisonment. He has been no more than a “visitor” or “stranger” 客 (line 23) in Shu. Though he would like to have earned the patronage of a Higher Power, he

65   Keng-keng 耿耿 here does not mean “fitful and restive,” as in Shih 26/1.3 and in “Yüan yu” 遠遊 line 7. It rather means exactly the opposite, “steady (or outstanding, unwavering) integrity,” synonymous with keng-chieh 耿介, “unbending integrity,” a phrase that figures in the background to the allusion in lines 11–12 (see note 62 above) and which also appears in the penultimate line of Lu Chi’s poem referred to there, a poem in which the speaker likewise vaunts his superiority. It is possible that the repeated syllable in keng-keng here may first have arisen through reading a cursive chieh 介 as the dittograph sign 々, compounded by editors’ (uncritical) remembrance of the reduplicated binom in Shih ching and “Yüan yu.” 66  The eastern capital would be a stop on the way back to Yen. 67   Y YTC 1.16a/b; WYYH 249.1a/b; CTS 41.517; Hsü, 1.16; Jen, 1.99–101; Chu, 1.70–71; Li, 1.67–68.

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was not ready to lower his principles to do so (lines 13–14). “Proud and redoubtable” 昂藏, he values the fashions of priscan days over the “newer songs” 新曲 now prevalent (lines 5–6). Not able to fit in with the flock, phoenixes or not, he “stands alone” 獨立 maintaining his “steady integrity” 耿耿 (lines 17–18). Clouds may hide his home but, borne on the wind, he can overtop them in one lift. Let whomever is able, try to do the same! One might object with Monsieur de Callières that “Genius is no substitute for good manners.” But Lu Chao-lin is looking for no favors from his erstwhile colleagues. The attempted allegory here is the thinnest of veils, rent wide by the title itself. The tone of this poem is so similar to that of the “Ch’iung-yü fu” that one cannot help wondering whether the “band (or flock) of inferiors” (ch’ünhsiao 群小) mentioned in the fu’s preface as having trumped up an accusation against the poet and whom he portrays in such biting terms might indeed point to the same group of I-fu officials that make up the ignorant “phoenixes” and ungracious “wise men” of this poem. The former composition is meant mainly to commemorate the action of the poet’s savior (though also condemning the poet’s accusers), the latter is meant to declare the poet’s own unbowed superiority over those who remain in the backwaters of local politics (“in the muck and the mire”?) where only they may thrive. Lu Chao-lin plays elsewhere with the theme of the solitary bird. Perhaps the best other example among his shih is a p’ai-lü 排律 in pentasyllabic lines on “An Orphaned Wildgoose,” written to accompany a poem on this topic by a certain Mr. Chi 紀, district magistrate of Lin-chin 臨津, near present-day Ts’ang-hsi 蒼溪 in northeastern Szechwan, along the route between Ch’eng-tu and Ch’angan. Jen Kuo-hsü and Li Yün-i think this poem was written during Lu’s journey out of Shu, after his release from jail, presumably while stopping at Lin-chin. The supposition is attractive, but I am not convinced of its truth; Lu Chaolin wrote poems of like theme at other times.68 Whenever their meeting took place, Magistrate Chi seems to have chosen a topic with which Lu happened to be quite familiar. Here the lone bird in the poem is migrating south.

In autumn’s third month, wayward from the northern lands, For a myriad li, on toward the south he soars. On isles of the Ho, flowers now are hardly white;

68  For instance, his “Wildgoose Lost from the Flock” in twenty-four heptasyllabic lines, which develops some of the same imagery as the poem below, but which, as is clear from Lu’s preface to it, was written in the late 670s or early 680s when he was living in the mountains outside Lo-yang, nursing his illness. “Shih-ch’ün-yen, ping hsü,” YYTC 2.1a–2a; WYYH 328.9b–10a; CTS 41.517–18; Hsü, 2.17; Jen, 2.102–6; Chu, 2.72–76; Li, 2.69–73.

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By the barrier fortresses, leaves have already yellowed. He evades the corded-dart, but wind and frost are stiff; Carries a letter next his heart, though the route is very long. The flow of the river, he fancies as moving arrows, And the brightening moon seems a hurtful bow. Traversing the sky, he holds to no array; Crossing the sea, he forms up no ranks. But at the right time he’ll groom his sonorant plumes, And find the way home to His Highness’s Grove.69

The most interesting part of this poem is the fourth couplet, with its startling images of the “moving arrows” of the river’s moonlit ripples and the “hurtful bow” of the crescent moon. Yet these are images of a less personal order than we have seen in the “Ch’iung-yü fu” and the poem to the officials of I-fu. “His Highness’s Grove” in the final line is of course the Shang-lin 上林 park of the emperor, which the poet here regards as his warm-weather home. This is a variation on the standard motif of the bird cared for by an understanding master, that is, the scholar finding an appreciative lord—in other words, a “rice-andmillet encounter.” The prototype of poems featuring the allegorical identification of solitary bird with upright courtier is the ch’ang 倡 section of the poem “Unreeling my Thoughts” (“Ch’ou ssu” 抽思) from the anonymous group of “Chiu chang” 九章 verses in the Ch’u tz’u. There a handsome and seemly bird from the south finds itself alone in the (to it) foreign region north of the Han River. “Friendless and solitary, no longer of a flock,” it has no way to win a necessary patron. Although “its very soul is faithful and unswerving,” it realizes that the hearts of others are not like its own and that its worth will not be recognized.70 For the poet who takes up this theme—part of the legacy traditionally ascribed to Ch’ü Yüan—the peril is that plaint may slump to whining, probity mount to swagger. When a bird becomes the vehicle of the allegory, consideration of ornithological genus and species often matters little. Almost all avians can be caught, brought to earth, and employed or exploited for the finer moral purposes of humanity. Normally it is only the p’eng-bird that controls its own fate

69  “T’ung Lin-chin Chi ming-fu ‘Ku yen,’” YYTC 3.1a; WYYH 328.10a; CTS 41.517; Hsü, 3.34; Jen, 3.164–65; Chu, 3.130–31; Li, 3.123–24. The “corded-dart” (cho 繳) of line 5 is an arrow with retrieval string. Wildgeese in verse are traditional bearers of letters (line 6). 70   Ch’u tz’u pu-chu 楚辭補注 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1983), 4.139–40.

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and needs no haven or protector.71 Whether wildgoose, kingfisher, parrot, or egret, all are in danger and all may need ward. This is true even of raptors. Which brings us to another of Lu Chao-lin’s rhapsodies. This is his “Fu on a Tamed Kite.” This work can be dated rather closely, thanks to the existence of an identically titled fu by Wang Po. Both poems make reference to places in Shu, both allude to recent personal misfortunes (see below for the significance of this in Wang Po’s case), and both use precisely the same rhyme-scheme. All of this suggests that the two rhapsodies were composed on one occasion by Lu and Wang, as a matching pair. Now, in early 669 Wang Po, a young man of nineteen years, was serving in Ch’ang-an as a literary companion in the retinue of the sixteen-year-old Li Hsien, Prince of P’ei 沛王李賢 (653–84, who was later to become, as heir-apparent, an unfortunate victim of Empress Wu’s suspicious nature, and who is best known now as annotator of the Hou Han shu). Some of the princely siblings were particularly fond of cock-fighting, and Wang Po took it upon himself to produce a serio-comic “call to arms” (hsi 檄, a type of writing usually reserved for detailing the faults of a ruler against whom one is preparing an assault) for a fight between the champion gallerines of Prince P’ei and Prince Chou 周王 (i.e., Li Hsien 李顯 [656–710], better known as Chung-tsung 中宗, r. 684, 705– 10). This composition aroused the moral pique of the emperor, Kao-tsung, who deemed it impious and so presumptuous for an associate of the young prince that he forthwith ordered Wang Po’s expulsion from court. Shortly afterward, in midsummer 669, Wang Po left the capital and made his way to Shu, where he would remain till autumn 671. Lu Chao-lin had now completed his official tenure in Hsin-tu and, following a short removal to the capital, was back in Shu for, apparently, other reasons.72 During these two years Wang and Lu traveled 71  As in Lu’s “Ch’iung-yü fu.” We have already noted that Li Po’s “Ta-p’eng fu” is a unique instance of the p’eng itself receiving higher guidance—not, however, protection, which he does not need. 72  What these reasons were is impossible to say with certainty. Chang Cho 張鷲 (fl. 680– 725) notes in his Ch’ao-yeh ch’ien-tsai 朝野僉載 that Lu “gadded about aimlessly in Shu, giving himself up to poetry and verse” after his official appointment was through. SuiT’ang chia-hua 隋唐嘉話, Ch’ao-yeh ch’ien-tsai (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1979), 6.141. Lu’s more than casual liaison with a Ms. Kuo 郭氏 of Shu, who bore him a son, may have had something to do with his actions. A few years later Lo Pin-wang, who was in Shu from 673 to 675, composed on Ms. Kuo’s behalf a plaintive song in sixty-four heptasyllabic lines to be sent to Lu (then in Lo-yang) who, when he departed the Szechwan area for the last time in 671, left her behind. “Yen-ch’ing tai Kuo-shih, tseng Lu Chao-lin,” Lo Lin-hai chi chien-chu 駱臨海集箋注 (Taipei: Shih-chieh shu-chü, 1972), 4.1400–45; CTS 77.837–38.

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together on several occasions to various spots of interest in Shu. Numerous poems attest to their shared journeys and verse-making. The fact that Lu Chaolin was then a middle-aged man of forty and Wang Po a youth of barely twenty does not seem to have prevented their enjoyment of each other’s company. It is possible, perhaps likely, that they had made one another’s acquaintance early in 669 when Lu was briefly in Ch’ang-an.73 By the time they were together in Shu, both had undergone the similar experience of serving in a prince’s suite as a literary aide and of suffering (in different ways) what seemed to them unjust persecution. Plus, both were prodigiously learned (Wang Po had, like Lu Chaolin, made a name for his scholarly accomplishments early on) and richly sure of their command of the writing brush. Perhaps Lu saw in Wang something of his younger self. One imagines that for both of them shrunken career horizons and wounded pride helped forge a friendship. The kite or glede (Milvus migrans lineatus) that furnishes the allegorical focus of Lu’s and Wang’s rhapsodies carries a symbolic heritage from its early appearance in the Shih ching. In ode 239, traditionally viewed as being in praise of good King Wen, the kite and the fish in the couplet “The kite flies off to the heavens,/ The fish leaps about in the gulf” 鳶飛戾天，魚躍于淵 are said to image the natural bent of King Wen to take his rightful place as ruler, finding his proper place just as effortlessly as kite and fish do. Moreover, in ode 204 we find a poet deploring his times and his lack of employment by his ruler, adding “I am not an eagle, not a kite,/ Whose pinions will fly him off to the heavens” I do not put much credence in Ko Hsiao-yin’s claim that Lu in autumn 669 was on an imperial mission to notify the area of Kao-tsung’s successful completion of the feng 封 sacrifice on Mount T’ai more than three years previously. 73  I suppose I should say at this point that I find extremely improbable, if not incredible, the traditional tale of P’ei Hsing-chien’s 裴行儉 (619–82) joint interview in the capital with Lu, Wang, Lo Pin-wang, and Yang Chiung, after which P’ei is said to have pronounced his famous collective judgment of them as “flippantly impulsive and superficially conspicuous” (fu-tsao ch’ien-lu 浮躁淺露). Quite apart from the problem of dating (it being uncertain whether all four of the ssu-chieh were ever in the capital at the same time), interviews for the purpose of evaluating one’s fitness for official position did not take place in groups. Not to mention the fact that, even if one could imagine such a group interview, Lu and Lo, who had some official experience, would hardly have been interviewed with the inexperienced Wang and Yang, who were only half their age. Regardless of which of several versions of the story one accepts or how one twists the interpretation, it has all the earmarks of an apocryphal quip. The comments of Shang Ting, Tsou-hsiang sheng-T’ang, 134–38, are most enlightening on how and why the tale was embellished; see also the article in this issue of T’ang Studies by Tim W. Chan, who accepts the historicity of the incident.

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匪鶉匪鳶，翰飛戾天, which is interpreted as meaning “I want the support of a perceptive lord to raise me to my true home, being incapable of reaching there on my own.” Thus the kite had classic associations with the need for good government and with the aspiring hopes of officials. Lu Chao-lin organizes his fu in four stanzas of ten lines each, rhyming successively on M.C. -ung, -ang:, -u-, and -ak, thus using the four tones p’ing 平, shang 上, ch’ü 去, ju 入 in order. He begins by picturing the powerful kite as a force of Nature; but it will soon come to grief.



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Conceived of the numinous substance of Heaven Itself, Endowed by the wondrous workings of the Great Mound,74 His beak and talons are sufficient himself to protect, His feathers and plumes sufficient to skim the wind.75 He holds close a distant resolve for the Nine Surroundings, Takes refuge in the lasting emptiness for a myriad li.76 At the lowering of cold-lit clouds, he is tinted with purple; With the ascent of sun-lit luminescence, he is zoned with red. Though he ranged by the lower stretches of Shamanka Gorge, He was downcast, despondent to the east of P’eng’s Gate.77

74  The “Great Mound” (ta-k’uai 大塊) is the earth, standing for the transformative workings of Nature (see CTCS 2.45, 6.242, 262), paired with “Heaven Itself” (t’ien-jan 天然). 75  Cf. these parallel lines from Chang Hua’s 張華 (232–300) prose introduction to his “Fu on the Wren” (“Chiao-liao fu”), describing grander birds: “A lifting of their quills is sufficient to surge to the sky,/ Their beaks and talons sufficient themselves to protect.” WH 13.617. 76  The “Nine Surroundings” (chiu-wei 九圍) denotes the Chinese world in the traditional division into nine “isles” (chou 州). The “lasting emptiness” (ch’ang-k’ung 長空) is the never-ending sky. 77  P’eng’s Gate 彭門 refers to a pair of mountains that stand across from each other in present-day Kuan-hsien 灌縣, Szechwan. Hsin-tu, where Lu served as police commissioner and where perhaps he himself was incarcerated, is forty miles east of P’eng’s Gate. Shamanka Gorge (Wu hsia 巫峽) is the famous gorge of the Yangtze near Wu Shan. Note particularly the locus classicus of the phrase “downcast, despondent” (ch’ou-ch’ang 惆悵): “Fallen on misfortune, with no friend in his travels,/ Downcast, despondent, he can only comfort himself,” in the opening section of the “Chiu pien” 九辨, Ch’u tz’u pu-chu, 8.183.

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And then He toppled, tumbling, on shortened pinions, Forlorn and fallen his long-drawn visions.78 Refusing to be duped as did Chuang-tzu from Meng,79 He laments that Wu Torrent cannot be crossed.80 Advancing, he is humbled by the force of the whirlwind; Retreating, he is shamed by call-to-nest echoes.81 He is much dismayed now by rotting food,82 And is crestfallen in his layered-up nest.83 Repressing his fierce nature, to make himself docile; Bearing a sorrowful aspect, he attends to his own care.84

78  The phonetic density of the binoms in these lines, one echoic, the other alliterative (推頹 t’wai dwai, and 寥落 lau lak, respectively), adds emphasis to the bird’s downfall. 79  In the opening section of chapter 20 (“Shan-mu”) of Chuang-tzu, Master Chuang—who hailed from Meng 蒙—tells his disciples about avoiding the “bindings” of the world, following a story of his encounter the previous day with a large tree whose worthlessness saved it from the woodsman’s axe and a goose whose inability to cackle singled it out for the stewpot. Though it seems, from the examples of the tree and the goose, the best path would lie between being good for something and good for nothing, this is not really so. One should “treat things as things, but not let oneself be treated as a thing by other things.” Mindful of how things change and call forth different effects, one knows that “if he be competent, he will be plotted against; if incompetent, he will be duped.” CTCS 20.667–68. Lu Chao-lin’s kite would shun these consequences if he could. 80  “Steadily streaming, Wu Torrent, how very deep it is!/ Birds cannot cross it in flight,/ And beasts do not dare to lean over it.” From the yüeh-fu poem, “Wu hsi shen” 武溪深, attributed to Ma Yüan 馬援 (14 BC–AD 49). Yüeh-fu shih-chi 樂府詩集 (Taipei: Shih-chieh shu-chü, 1962), 74.3a/b; Lu Ch’in-li 逯欽立, ed., Hsien-Ch’in Han Wei Chin Nan-pei-ch’ao shih 先秦漢魏晉南北朝詩 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1983, hereafter cited as Lu Ch’in-li), 163. 81  Not able, as was Chuang-tzu’s p’eng-bird, to “mount the whirlwind” (CTCS 1.4), he is embarrassed even by the nesting cry of the phoenix. “Call-to-nest” is kuei-ch’ang 歸昌, lit. “come home to glory,” identified in Liu Hsiang’s 劉向 (79–8 BC) Shuo yüan as the phoenix’s nesting call; see Shuo yüan chin-chu chin-i 説苑今注今譯 (Taipei: Shang-wu yinshu-kuan, 1977), 18.624. Shen Yüeh 沈約 (441–513), in Sung shu 宋書 (Peking: Chung-hua shu-chü, 1974), 28.793, says it is the phoenix’s evening call. 82  Again recalling the yüan-ch’u phoenix of Chuang-tzu (see note 64 above) who has no interest in the owl’s rotten mouse, though the latter is sure the grander bird must be envious of it and tries to scare him off. 83  “Crestfallen” is wu-hsiang 無象, lit. “out of sorts.” The kite’s nest seems layered (ts’engch’ao 層巢) because it is placed among the high branches of a tall tree. 84  Cf. the line “Restraining his fierce nature, to submit to care,” again from Chang Hua’s “Wren fu,” WH 13.619.

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At this Peering from the side at a Gateway of the Virtuous, He would find a roost by the Road of the Humane.85 He does not tread on roofs that have lofty beams,86 But hovers and alights in a tree all his own. He listens to the crowing cocks at moonlit daybreak, And associates with flocking magpies on starry evenings;87 Has come to know the unevenness of orchid-edged stepping-stones, And trifles at brushwood door-leaves both new and old. He moves round, on one full breath, the broadest courtyard;88 In passing over the lengthy eaves, cuts the shortest way across.



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And so As the wind goes off, as the rain returns, When the sky-river shifts and the moon falls,89 He wheels round, more frantic than a pair of swallows, Calls out and dances just like the solitary crane.90 Sometimes he shrieks at the throng in the dawn-lit compound, At other times flying in their wake to cloudy pavilions. Maintaining a spotless core of great inner-virtue,

85  That is, he wishes to live among those, like himself, of the finest principles. 86  Lofty-beamed roofs cover the dwellings of the wealthy and honored. 87  Cf. the lines “He looks afar at sundered companions in rose-pink twilight./ … Listens to the hovering flock at moonlit daybreak,” from Ho Hsün’s “Fu on a Stranded Crow,” I-wen lei-chü, 92.1593; Ch’u-hsüeh chi, 30.733; Ch’üan Liang wen, 59.10a. 88  This in contrast to the great p’eng that flies all the way from the North Stygian Sea to the South “on a six-month’s breathing,” CTCS 1.4. 89  The sky-river is of course the Milky Way. Cf. this line with “The stars roll on and the SkyHan turns,/ As the daybreak moon is about to fall,” from Pao Chao’s “Rhapsody on Dancing Cranes” (“Wu-ho fu” 舞鶴賦), WH 14.632. A later line from this fu, describing the cranes as they “Go off [like] the wind, return [like] the rain” suggests that line 31 of Lu Chao-lin’s rhapsody might actually be describing the kite. I have tried to allow for this reading sotto voce in my translation. 90  The first of two poems by Pao Chao on a pair of swallows (“Yung shuang-yen, erh shou”) shows the pair “Wheeling round as the beauteous sunlight shifts.” Lu Ch’in-li, 1310. In Yin K’eng’s 陰鏗 (d. 565?) poem “On the Crane” (“Yung ho”), we read “Close by the pond, often he dances solitary;/ Facing his shadow, sometimes he calls out alone.” Lu Ch’in-li, 2459.

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He assumes a sorry ignominy of negligible mien.91 Mindful that he has no standing to make full recompense, He will rejoice to have a refuge for all of his years.92

The “taming” of this formidable bird, in the long tradition of caught-bird poems, results from an undescribed fall. It is difficult, with what we know of Lu Chao-lin and the dating of this piece, not to be reminded of the hard usage he underwent at official hands, most likely in Shu and probably just a year or so prior to the poem’s composition. The geographic identification of the place of the kite’s downing (line 10) is not warranted by any literary allusion and seems to point to something more personal. However, the final three stanzas of the fu, describing the kite’s present circumstances, seem more distanced, less lacerating, than similar descriptions in the poems that we think were indited closer in time to his imprisonment. Be that as it may, we will notice the neat and balanced crafting of this rhapsody. The first stanza, in which we see the bird in its boundless, native milieu, is made up entirely of hexasyllabic lines. The last three stanzas all begin with a couplet in tetrasyllabic lines, the shorter length here recalling perhaps the “shortened pinions” (line 11) to which the kite must now adapt. The only other couplet in tetrasyllabics is lines 17–18, which seem accordingly to acquire extra punch: whereas previously the kite, like the yüan-ch’u phoenix, would have laughed at the owl’s assumption that it was interested in the latter’s rotten mouse as food, now the kite actually may be frightened off by the “shoo-ing” of lesser birds and must adopt a more servile attitude. We are made aware of the constant truth that all good fortune, when at its peak, must inevitably lead to its opposite. The kite’s misfortune has confined it now to a smaller circuit, near human habitation, than it was wont to roam (lines 27–30) and with common companions—“crowing cocks” and “flocking magpies” (lines 25–26). It must make shift to find a new and diminished way to exist. The best it can wish for is succor from someone “virtuous” and “humane” (lines 21–22), who will take pity on it and offer protection. Although its actions now seem inconsistent (lines 33–36), it strives to hold on to its higher ideals, even while accepting the “negligible mien” that has become its due (lines 37–38). It is unable to requite properly the Gentleman who will claim it, but will gladly take lifelong “refuge”

91  Cf. “Consigning his tenuous fate in negligible baseness,/ He submits [to his lord] his ignominous husk in sorry lowness,” from Mi Heng’s “Rhapsody on a Parrot,” WH 13.615. 92   Y YTC 1.3a/b; WYYH 135.6a/b; CTW 166.2b–3b; Hsü, 1.2–3; Jen, 1.11–17; Chu, 1.8–11; Li, 1.6–9.

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in his grounds (lines 39–40), “refuge” that it once found “in the lasting emptiness of a myriad li” (line 6). The treatment of this topic by young Wang Po also divides into four stanzas using the same rhyme-scheme (though not all the same rhyme-words). But his stanzas show some irregularity in length (ten lines, twelve, ten, and eight), and his verses are also more irregular: the first stanza begins with two couplets in pentasyllabic lines, followed by a couplet in octosyllabic lines and two couplets in tetrasyllabic lines; the second stanza begins with two couplets in hexasyllabic lines, followed by one in tetrasyllabics, another in hexasyllabics, and ends as it began with two in tetrasyllabics; the third stanza begins with two couplets in tetrasyllabic lines and moves on to three couplets in hexasyllabic lines; the final stanza is all in hexasyllabic lines. Thus, regularity increases with each stanza. As we shall see, this gradual increase in metrical order mirrors this bird’s gathering up of revived spirit, after its initial mischance. For Wang Po’s kite, though confined—as was Lu Chao-lin’s—at the start of the second stanza, keeps his far-wandering visions alive and even offers hopeful words to a fellow comrade likewise caught. The poem opens with a panoramic view of the kite’s ample environs:

From along the sea—and amidst the clouds, Or at Green Castle—and its scarlet palace.93 Like an uncoupled crane from the Golden Mountains,94

93  Green Castle is Mount Ch’ing-ch’eng 青城山, about fifty miles northwest of Ch’eng-tu, particularly associated with Chang Tao-ling 張道陵, reputed founder of the new covenant of the Tao in the mid-second-century ad, who is said to have resided here for a time. It contains the fifth of the ten “greater grotto-heavens” of Taoism where Transcendents dwelt in the “scarlet (or rose-gold) palaces” suited to their spiritual state. 94  Recalling the pair of cranes who alighted in the Shang-lin Park of the Northern Chou emperor in 559. Yü Hsin 庾信 (513–81), who commemorated them in an “encomium” (tsan 讚) in tetrasyllabic lines, tells in his preface to that poem how the pair were shot and then placed with other birds. The cranes, sick at heart, called pitiably to each other, and the male bird soon died, after which the hen could only look forlornly for him, like a widow for her vanished husband. Yü Tzu-shan chi chu 庾子山集注 (Peking: Chung-hua shu chü, 1980), 10.645–46. The Golden Mountains (Chin Shan 金山) are in present-day Mongolia—the Far West to a man of T’ang; the cranes are associated with them because their own white color is the symbolic color of the west, just as “gold” or, more properly, metal, is the symbolic “agent” of the west in the standard wu-hsing 五行 system of correlations.

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Or a frightened swan-goose from Jade Fortress,95 Who considered it would never pause for the surgings of river and lake, Considered it would never exhaust the roads of space and time, Yet at last was stung by a stone-tipped dart, And kept confined in a metal cage, Its voice crabbed in the night’s dews, A shadow begrudging autumn’s winds.



It is done, and over!96



Such lofty verve and prospects so generous Ends with spirit spent, judgment unstrung. Vain to have sped one’s tracks in transcendent roaming, Only to be targeted for the catch in a vulgar net.97 What now for such a bird, Perfused still with streaming visions? Shamed by the gorgeous creatures of Cinnabar Hill,98 Humbled by untrammeled echoes from the Green Fields,99 He floats and sinks together with the Tao, Looks down or up in accord with the times; Gone from his kind, but not dismayed within, Though docile, he’ll have no reward from without.



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95  Jade Fortress (Yü-sai 玉塞) is an alternate name for the Jade Gate Barrier (Yü-men kuan 玉門關) connecting China with Central Asia. 96  This phrase (i-i tsai 已矣哉) is best known for introducing the “envoi” (luan 亂) of the “Li sao” 離騷. Wang Po uses it in several other poems written during his first year in Shu, obviously evoking comparison with Ch’ü Yüan, prototype of the slandered and outcast courtier. I do not count it as a separate line of verse. 97  Cf. from Fu Hsien’s 傅咸 (239–94) “Rhapsody on the Exemplary Phoenix” (“I-feng fu”): “Suffering the too-easy entanglements of a vulgar net.” Ch’üan Chin wen 全晉文, 51.9b, in Yen K’o-chün. 98  Phoenixes (feng-huang) are native to the Mount of the Cinnabar Cave (Tan-hsüeh chih shan 丹穴之山), according to the Shan-hai ching; see Shan-hai ching chiao-chu 山海 經校注 (Shanghai: Shang-hai ku-chi ch’u-pan-she, 1980), 1.16. In his “Rhapsody on the Phoenix Roosting in the Cold Wu-t’ung” (“Han-wu ch’i-feng”), Wang Po says, “The phoenix, it is the numinous fledgling of the Cinnabar Cave.” Wang Tzu-an chi chu 王子安集注 (Wu-hsien: Chiang-shih shuang-t’ang pei-kuan, 1883), 1.22b. 99  According to Yung-chia-chün chi 永嘉郡記 quoted in I-wen lei-chü, 909.1565, along the Chu-mu Stream 沫沐溪 that runs through the uncultivated area of the Green Fields (Ch’ing-t’ien 青田) in Chekiang, a pair of pure-white swans raised each year a new brood of chicks, pets of the divine transcendents.

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Now, Sturdy pinions will buffet the wind, 24 A steadfast shape would ascend the fogs; With strength mastering the way through the haze, Spirit would course to heaven’s far pacings!100 But foreclosed from the vast tracts of the high empyrean, 28 He must suffer being seen nearby from garden kiosks. Though his form is now stayed by enclosing gate-towers, His aims are fulfilled in the road through the clouds. This is Ch’en P’ing’s abode backed to the city-wall,101 32 Or Han Hsin’s lodgings in Nan-ch’ang village.102

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Like the man of insight’s availing of the covert, He fades into the shrouded dust, finding his refuge there.103 Akin to the Gentleman’s incarnating of the Tao, To dwell amid brush and wormwood he is unabashed.104 But he is grieved by the vain dangling of proffered bait,105

100  Cf. “To the limit of heaven’s pacings, it searches on high,” from Pao Chao’s “Fu on Dancing Cranes,” WH 14.631. 101  Before Ch’en P’ing 陳平 (d. 178 BC) came to the attention of the warlord Hsiang Yü 項羽 (232–202 BC) and, after the latter’s fall, came to serve Liu Pang 劉邦 (Han Kao-tsu), eventually becoming his prime minister, he lived in a hovel backed against the city-wall in Hu-yu 戶牖, near present-day Ch’en-liu 陳留, Honan. Shih chi, 56.2052. 102  Han Hsin 韓信 (d. 196 BC) rose to become one of Liu Pang’s best generals, from being a poor commoner who had to cadge meals in his home village of Nan-ch’ang 南昌, near present-day Huai-yin 淮陰, Kiangsu. Shih chi, 92.2609. 103  “The man of insight” (ta-jen 達人) takes the broad view,/ And to him nothing is impossible,” says Chia I in his “Fu on the Houlet” (“Fu-niao fu”), WH 13.607, a poem that also advises adapting to one’s circumstances in terms reminiscent of those used by Wang Po in lines 19–20. “Availing of the covert” (yung hui 用晦) is how the Gentleman leads the people inconspicuously, according to the Hsiang 象commentary on hexagram 36, “Ming-i” 明夷 (“Subdual of the Light”) of the I ching; see Chou I cheng-i 周易正義 (Shih-san-ching chu-shu), 4.10a. 104  The Gentleman (chün-tzu 君子) is so filled with the Tao that whether he lives in fine or mean surroundings is of no moment to him. 105  The Liu-t’ao, a book of military and political strategy attributed (spuriously) to T’ai-kung Wang 太公望, adviser to the revered King Wen of Chou, includes in its opening section a discussion of “fishing” for men of worth to serve the state, by “baiting” them with the lure of official salary. Liu-t’ao 六韜 (Pai-tzu ch’üan-shu), 1.1a.

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And hurts for the needless fall of one who but hears the bowstring.106 So then, You shall loose your thoughts in breadth unbounded, As this one trusts his heart to unmeasured infinity.107

Reading these fu in light of the circumstances of Lu Chao-lin and Wang Po at the time they wrote them, it looks as though the poem of the younger man is a bravura performance meant to embolden and reassure the elder. Even in the “shrouded dust” (line 34) one may find fit “refuge”—that word again (託), signifying the goal sought by Lu Chao-lin’s kite. If one can keep from being overwhelmed by ill fortune, one can ride out the vicissitudes of fate and emerge ready to reclaim one’s proper realm. Until then, much can still be done within a constrained ambit, with companions perforce of common stock. Allegorical as such poems manifestly are, we must be sure not to read them as allegory only. They are also linguistic and scholarly fun, a chance for the authors to test verbal mettle. Their literal imagery must cohere and be cogent if they are to work as poems. This they do admirably. Also in this regard, some of the fun comes from the crafty way that the authors weave allusions to other works into the fabric of their poems, making for a “thicker” texture than would be present if they indulged in a simple outpouring from the heart. For Lu Chao-lin this includes verbal echoes from several bits of Chuang-tzu (a favorite text of his), as well as the Ch’u tz’u, and various poems (mostly fu) by Mi Heng, Chang Hua, Ho Hsün, Pao Chao, and Yin K’eng. For Wang Po there are echoes from Fu Hsien, Pao Chao, and Yü Hsin, but the resonant sources that he chooses to draw from most are mainly prose narratives, including Shih chi, Chan-kuo ts’e, Liu-t’ao, Yung-chia-chün chi, and Shan-hai ching, and an I ching commentary. Of course the key factor in all of this is not so much what one’s references are as how well and seamlessly one knits them into the new text being created. Lyricism, technique, and learning all play a part. In Lu Chao-lin’s

106  The Chan-kuo ts’e includes a story of how a lone, frightened wildgoose, already wounded and separated from his flock, was so terrified merely at hearing the twang of an archer’s bowstring that in trying to fly higher it burst open its wound and fell to earth, even though no arrow had in fact been discharged at it. The lesson is that one’s own fears can limit one’s reach. Chan-kuo ts’e 戰國策 (Shanghai: Shang-hai ku-chi ch’u-pan-she, 1988), 17.571 (“Ch’u ts’e” 4). 107   Wang Tzu-an chi chu, 2.1a–2a; WYYH 135.5b–6a; CTW 177.11a/b. “Unmeasured infinity” (liaok’uo 寥廓), or “infinity’s outskirts,” recalls the destination of the “splendrous gryphon” in Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju’s “Rebuking the Paternal Elders of Shu,” mentioned earlier.

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poetry in particular, and to a lesser degree in that of the other “Elites,” much of the excellence lies in the extent to which these three elements are brought together without accenting one to the detriment of the others. Questions of self-worth and recognition are the psychological counters in this game, as in the works we have been considering here. This was of course a natural concern for all men of letters—that is to say, for all prospective holders of government office—in medieval China. Without ambition and confidence, born of long immersion in and deepening mastery of the living river of textual tradition, flowing on from more than a millennium past, one could not hope to succeed. One struggles for control, whether it be over words, over distinctness of merit, over the options and hazards of one’s life. Perhaps Lu Chao-lin’s status as a member of one of the lesser, undistinguished branches of the great Fan-yang Lus made it that much more important for him to shine. And that much more painful to be abused. We might apply to him, as indeed we might to Wang Po and Lo Pin-wang, the words of Cornelius Nepos regarding Alcibiades: “What was most harmful to him was his excessive opinion of his own gifts and merits.” I am reminded of Robinson Jeffers’s poem “Hurt Hawks,” in which Jeffers describes thus a hawk with broken wing: … No more to use the sky forever but live with famine And pain a few days … He stands under the oak-brush and waits The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it. He is strong and pain is worse for the strong, incapacity is worse. The curs of the day come and torment him At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head, The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes. The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to them That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant. … I hear in this, despite the different specific gravities of the two languages and Jeffers’s unique cragginess, a strain similar to that in Lu Chao-lin’s “Stranded Fish” and “Tamed Kite.” Very soon after his time with Wang Po, by the summer of 673, Lu Chao-lin began to suffer the effects of the crippling illness that would thereafter dominate his days and make it impossible for him even to think of taking up any

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official post again. By autumn of 676 Wang Po was dead in his mid-twenties, after bringing disgrace upon himself and distant exile to his father.108 Lu Chaolin’s world, in his last decade of life, gradually shrank to no more than the size of his room, and it was difficult for him to move about even so circumscribed an area. There was no kindly lord to offer him refuge. 108  In the summer of 674, while serving as a low-level aide in Kuo-chou 虢州, he released from jail a slave-girl convicted of a crime and then, when it seemed his deed might be discovered, killed her. For this he was sentenced to death and his father, paying for the sins of the son, was demoted from his position in the office of imperial ceremonies, eventually being sent out as a district magistrate to northern Vietnam—the farthest, most unhealthy post available. Wang Po was pardoned in September 674, thanks to the amnesty attendant upon the changing of the reign-name from Hsien-heng 咸亨 to Shang-yüan 上元. He did not accept official reinstatement and died two years later, on the return trip from visiting his father in the far southwest.

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A Re-evaluation of Chen Ziang’s “Manifesto of a Poetic Reform” Timothy Wai Keung Chan Chen Ziang 陳子昂 (661–702) made a significant contribution to the restoration of “ancient” style poetry in the Early Tang, when regulated verse, a new poetic form marked by the pursuit of preciosity, was taking shape.* During this period of “court poetry”, attention was given in versification to parallelism and “the syntagmatic (structural, syntactical) and the paradigmatic (topical, lexical) rules of poetry.”1 Chen’s rejection of this trend has won for him a great name as a reformer or “innovator in Tang Poetry”.2 The restoration of the ancient poetic style was significant because it was a direct reaction to the poetic decadence of the time. This reaction arose not merely out of a concern for poetry but, more importantly, out of concern about the decline of morality that had given rise to the decadence in poetry. The old Confucian doctrine had long laid stress on reading and writing poetry with healthy content, as poetry was an important part of the curriculum.3 The question of whether Chen ever saw such a movement as his mission has been taken for granted in the study of Chinese poetic history. The present study is an attempt to clarify this Source: “A Re-evaluation of Chen Ziang’s ‘Manifesto of a Poetic Reform,’” Journal of the Oriental Society of Australia 36–37 (2004–05): 56–85. * I would like to thank Paul W. Kroll for his comments on an early draft of this paper, and David R. Knechtges and Martin Kern for their feedback on the paper when it was presented at the 1998 annual meeting of the American Oriental Society (Western Branch). I would also like to thank two JOSA anonymous reviewers for critiquing the manuscript. I am responsible for all errors that remain. My gratitude also goes to Matthew Carter for his editing work on an earlier draft. 1  Stephen Owen, The Poetry of the Early T’ang (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), p. 427. 2  Richard M. W. Ho recently published a book-length study on Chen Ziang, entitled Ch’en Tzuang: Innovator in T’ang Poetry (Hong Kong; The Chinese University Press, 1993), a revision of his Ph.D. dissertation completed in 1977 at London University. This book has had two unfavourable reviews, one by Robert Ashmore, JAOS 115 (1995), 112–14, the other by Donald Holzman, T’oung Pao 81 (1995), 355–60, Both critics point out the problem of Ho’s subjective and over-confident interpretation of Chen’s poems as political satires. 3  “Maoshi xu” 毛詩序, Wenxuan 文選 (hereafter WX), ed. Hu Kejia 胡克家(early twelfth century) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1995), 45.21a–22a.

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somewhat arbitrary judgment and to present an accurate picture of the setting for Chen’s expression of his poetics. A native of Shu 蜀 (present-day Sichuan) Province, Chen is said to have depended on the prestige of his father, Chen Fangqing 陳方慶, and to have cultivated a foppish temperament in his early years. He did not devote himself to scholarly pursuits until he turned eighteen, when he visited the Grand Academy in the capital, and he made several failed attempts at the national examination before passing it. He spent most of his official life serving at the court of Empress Wu, Wu Zetian 武則天 (r. 690–705), China’s first and only female monarch, in the low-ranking official post of Right Reminder (you shiyi 右拾遺), a middle-eighth ranking post (in the nine-grade system).4 According to the records, Chen was persecuted to death in his hometown at the age of 42 by a local official named Duan Jian 段簡.5 Chen’s reputation as a “reformer” is based on his “ancient” poetic style as seen in a set of 38 poems under the collective title of Moved by My Encountering (“Ganyu” 感遇) and, above all, from a preface to his poem Long Bamboo (“Xiuzhu pian” 修竹篇, hereafter “Preface”). This excellent reputation has, ironically, become an obstacle for any close examination of Chen’s real role in relevant historical contexts, because critical scepticism may blemish his reputation as an innovator. The present study is not intended as a denigration of Chen’s contributions to the development of Tang poetry, but as a re-evaluation of his poetic innovations in the Early Tang and of the extent to which these contributions have been inaccurately assessed.

4  The Tang bureaucratic ranking is based on Paul W. Kroll, “Basic Data on Reign-Dates and Local Government”, T’ang Studies 5 (1987), 104. 5  The death of Chen has been an issue in various studies. Cen Zhongmian 岑仲勉 and Wang Yunxi 王運熙 both argue that Wu Sansi 武三思 (d. 707) secretly ordered Duan to frame Chen so as to remove his political opponent. See Cen, “Chen Ziang ji qi wenji zhi shiji” 陳子 昂及其文集之事跡, Furen xuezhi 輔仁學志, 14, No. 1–2 (1946), 149–73; Wang, “Chen Ziang he ta de zuopin” 陳子昂和他的作品, Wenxue yichan zengkan 文學遺產增刊 (4) (Beijing: Zuojia, 1957), pp. 99–103; also in his Han Wei Liuchao Tangdai wenxue luncong 漢魏六朝唐 代文學論叢 (Shanghai guji, 1981), pp. 74–7; Suzuki Shūji 鈴木修次 “Shin Sugo to sono shi” 陳子昂とその死 (Tō shijin no denki to sakuhin 唐詩人の伝記と作品), Kanbun kyōshitsu 漢文教室, 73 (1965), 37. Ge Xiaoyin 葛曉音 has a different view. She argues that Duan Jian prosecuted Chen after discovering his criticism of Empress Wu. See Ge, “Guanyu Chen Ziang de siyin” 關於陳子昂的死因, in her Han Tang wenxue de shanbian 漢唐文學的嬗變 (Beijing daxue, 1990), pp. 362–4.

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The “Preface”

The “Preface” to Long Bamboo enjoys great repute as a “manifesto of poetic reform”. Here is what Chen Ziang has to say in this regard: To the honorable Mister Dongfang, The dao of literary composition has been declining for five hundred years. The “wind” and “bones” of the Han-Wei period were not transmitted during the Jin-Song period; however, some can still be found in literary documents. In my leisure time I often read the poetry of the Qi and Liang, with its opulent colors and garnishing and complete lack of metaphor and allegory. Therefore, I sigh without cease. Thinking of the people of ancient times, I worry about deterioration and decadence, about “wind” and “elegance” not flourishing—for this reason I have felt uneasy. Yesterday, at the residence of Mister Xie the third, I read your In Praise of the Solitary Paulownia, Its “bone” and “air” are decorous and soaring, its sound and passion cadent and rising, its radiant rays clear and clean, having the sound of “metal and stone”. Reading it enables me to cleanse my heart, rectify my vision, and express my gloomy melancholy. It was beyond my expectation that the sound of Zhengshi should be with us again today. This could make the poets of the Jian’an reign-period (196– 220) smile at each other. Mister Xie said, “Mister Dongfang matches the accomplishment of Zhang Maoxian (Zhang Hua 張華 [232–300]) and He Jingzu (He Shao 何助 [d. 310])” I consider this a wise comment. Thus, I was impressed and I extolled your elegant composition, and I have written a poem entitled Long Bamboo. You have met one who “knows your tone”. I now present my work to you. 東方公足下: 文章道弊五百年矣！漢魏風骨，晉宋莫傳，然而文獻有可徵者。僕嘗暇時觀 齋梁間詩，彩麗競繁，而興寄都絕，每以永歎。思古人常恐逶迤頹靡，風雅 不作，以耿耿也。一昨於解三處見明公《詠孤桐篇》，骨氣端翔，音情頓 挫，光英朗練，有金石聲。遂用洗心飾視，發揮幽鬱。不圖正始之音，復睹 於茲，可使建安作者相視而笑。解君云:「張茂先、何敬袓，東方生與其比 肩。」僕亦以為知言也。故感歎雅製，作《條竹詩》一篇。當有知音，以傳 示之。 6 6  Chen Boyu wenji 陳伯玉文集 (hereafter CBYWJ), Sibu congkan 四部叢刊 edn, 1.9b–10a. This text has been translated in various studies. See, for example, Pauline Yu, The Reading of Imagery in the Chinese Poetic Tradition (Princeton University Press, 1987), pp. 172–3; Richard

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This declaration is reiterated in the “Preface to Chen Boyu’s Collected Works” (Chen Boyu wenji xu 陳伯玉文集序) by Lu Cangyong 盧藏用 (d. ca. 714), a close friend of Chen’s and the first to compile Chen’s works. Lu also gave great credit to Chen for his innovation. We will return to Lu’s praise after dealing with Chen’s preface.

The Ideal Poetic Style

There is in the “Preface” no particular target for Chen’s supposed “attack” against court poetry, as has been speculated. On the contrary, this “Preface” is substantially a product of courtly poetic activities, and in it Chen expresses certain common pursuits for an ideal style of poetry. It is generally accepted that in the High Tang an ideal poetic style was achieved that was a combination of “wind and bone” (fenggu 風骨, a term for the ideal combination of healthy content and high style)7 and “rules of tonal euphony” (shenglü 聲律), but this view is problematic. According to Yin Fan 殷 瑶 (mid eighth century), this ideal style began in the Early Tang and attained its completed form in the fifteenth year of the Kaiyuan reign-period (727).8 As some scholars point out, the achievement of such perfection must have been M. W. Ho, Ch’en Tzu-ang, pp. 73–4; Owen, Early T’ang, pp. 166–7; Lin Wen-yüeh, “The Decline and Revival of feng-ku (Wind and Bone): On the Changing Poetic Styles from the Chienan Era through the High T’ang Period”, in The Vitality of the Lyric Voice: Shih Poetry from the Late Han to the T’ang, ed. Shuen-fu Lin and Stephen Owen (Princeton University Press, 1986), pp. 130–1. 7  There has been much controversy over the understanding of the term fenggu. See, for example, Li Shuer 李樹爾, “Lun fenggu” 論風骨, Wenxue yichan zengkan 文學遣產增刊 (11) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1963), pp. 29–37, esp. 34–5; Zhou Zhenfu 周振甫, Wenxin diaolong zhushi 文心雕龍注釋 (Taipei: Liren, 1994), 28.560–5; Hoshikawa Kiyotaka 星川清孝, “Fukotsu kō” 風骨考, Uno Tetsujin Sensei hakuju shukuga kinen Tōyōgaku ronsō 宇野哲人 先生先白壽祝賀記念東洋学論叢 (Tokyo: Uno Tetsujin Sensei hakuju shukuga kinenkai, 1974), pp. 9–15. 8  Yin Fan 殷瑤 (fl. mid eighth century), comp., Heyue yingling ji 河嶽英靈集, “xu”, Tangren xuan Tangshi 唐人選唐詩 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958), p. 40; Fu Xuanzong 傅璇琮 comp., Tangren xuan Tangshi xinbian 唐人選唐詩新編 (Xi’an: Shensi renmin jiaoyu, 1996), p. 107, Detailed discussion of this issue is found in Wang Yunxi, “Shi ‘Heyue yingling ji xu’ lun Sheng Tang shige” 釋「河嵌英靈集序」論盛唐詩歌, Han Wei Liuchao Tangdai wen­ xue luncong, pp, 113–22; Chen Zu-yan, “Impregnable Phalanx and Splendid Chamber: Chang Yüeh and the Aesthetics of High T’ang Poetry”, Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews, 15 (1989), 72; Ge Xiaoyin, “Lun Kaiyuan shitan” 論開元詩壇 in her Shiguo gaochao yu Sheng Tang wenhua 詩國高潮與盛唐文化 (Beijing: Beijing daxue, 1998), pp. 325–52.

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a gradual process that had begun during the Early Tang. However, the dichotomy between the Shen-Song 沈宋. style (i.e., the ornate style of Shen Quanqi 沈佺期 [ca. 656–714] and Song Zhiwen 宋之問 [ca. 656–712]), which focused on shenglü, and Chen Ziang’s reform, which focused on fenggu, remains a clear demarcation in critical studies.9 In the Early Tang, court poetry had been undergoing changes, if not “reform”, and these two elements had been undergoing a process of combination. In the preface to his Flowery Verse by Poets of the Past and Present (Gujin shiren xiuju 古今詩人秀句), Yuan Jing 元兢 (fl. 668) singles out Xie Tiao 謝朓 (464–499) as a model for emulation. Xie Tiao put his principles of prosody into practice in his style: “A good poem should be mellow and beautiful, fluent and rolling like a pellet” 好詩圓美流轉如彈丸.10 By promoting Xie Tiao, Yuan Jing attempted to avert the inclination toward hyperartful rhetorical devices and neglecting lyrical expression and auditory effects. This was substantially a precursor of Yin Fan’s ideal style, a combination of fenggu and shenglü. These were the two basic requirements for Yuan’s anthology. Li Bai 李白 (701–762) once praised Xie Tiao’s style as “pure and stimulating” 清發. This comment gives us further hints about Yuan Jing’s ideal style, the pursuit of lyrical elements expressed in a smooth, flowing style.11

9  Chen Zu-yan, “Impregnable Phalanx”, 72, deals mainly with this issue. 10  Yuan Jing, “Gujin shiren xiuju xu”, collected by Kūkai 空海 (774–835) in his Bunkyō hifuron 文鏡秘府論, see Konishi Jin’ichi 小西甚一, ed., Bunkyō hifuron kō 考, Vol. 3, “Kōbun hen” 攻文篇 (Tokyo: Dai Nihon yūbenkai kōdansha, 1953), “nan”, pp. 188–9. Wang Meng’ou 王夢鷗 establishes the year of composition of Yuan Jing’s preface as 671. See Wang, Chu Tang shixue zhushu kao 初唐詩學著述考 (Taibei: Taiwan shangwu, 1977), p. 67. Xie Tiao’s view is quoted in Nanshi 南史 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju), 22.609. The Song critic Lü Benzhong 呂本中 (1084–1145) terms this style the “pellet method” 彈丸法. It is a “vivid style” 活法 in Lü’s terminology. Lü’s discussion is intended to counter the formulaic style of the Jiangxi School of Poetry 江西詩派. A discussion of the “pellet method” and “vivid style” can be found in Fang Hui, Yingkui lüsui huiping 瀛奎律髄彙評, comp. Li Qingjia 李慶甲 (Shanghai guji, 1986), 4.180, 20.824. J. D. Schmidt explains the “live method” using Buddhist doctrine and renders fa 法 as dharmas. See his “The ‘Live Method’ of Yang Wan-li”, in Studies in Chinese Poetry and Poetics, ed. Ronald C. Miao, Vol. 1 (San Francisco: Chinese Material Center, 1978). I have also discovered some Buddhist references for this poetic terminology: see T. W. K. Chan, “Fang Hui shilun qiantan” 方回詩論淺探, Kertas Pengajian Tionghoa Papers on Chinese Studies, 7 (2005), 104–5. 11  Li Bai, “Xuanzhou Xie Tiao lou jianbie jiaoshu shu Yun” and “Song Chu Yong zhi Wuchang”, in Li Bai ji jiaozhu 李白集校注, comm. Qu Tuiyuan 瞿蛻園 and Zhu Jincheng 朱金城 (Shanghai guji, 1984), 18.1077, 18.1089. Further discussion of the poetic tastes of the Early Tang is in T. W. K. Chan, “In Search of Jade: Studies of Early Tang Poetry”, Ph.D. dissertation (Boulder: University of Colorado, 1999), 37–53.

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Dongfang Qiu and Xie Wan

Two of Chen’s contemporaries—Dongfang Qiu 東方虬 and Xie San 解三, or Mister Xie the third, named Xie Wan 解琬 (d. 718)—are mentioned in Chen’s “Preface” and they are important clues in reconstructing the setting for Chen’s writings. Dongfang was the person to whom Chen addressed his “Preface” and his poem Long Bamboo. Xie was the first to comment on Dongfang’s poem In Praise of the Solitary Paulownia, most likely during one of Chen’s visits to his home. Both Xie and Dongfang were court poets, if we are to make such a distinction, and critics have been using this point in their elevation of Chen’s role as an innovator. Chen is inescapably associated with court poets: his so-called “manifesto of a poetic reform” was announced within such circles. Dongfang’s poem In Praise of the Solitary Paulownia is now lost, and we know nothing first-hand of its style.12 However, a tale in Fine Tales of the Sui and Tang Dynasties (Sui-Tang jiahua 隋唐嘉話) helps us establish some facts about the poet: Once, when Empress Wu visited Longmen, she ordered the attending officials to compose poetry, and promised to award the first to finish his poem with a brocade cassock. Dongfang Qiu, Historian of the Left, received the award. However, before he could sit down again, Song Zhiwen completed his poem. Its pattern and arrangement were both so fine that all in attendance paid him the highest compliment. Song then approached Dongfang, grabbed the cassock, and put it on.13 So Dongfang was Historian of the Left 左史 (consequent sixth grade, upper rank) and served in attendance on the empress. He also participated in poetic competitions. This anecdote tells us that Dongfang’s poem was considered inferior to Song’s in “pattern and arrangement” (wenli 文理). Also, Empress Wu did not blame Song for his impolite and impetuous action, but acquiesced in the unanimous praise of Song’s poem. As a result, she failed to keep her promise and rewarded Song, even though he finished his poem after Dongfang. Fortunately, Song’s poem has been preserved in the Quan Tangshi, and we can see in what way Song achieved the “pattern and arrangement” for which it was 12  Only four quatrains by Dongfang are extant, in Quan Tangshi 全唐詩(hereafter QTS) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985), 100.1075. 13  Liu Su 劉餘, Sui Tang jiahua 隋唐嘉話 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1997), “xia” p. 40; also quoted in Tangshi jishi jiaojian 唐詩紀事校箋 (hereafter TSJS), comm. Wang Zhongyong 王仲鏞 (Chengdu: Ba-Shu, 1989), 11.302.

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commended.14 Although Dongfang lost, he was the second-best court poet in this competition. Xie Wan is recorded as Grand Tutor of the Heir Apparent 太子太傅, a middle-first rank position. He was one of the contributors to the collection of poetry composed at the three banquets hosted by Gao Zhengchen 高正臣, entitled Three Anthologies of Poems Composed at Banquets Held by Mr. Gao (Gaoshi sanyan shiji 高氏三宴詩集). Gao held the post of Chief Minister of Court Defendant 衛尉卿 and was related to the emperor by marriage.15 Xie was also a participant in various imperial gatherings during the Jinglong reignperiod (707–710).16 His first-rank official title and his active role in courtly poetic activities reveal the prestige in which he was held. Of greatest interest to us is that Chen Ziang participated in Gao’s banquets and was invited to write a preface to one of these three small anthologies. Thus, in his “Preface”, Chen Ziang must not have intended to criticize Dongfang, to whom the preface was addressed, or Xie, his host. Most importantly, Chen’s rank was much lower than most of his contemporaries, who took part in various activities relating to poetry composition at court. How would he dare offend his superiors by presenting a manifesto against their style?17

14   Q TS, 51.627–8. 15   “Gaoshi sanyan shiji shi hou” 高氏三宴詩集詩後, Gaoshi sanyan shiji 高氏三宴詩集 (Siku quanshu 四庫全書 edn), 1a; TSJS, 7.164. Tang Huaquan 湯華泉 argues that the Gaoshi sanyan shiji is a forgery, saying that it is a Ming compilation, not a Song production, and that it was not compiled by Gao Zhengchen but was based on pre-Ming anthologies, such as the Tangshi jishi. See Tang, “Guanyu Siku zhulu de Gaoshi sanyan shiji banben, bianzhe zhu wenti” 關於四庫著錄的《高氏三宴詩集》版本、編者諸問題, Guji zhengli yanjiu xuekan 古籍整理研究學刊 61 (1996), back colophon. 16   Gaoshi sanyan shiji, “shang”, 1a, 5a, 6b. Jiu Tangshu 舊唐書 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju), 100.3112–13. Xie’s name is also recorded, in the gathering on the ninth day of the ninth month in 708, in the Jinglong wenguan ji 景龍文館記. TSJS, 12.323; Andō Shunroku 安東俊六 “Sho-Tō bungakushi ni okeru Chin Sugō no ichi tsuke” 初唐文学史におけ る陳子昂の位置つけ, Kyūshū Chūgoku gakkai hō 九州中國学会報, 15 (1969), 23. The most up-to-date, comprehensive study of the Jinglong wenguan ji is Jia Jinhua 賈晉華, Tangdai jihui zongji yu shirenqun yanjiu 唐代集會總集與詩人群研究(Beijing: Beijing daxue, 2001), pp. 43–73. For a discussion of the writing process and setting of a preface to a poetry anthology of this kind, see T. W. K. Chan, “Dedication and Identification in Wang Bo’s Compositions on the Gallery of Prince Teng”, Monumenta Serica, 50 (2002), 221–6. 17  Andō Shunroku, “Sho-Tō bungakushi”, 18–21. Andō also points out that Chen must have had some association with these court poets.

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Model Poets for Emulation

The “Preface” itself contains some inconsistent statements, of which the most contradictory pertain to the Han-Wei and Jin-Song dichotomy. Chen’s agreement with Xie San’s comparison of Dongfang Qiu with the two Jin poets placed him in a dilemma. Zhang Hua and He Shao, with whom Dongfang was favourably compared, were both from the Jin, a period to which the Han-Wei “wind and bone” were not transmitted, as Chen himself declares in the “Preface”.18 However, in order to extricate himself from this dilemma, Chen adds a line immediately after this statement: “However, some can still be found in literary documents [of the Jin-Song].” This implies that fenggu could still be found in the Jin-Song.19 One may ask: If Xie San had compared Dongfang with a poet from the Qi-Liang period, would Chen have then said that Qi-Liang was not the worst? In addition, such a comparison reveals a pursuit of preciosity that had little to do with fenggu. In his Shipin 詩品, Zhong Rong 鍾嶸 (fl. 502–519) provided important guidelines for understanding the styles of Zhang Hua and He Shao. He made the following comment on Zhang: Zhang’s style is flowery and gaudy. His metaphors and analogies are not distinctive. His use of diction is felicitous, devoted to opulence and ornateness. Although his renown was great in previous ages, unrestrained and enlightened gentleman dislike his poetry because it teems with “feelings of boys and girls” (i.e., “sentimentality”), and because it lacks the spirit of wind and clouds (i.e., a virile style).20

18  This has been pointed out by Zhou Zuzhuan 周祖譔, “Guanyu Chen Ziang lishi zuoyong de zaisikao” 關於陳子昂歷史作用的再思考, Tangdai wenxue yanjiu, 3 (1992), 187. Taguchi Nobuo 田口暢穗 also noticed this strange compliment paid by Chen Ziang. See Taguchi, “Tōhō Kyū no ‘Kyūin fu’ o megutte: sono ruishō to shite no ōyō” 東方虬の「蚯 蚓賦」をめぐって:その類書としての応用, Chūgoku bungaku kenkyū 中国文学研 究, 16 (1990), 25–6. 19  Kong Fanxin 孔繁信 reads this line as a supporting statement for the non-transmission of the Han-Wei style to the Jin and Song. He says, “[Chen] also uses documents to prove that the dao of literary composition went astray.” See Kong, “Chen Ziang de ‘Xiuzhu pian’ ji ‘Xiuzhu pian xu’” 陳子昂的《修竹篇》及《修竹篇序》, Shandong shida xuebao 山東師大學報, no. 6 (1981), 61. 20   Shipin 詩品, in Lidai shihua 歷代詩話, comp. He Wenhuan 何文焕(Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1982), “zhong”, p. 11.

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For this reason, Zhong Rong reluctantly rated Zhang Hua as “middle” grade, because he was slightly better than “low” grade. He Shao was also rated in the Shipin as in the “middle”. Zhong Rong’s use of “spirit of wind and clouds” 風雲 氣, a major criterion in his evaluation of poetry that was antithetical to excessive “feelings of boys and girls” 兒女情, reveals that the works of both poets lacked fenggu.21 Zhang and He were merely mediocre poets. Why, then, did they become the models of a poetic reform, if there really was one? Xie San’s tone is not sarcastic in his remark on Dongfang Qiu’s poem; it is sincere. Chen Ziang in turn regards Xie’s words as a “wise comment”. His laudatory view of Dongfang’s poem accords exactly with the requirements of Yuan Jing’s ideal style, because Dongfang excels in “bones and air”, “brightness and flowers” and the “sound of metal and stone”. But it does not accord with the style of Zhang Hua and He Shao. Chen encounters a difficulty when he comments on Dongfang’s poetry because he has to comply with Xie San’s remark. Therefore, he cannot but flatter these Jin poets. Chen Ziang might not have meant to praise wholeheartedly the poetry of Zhang Hua and He Shao; rather, he quoted the comparison made by Xie San in order to provide further grounds on which to respond to Dongfang’s poem, which was not dedicated to Chen. The reason he chose Zhang Hua and He Shao as a match for Dongfang Qiu may have been because these two poets once exchanged poems in the “roaming transcendents” (youxian shi 遊仙詩) genre.22 This would fit well with Dongfang’s poem and Chen’s. We see that Chen eagerly presented Dongfang with his poem and hoped that it would be accepted as a “response”, so as to make a good match for the poems of Zhang and He. The final lines in Chen’s “Preface” reiterate this wish: “I was impressed and I extolled your elegant composition, and I have written a poem entitled

21   Shipin, “zhong”, 12. Mei Yunsheng 梅運生, “Zhong Rong ping Jian’an shige” 鍾嶸評建安 詩歌, Zhongguo wenyi sixiangshi luncong 中國文藝思想史論叢 (Beijing: Beijing daxue, 1988), pp. 138–46, has a detailed discussion of Zhong Rong’s view of fenggu in Jian’an poetry. 22   W X, 24.10b–12a; Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi 先秦漢魏晉南北朝詩 (hereafter XQHWJ), comp. Lu Qinli 逯欽立 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984), 684, 618. These poems are translated in Anna Straughair, Chang Hua: A Statesman-Poet of the Western Chin Dynasty (Canberra: Australian National University, 1973), pp. 88–9. Wang Yunxi et al. surmise that Dongfang’s poem is an imitation of Zhang Hua’s “Nigu” 擬古 and He Shao’s “Youxian shi” 遊仙詩. Wang et al., Zhongguo wenxue piping tongshi 中國文學批評通史, Vol. 3 (Shanghai guji, 1996), p. 115. These two poems are in XQHWJ, 621, 649.

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Long Bamboo. You have met one who ‘knows your tone’. I now present my work to you.”23 By its very nature, this kind of composition was written in a flattering tone. We can find other poets Chen Ziang used as comparisons with those he praised. In a preface to a set of banquet poems Chen compared the writings of Grandee Xue 薛大夫 with the “literary compositions of Zhang Zai 張載 (ca. 289)”, a Jin writer who was rated “low” in the Shipin.24 In the preface to a collection of poems written by forty-five people and dedicated to Du Shenyan 杜審言 (ca. 645–708), who had been demoted and was on his way to exile, Chen praised Du’s literary talent by comparing him with two groups of writers: Xu, Chen, Ying and Liu cannot approach your castle (of writing); He, Wang, Shen and Xie are fittingly in obedience to your banner. 徐、陳、應、劉，不得劘其壘：何，王、沈、謝，適足靡其旗.25

The writers in the first group were Xu Gan 徐幹 (171–218); Chen Lin 陳琳 (d. 217), Ying Yang 應瑒 (d. 217) and Liu Zhen 劉楨 (d. 217), four of the Seven Masters of the Jian’an reign-period,26 who represented the highest achievement in fenggu. However, the poets in the second group were from the Qi-Liang period of poetic decadence. They were He Xun 何遜 (d. ca. 518), Wang Rong 王融 (467–493), Shen Yue 沈約 (441–513) and Xie Tiao. He Xun was a precocious poet highly praised by Fan Yun 范雲 (461–503) and Shen Yue.27 Wang, Shen and Xie were three of the Eight Friends of Prince Jingling 竟陵八友 and

23  These lines are understood differently in various interpretations of the preface. For example, Kong Fanxin explains: “The ‘ones who know our tones,’ refers to those who agree to change the superficial and flashy poetic style. They should all learn the artifice in Dongfang Qiu’s In Praise of the Solitary Paulownia.” See Kong, “Chen Ziang de ‘Xiuzhu pian’”’, 61. See also Owen, Early T’ang, p. 167. 24  “Xue Dafu shanting yan xu”, CBYWJ, 7.13a; Shipin, “xia”, 18. Zhang Zai is said to have been inferior to his brother Zhang Xie 張協 (ca. 295), but Chen Yanjie 陳延傑 argues that Zhang Zai’s “Qiai” poem was not inferior to that of his brother. See Chen, Shipin zhu 詩品注 (Beijing: Renmin wenxue, 1962), p. 59, n. 6. 25  “Song Jizhou Du Sihu Shenyan xu”, CBYWJ, 7.15b. 26  This enumeration is an allusion to Cao Pi’s lamentation in his letter to Wu Zhi 吳質. See Cao, “You yu Wu Zhi shu” 又與吳質書, in Quan Sanguo wen 全三國文 (Quan Shanggu Sandai Qin Han Sanguo Liuchao wen 全上古三代秦漢三國六朝文 [hereafter QSG]), ed. Yan Kejun 嚴可均 (1762–1843) (Beijing; Zhonghua shuju, 1987), 7.5b. 27   Liangshu 梁書 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju), 49.693.

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were all great writers of their time.28 In his flattering comments, Chen Ziang praised Du Shenyan as the best writer, as one who far outdid all eight writers. There is no advocacy for fenggu in this couplet; rather, it emphasizes the renown of great poets. This “contradiction” creates an obstacle if we are to credit Chen with promoting fenggu, because he does not pejoratively regard the Qi-Liang poets as the worst, as it would not have been proper to compare the man he has dedicated his poem to with poets of a decadent era. This “contradiction” is parallel to Chen’s “Preface” simply because his main motive in this literary genre that was required to be written in a flattering tone might not have been to advocate fenggu.

The Sound of Zhengshi

Chen Ziang’s presentation of an arbitrary “response” to Dongfang Qiu reveals an effort on his part to flatter high officials, and a common interest with court officials. This interest was “the sound of zhengshi” 正始之音. In terms of literary criticism, according to early Tang commentators this phrase initially referred to the legacy of the Shijing. It was the sound that “rectified the great way of the beginning” 正其初始之大道, or that “rectified the beginning of the sovereign way” 正王道之始. This legacy is preserved in the “Zhounan” 周南 and “Shaonan” 召南sections of the Shijing.29 In the context of Chen’s “Preface”, the phrase zhengshi zhiyin refers to the poetic tradition of the Wei dynasty’s Zhengshi reign-period (240–248), another golden age of poetry after the Jian’an reign-period. Ruan Ji and Ji Kang 嵇康(224–263) are representative Zhengshi poets. Chen’s reference, however, seems to cover more than the poetic style of Ruan and Ji. The phrase zhengshi zhiyin to indicate a didactic and “healthy” style of poetry may have resulted from the excessively high valuation placed on Chen Ziang’s “Preface” and his representative Moved by My Encountering poems. We must first of all clear up the unfortunately common misconception that this “Preface” is a preface to Moved by My Encountering, or that it is a “manifesto”. While Andō Shunroku locates some of Chen Ziang’s diction as deriving from 28   Richard B. Mather, The Poet Shen Yüeh (441–513), The Reticent Marquis (Princeton University Press, 1988), p. 37. 29  See “Maoshi xu” 毛詩序, WX, 45.22a; Maoshi zhengyi 毛詩正義 (Shisanjing zhushu 十三 經注疏 edn), 5.1.1a, Kong Yingda’s 孔穎達(574–648) commentary; Liu Liang’s 劉良 (early eighth century) commentary, in Liuchen zhu Wenxuan 六臣注文選, comm. Li Shan 李善 et al., Sibu congkan 四部叢刊 edn, 45.31a.

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Ruan Ji’s Yonghuai 詠懷 poems, he also finds Chen’s sources in many other poets of the Six Dynasties.30 The general impression that, in his Moved by My Encountering poems, Chen emulated Ruan Ji’s style may lead us to read zhengshi zhiyin as the style of Ruan Ji. In the “Preface”, however, Chen does not mention the names of Ruan Ji and Ji Kang as models; instead, he mentions some mediocre poets who lived in the Jin, one of the most decadent periods of poetry and supposedly the target of his attack.31 Early uses of the phrase zhengshi zhiyin are found in various sources concerning the vogue of “pure talk” 清談 that flourished in the Wei-Jin period. Here it had nothing to do with poetic style. The Shishuo xinyu 世說新語 records the following: When Wang Dun 王敦 (266–324) was Grand General stationed in Yuzhang, Wei Jie 衛玠 (286–312) fled the chaos at Luoyang and sought refuge with him. They chatted the whole day. Dun said to Xie Kun 謝鲲 (ca. 280–322), who was then the Aide, “I did not expect to hear the sound of the Zhengshi reign-period again in the Yongjia reign-period (307–313).”32 In this context the phrase was used exclusively to denote the faddish stylish mannerism known as fengliu 風流 of the Wei-Jin “pure talkers”. Wei Jie in this quotation was regarded as one of the few to inherit this fine legacy from people like Wang Bi 王弼 (226–249). The Early Tang version of the account in the Jinshu was adapted from the Shishuo xinyu and elaborated on Wang Dun’s words, using the same phrase, zhengshi zhiyin.33 Chen Ziang’s use of this phrase in his “Preface” is accompanied by the same sense of nice surprise at his rediscovery of this admirable tradition. The use of the phrase by another Early Tang poet, Wang Bo 王勃 (650– ca. 676), was as a means to flatter the noble mien of Officiant Auxiliary Ming 明員外, to whom he addressed his poem:34

30  Andō Shunroku, “Shin Sugō no shiron to sakuhin” 陳子昂の詩論と作品, Kyūshū Chūgoku gakkai hō, 14 (1968), 47–62. 31  See also Andō, “Shin Sugō no shiron” 49. 32  Yu Jiaxi 余嘉錫, comm., Shishuo xinyu jianshu 世說新語箋疏 (Shanghai guji, 1993), 8/51; cf. translation by Richard Mather, Shih-shuo Hsin-yü: A New Account of Tales of the World (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1976), p. 226. 33   Jinshu 晉書 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju), 36.1067. 34  This translation of yuanwai 員外 is Paul W. Kroll’s.

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East of the River you rank first— Your lineage inherits the sound of Zhengshi; Under the sun there is not such a pair— Your renown prevails over the leading classes.

江東第— 家傳正始之音 日下無雙 譽重名流之首35

The sense common to the various uses of the phrase of giving a compliment was an elegant, high-class, even an aristocratic, idea but an idea unrelated to poetry. The phrase zhengshi denoted a particular style of poetry in Liu Xie’s 劉勰 (d. 520) discussion of poetry. Liu says in his Literary Mind and Dragon Carving (Wenxin diaolong 文心雕龍): During the Zhengshi reign-period, the dao was illuminated; poetry was adulterated with transcendent thoughts. People like He Yan were mostly superficial and shallow. Only Ji Kang’s aspiration was clear and lofty, and, Ruan Ji’s theme was remote and deep. Therefore they could stand out above others. 正始明道，詩雜仙心，何晏之徒，率多浮淺。唯嵇志清峻，阮旨遙深， 故能 標焉。 36

The interest in “illuminating the dao” refers to the fact that Zhengshi was a golden age of philosophy, when the commentators Wang Bi and He Yan enjoyed great fame. The phrase xianxin 仙心 is usually glossed as referring to Daoism. It refers to the vogue of studies and discussion of the Laozi and Zhuangzi. The method of discussion used was that of the “Logicians”.37 Thus influenced, poetry was coloured with “transcendent thought”. But Liu Xie did not appreciate

35  Wang Bo, “Shang Ming Yuanwai qi” 上明員外啟, Quan Tangwen 全唐文 (hereafter QTW) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987), 180.6b. 36   Wenxin diaolong zhu 文心雕龍注 (hereafter WXDL), comm. Fan Wenlan 范文瀾 (Beijing: Renmin wenxue, 1961), 2.67. 37  The method of analysis and discussion of the dao is that of the School of Logicians. See Tang Changru 唐長孺, “Wei-Jin xuanxue zhi xingcheng ji qi fazhan” 魏晉玄學之形成 及其發展, in his Wei-Jin Nanbeichao shi luncong 魏晉南北朝史論叢 (Beijing: Sanlian, 1962), pp. 312, 322; Hou Wailu 侯外廬, “Wei-Jin sixiang de lishi beijing yu jieji genyuan” 魏晉思想的歷史背景與階級根源, in Hou Wailu shixue lunwen xuanji 侯外廬史學論 文選集, Vol. 1 (Beijing: Renmin, 1987), pp. 439–41; Mori Mikisaburō 森三樹三郎, Rikucho shitaifu no seishin 六朝士大夫の精神 (Kyoto: Dōhōsha, 1986), pp. 103–4.

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the superficial and shallow style of He Yan and his ilk. Only Ruan Ji and Ji Kang excelled in this genre and became the representative poets of the Zhengshi.38 In our further discussion of Chen Ziang’s poetics, it is essential to see first why He Yan’s style was regarded as “superficial and shallow”. Here are his two extant poems, entitled Expressing My Intent (Yanzhi 言志): Poem One The great swans roam wing to wing, Flying in flocks they play in Great Purity. They are constantly afraid of dying young in meshes  and nets; Worry and disaster may come together at daybreak. How can it be compared with flocking by the five   lakes? Drifting along the currents, nibbling at the floating   duckweed. Unbound and unrestrained, they set free their intent   and thought. For what reason should they fear, annoyed and   affrighted? Poem Two The rolling tumbleweed leaves its root, Wandering and drifting, it moves along with the wind. Stretching and spacious are the courses of the four seas; Far, far away, how can they be exhausted? I would rather be the floating-wort grass, Lodging my body in the clear pond.

鴻鵠比翼遊 群飛戲太清 常恐夭網羅 憂禍一旦并 豈若集五湖 順流唼浮萍 逍遙放志意 何為怵惕驚

轉蓬去其根 流飄從風移 芒芒四海涂 悠悠焉可彌 願為浮萍草 託身寄清池

38  Zhan Ying 詹鉠, Wenxin diaolong yizheng 文心雕龍義證 (Shanghai guji, 1989), 6.199– 202, quoting various sources; Wang Yunxi and Yang Ming 楊明, Wei-Jin Nanbeichao wenxue piping shi 魏晉南北朝文學批評史 (Shanghai guji, 1989), pp. 397–8. Xu Gongchi 徐公持 divides the representative poetry into two streams, one represented by He Yan and Wang Bi, the other by Ruan Ji and Ji Kang. The style of the former is “superficial and shallow”, while the latter achieves much in both content and skill. See Xu, “Zhengshi ti” 正始體, in Zhongguo dabaike quanshu. Zhongguo wenxue 中國大百科全書。中國 文學 (Beijing: Zhongguo dabaike quanshu, 1986), p. 1261. Quoting Liu Shipei 劉師培 (1884–1919), Li Yuegang 李曰剛 argues that there were two streams of writing during the Zhengshi reign-period. He singles out Ruan Ji and Ji Kang, saying that their achievements in the robust and high style were exceptional for the style of the period. See Li, Wenxin diaolong jiaoquan 文心雕龍斛詮 (Taipei: Guoli bianytguan, 1982), 10.2050–51.

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In this way, I wish to enjoy the present days; The future is not within my knowledge. The floating clouds shroud the white sun; Amidst the gentle breeze rises the light dust.

且以樂今日 其後非所知 浮雲翳白日 微風輕塵起39

The historical setting of these poems gives us a clear hint for understanding them. He Yan had a nuptial relationship with the royal house of the Wei. When Cao Shuang 曹爽 (d. 249) seized the regency, He Yan was concerned about his future and asked Guan Lu 管輅 (209–256) to divine his fortune. Worried after hearing Guan’s warning prophecy, He composed the first poem quoted above to express his thoughts.40 So, this is in the same mode as Ruan Ji’s Yonghuai poems, which make a close connection between “poetry and politics”.41 In terms of the metaphorical devices of lyricism in Liu Xie’s criticism, “superficiality and shallowness” is the main flaw that makes these poems of He’s inferior to Ruan Ji’s imagery, with its “far-fetched and profound” meaning.42 Clearly, Liu’s criticism of He Yan’s poetry was aimed at its lack of recondite themes, Liu elsewhere used the phrase “light and insipid” (qingdan 輕澹) to describe the zhengshi poetic style, referring to a product of the “remaining vogue of the zhengshi”. This phrase was used as a synonym for “superficiality and shallowness”. This phrase was followed with a transition to the achievements of Ruan Ji, Ji Kang, Ying Qu 應璩 (190–252) and Miao Xi 繆襲 (186–245), who “galloped on the course of literature”.43

39  He Yan, “Yanzhi shi” 言志詩, XQHWJ, 468. The first poem is entitled “Honghu” 鴻鵠 in Shipin, 11. 40  Yu Jiaxi 余嘉錫, Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 10/6, Liu Xiaobiao’s commentary, quoting [Guan] Lu biezhuan 〔管〕輅別傳 and Mingshi zhuan 名士傳. 41  Donald Holzman titled his book on Ruan Poetry and Politics: The Life and Works of Juan Chi (AD 210–263) (Cambridge University Press, 1976). 42   W XDL, 2.67. Liu Dajie 劉大杰 agrees that He Yan’s style is indeed “superficial and shallow” and promotes Ruan Ji and Ji Kang as the representatives of the Zhengshi reignperiod in his discussion of poetry. See Liu, Zhongguo wenxue fazhan shi 中國文學發 展史 (Shanghai guji, 1982), p. 265. 43   W XDL, 9.674. Although Zhang Lizhai 張立齋 disagrees with Liu Shipei, who argues that Liu Xie’s phrase “light and insipid” does not refer to the style of Ruan and Ji, Zhang does not present a convincing argument for Liu’s other phrase “superficial and shallow”. In my opinion, both phrases refer to the style of He Yan. See Zhan Ying, Wenxin diaolong yizheng, 45.1699–70, quoting Zhang Lizhai, Wenxin diaolong zhuding 文心雕龍註訂 (Taipei: Zhengzhong, 1985); Liu Shipei’s argument is in his Zhongguo zhonggu wenxueshi 中國中古文學史 (Beijing: Renmin wenxue, 1984), p. 44.

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To sum up, the phrase zhengshi has two connotations; one is poetic and the other concerns a manner of behaving. The poetic connotation seems not to have been common before Chen Ziang’s time. Therefore, it is arguable that Chen Ziang’s use of the phrase directly points to the zhengshi poetic style.44 One would expect Chen to have demonstrated the zhengshi poetic style in Long Bamboo; however, his failure to write recondite themes as seen in Ruan Ji’s poetry is disappointing.

The Poetic Trend and Tradition

It is not easy to locate the model for Chen Ziang’s Long Bamboo, but it is certainly not an imitation of the Jian’an style. Although its metaphorical mode of lyricism shares similarities with Liu Zhen’s To My Cousin (Zeng congdi 贈從弟), Chen’s poem gives a more detailed description of a journey to the ultramundane realm.45 Liu’s poems can be loosely categorized as “poetry on objects” (yongwu 詠物), while Chen’s is a combination of yongwu and youxian. Both poets make use of the object to express their inner feelings, but in style Chen’s poem is more similar to He Shao’s. Here is my translation of Chen’s poem: This dragon species grows on the southern marchmount;

龍種生南嶽46

44  In his discussion of “period styles” of poetry Zhong Rong did not list Zhengshi as a separate period for poetry. After listing the Jian’an and a period of “decadence” he listed the Jin writers. This “decadent” period, according to Zhong Rong, began in the Jin. Shipin, “preface”, 2. Despite their acquiescence, scholars do not use this phrase in various studies and primers of Chinese literary history to denote the period style; instead, they use Zhengshi wenxue 正始文學 and single out Ruan Ji and Ji Kang as being representative, Qian Zhixi 錢志熙 notices that the poetic style of the Zhengshi is different from that of Jian’an and that of Taikang 太康 (280–290) because Zhengshi was not an era of poetry and there was no definite vogue of poetry. See Qian, Wei-Jin shige yishu yuanlun 魏晉詩 歌藝術原論 (Beijing daxue, 1993), pp. 172–4, esp. 172. 45  Liu Zhen, “Zeng congdi shi sanshou” 贈從弟詩三首, XQHWJ, 371; WX, 23.32b–33a. 46  A variant of longzhong 龍種 is 龍鐘. See Wu Guan 吳琯 comp., Tangshi ji 唐詩紀 (n.p., 1585), 21.12a. If we accept this variant, the translation will read, “The ‘dragon bell’ grows on the southern marchmount.” “Dragon bell” is a conventional metaphoric name for bamboo. See Yu Xin 庾信, “Qiong zhuzhang fu” 邛竹杖賦, in Yu Zishan ji zhu 庾子山集注 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983), 1.42. These two names appear in reverse word order: one is zhonglong 種龍 and the other is zhonglong 鐘龍. Both are recorded as good material for wind instruments. For the former, see Taiping yulan 太平御覽 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985), 963.3a, quoting Guangzhi 廣志, Lüshi chunqiu 呂氏春秋. and Zhupu 竹谱.

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Its solitary verdure is luxuriant, spiring and soaring. Peaks and passes at the top are aspiring and alpine; Mist and mizzle at the bottom are dark and dim. At night, it hears the chatter of the flying squirrels; In daytime, blare the sounds of fonts and streams. No sooner is the vernal breeze just slightly streaming, Than the white dew has already turned clear and cool. Its sad sounds propel the metallic music;47 Its dense colors moisten the jade blossoms. In the yearly coldness, when frost and snow are harsh, It envelops brightness, staying alone, in glorious green. Does it not loathe the freezing chill? It is abashed to compete with vernal trees in bloom. Vernal trees have seasons of blooming and wilting; These nodes have no time of withering and falling.48 At first it wished to be with metal and stone, Throughout the ages, preserving staunchness and purity. It could not imagine that Master Linglun Would blow it to mimic the phoenix cry. Thereupon, together with the psaltery from Mt. Yunhe, It played music at the performance at the celestial court. As the wondrous tunes were just modulating to a thousand variations, In the “Xiaoshao” melody they for their part played nine suites. Truly it enjoys the favor of being carved and trimmed beautifully; Yet, it constantly wishes to serve the transcendents and the numinous. Steering and scudding on the azure wyvern chariot, Bound and bunched with others to make the purple panpipes

孤翠鬱亭亭 峰嶺上崇崒 煙雨下微冥 夜聞鼯鼠叫 晝聒泉壑聲 春風正淡蕩 白露已清泠 哀響激金奏 密色滋玉英 歲寒霜雪苦 含彩獨青青 豈不厭凝冽 羞比春木榮 春木有榮歇 此節無凋零 始願與金石 终古保堅貞 不意伶倫子 吹之學鳳鳴 遂偶雲龢瑟 張樂奏天庭 妙曲方千變 簫韶亦九成 信蒙雕斲美 常願事仙靈 驅馳翠螭駕 伊鬱紫鸞笙

For the latter, see Taiping yulan, 962.5b, quoting Nan Yue zhi 南越志; Chuxue ji 初學 記 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989), 28.694. In my opinion, longzhong or zhonglong is a descriptive rhyming binome whose word order and characters can vary so long as the descriptive sound is maintained. 47  Metal, as one of the five agents, corresponds to autumn. 48  The word jie 即, rendered as “node”, also carries a figurative meaning in a moral sense, i.e., “chastity” or “uprightness”.

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a re-evaluation of chen ziang ’ s “ manifesto of a poetic reform ”

Making mates with the maiden on the Ying terrace;49 They sang and played the “Ballad on Ascending the Sky”. Hand in hand they climb up to the white sun; Roaming remotely they caper on the Red Wall.50 Aground and aloft dance the black cranes; On and off appear the chromatic clouds. Following the flock of transcendents they forever take leave Toward the Three Mountains, touring the Jade Capital.

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結交嬴臺女 吟弄升天行 攜手登白日 遠遊戲赤城 低昂玄鶴舞 斷續綵雲生 永隨眾仙去 三山遊玉京51

This poem describes the practical use of the bamboo and its eagerness to live in an immortal realm. It was “unexpectedly” made into a syrinx by Master Linglun. This metaphor is in fact “superficial and shallow”, just as in He Yan’s poem above, because Chen’s reference is a commonplace. There is no allegory in this poem, only self-expression. The careful parallelism and intensive use of alliterative and rhyming binomes reflect Chen’s pursuit of preciosity. This practice was not a marked trend in the Jian’an period, only becoming so in the Jin and the Six Dynasties periods. This also accords with Zhong Rong’s remark on Zhang Hua’s style. In this respect, Chen’s poem is a match for Zhang Hua’s and He Shao’s. Dongfang’s poem In Praise of the Solitary Paulownia must have been similar in theme, style and rhetorical devices to Chen’s. Although there is obviously no way now to find details of this lost poem, examination of the poetic tradition

49  This is an allusion to the story of Nongyu 弄玉, a daughter of Duke Mu of Qin 秦穆公 (r. 659–621 bc). She fell in love with Xiao Shi 蕭史 who was able to make peacocks and white cranes dance by blowing on his flute. The duke therefore betrothed Nongyu to Xiao. Xiao taught his wife how to play the flute so it sounded like the cry of a phoenix. Several years later, a phoenix was attracted by her music and visited them. Consequently, the duke built the Phoenix Terrace 鳳凰臺. The couple remained on the terrace and never came down; one day they flew away with a phoenix. See Liexian zhuan 列仙傳 (Harvard-Yenching Index Series [hereafter HY] 294), “shang”, 17a/b; Zhao Daoyi 趙道一 (Yuan dynasty), Lishi zhenxian tidao tongjian 歷世真仙體道通鑑 (HY 296), 3.15a–16a. All Daoist scriptures cited in this paper are in Zhengtong Daozang 正統道藏 (Taipei: Xinwenfeng, 1985). 50  Mt. Red Wall is one of the ten great grotto-heavens 洞天, where Daoist transcendents roam. See Yunji qiqian 雲笈七籤 (HY 1026), 27.2b, 104.112a, quoting Tiandi gongfu tu 天地 宮府圖, and Li Dao 李道, “Taiyuan Zhenren Dongyue shangqing siming zhenjun zhuan” 太元真人東嶽上卿司命真君傳 (A biography of Mao Ying 茅盈 [b. 145 bc]). 51  CBYWJ, 1.10a/b; Chen Ziang ji 陳子昂集 (hereafter CZAJ), comp. Xu Peng 徐鵬 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1960), 1.15–16.

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prior to Dongfang’s composing it will shed important light on it.52 Although it is speculative to reconstruct Dongfang’s poem from clues given in Chen’s poem, the stability of literary tradition in pre- and Early Tang, when the Wenxuan and Yiwen leiju were standard primers for the study of poetry composition, could suggest what Dongfang might have said in his poem. An early description of the wutong tree as a subject of literature is found in Mei Sheng’s 牧乘 (d. 140 BC) Seven Stimuli (Qifa 七發), which was anthologized in Wenxuan. However, since Chen praised Dongfang’s use of “metaphorical imagery” (xingji), Mei’s lines are unlikely to have been Dongfang’s model.53 In Chen’s ambivalent view discussed above, “however, some can still be found in literary documents” in the era of poetic decadence (Qi-Liang and beyond). Clearly, the subject to be sought and found is healthy elements such as fenggu and xingji. Such elements are evident in poems on the wutong from the Southern Dynasties period. Below are some examples of fenggu from poems on the wutong. The plant is used metaphorically as a means to express the poets’ feelings. The following lines are taken from poems on the wutong tree attributed to Shen Yue, Sima Biao 司馬彪 (d. ca. 306) and Bao Zhao 鮑照 (ca. 414–466), respectively: Although its small leaves may seem humble, One single cut [of its branch] may make an official tablet. How can it not become zither and psaltery? By what means can it play its wondrous tunes? It does not wish to be cut and carved, Becoming the zither of the lord’s hall.

微葉雖可賤 一翦或成珪 焉得成琴瑟 何由揚妙曲 不願見彫斲 為君堂上琴54

As Chen points out, what Dongfang’s poem achieved was to redress the tradition of this lyrical mode. In his matching poem, Chen must have followed closely Dongfang’s work and written in the same mode. This lyrical mode was not unprecedented in the poetry of the Southern Dynasties period, either. Here are two couplets from poems on the bamboo attributed to Yu Xi 虞熙 (d. 618) and Yin Keng 陰鏗 (fl. mid sixth century), respectively:

52  Kong Fanxin has offered a hypothesis to reconstruct the theme of Dongfang’s poem. He assumes that Dongfang’s poem should be like Chen’s. Both poets focus on plants that can be made into good musical instruments. Kong, “Chen Ziang de ‘Xiuzhu pian’”, 60. 53   W X, 34.7a–8a. 54  Yiwen leiju 藝文類聚 (hereafter YWLJ), comp. Ouyang Xun 歐陽詢 (557–641) (Shanghai guji, 1985), 88.1528.

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I only regret that I am not from Xie Valley, And thus Linglun has not taken notice of me. If you want to see its nature of transcending winter [harshness], You should look at it in the snow.

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但恨非嶰谷 伶倫未見知 欲見凌冬質 當為雪中看55

Of these poems on the bamboo, the one by Liu Xiaoxian 劉孝先 (late fifth to early sixth centuries) may be seen as one of the earliest examples of the practice of jixing in the yongwu tradition: The bamboo grows outside in the empty wilderness, Caressing the clouds, soaring to a hundred xun high. No one would recognize its noble character. In vain, it can only hold abreast its aspiration. It is ashamed to bear the stains of Consort Xiang’s tears, Abashed to be in the “High Gong” tune for the zither. Who would turn it into a long flute? It will then play the dragon sound for him,

竹生空野外 梢雲聳百尋 無人賞高節 徒自抱貞心 恥染湘妃淚 羞入上宮琴 誰能製長笛 當為吐龍吟56

Undeniably, the function of the subject is the common point in Dongfang’s and Chen’s poems. The imagery of a certain object carries certain personified meanings,57 In Chen’s poem, bamboo is taken by Linglun as material for a flute. According to various records, wutong was an excellent wood for psaltery (se 瑟).58 With the literary tradition in mind, we can thus be sure that Dongfang wrote about himself as a wutong tree that is made into a psaltery. As a matching poem, Chen’s has a line (1. 21) in which the flute, made of bamboo (the poet himself), joins in unison with the psaltery. There is no evidence to support the claim that Chen’s appreciation and advocacy of this lyrical mode was an attack on court poetry; rather, Chen’s composition was fittingly categorized as a court poem. The flourishing of yongwu poetry during the late seventh and early eighth centuries was indicative of the trend of compiling encyclopaedias. Li Jiao’s 李嶠 (ca. 645–ca. 714) “One hundred poems on objects” were the most typical product of this trend. In this set 55  YWLJ, 89.1552. 56  Liu, “Zhushi” 竹詩, YWLJ, 89.1553. 57  For a discussion of this theory see Pauline Yu, The Reading of Imagery in the Chinese Poetic Tradition, pp. 169–70. 58   Y WLJ, 88.1516, quoting Shijing 252, Shiyi shu 詩義疏 commentary.

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of poems, we find a poem on the wutong and one on the bamboo.59 Chen’s praise of Dongfang might have been for the latter’s use of wutong as a presentation of the poet’s feelings, unlike Li’s poems written as a model for poetry composition and thus embodying no lyrical element. The repertoire of topics for yongwu poetry provided choices for Dongfang, who ended up writing yongwu rhapsodies (fu) on creatures such as the looper caterpillar, the worm and the toad. Dongfang also included his personal feelings or judgment in these works. This had in fact been customary from the earliest times until the Southern dynasties and Early Tang.60 Chen Ziang’s poetry came from the same poetic tradition. In his Long Bamboo the allegorical meaning is, as Stephen Owen observes, that the bamboo being turned into a flute stands for Chen’s court life.61 This reading fits the historical context: Dongfang had been recruited to court before Chen and was now at a higher post. Chen was now joining him in unison, i.e., the court, and aspiring to a higher title. Another contradictory factor of court poetry revealed in the poetic activity between Chen and Dongfang discourages us from recognizing Chen’s achievement in this alleged “poetic reform”. The contradiction involved in Chen praising Zhang Hua and He Shao, two middle-level poets, may be solved once we understand that Chen’s advocacy was not so much radical as a compromise. Youxian poetry was the favourite of Zhengshi poets, and was later favoured by Zhang Hua and He Shao. It is not necessary to allocate any specific period to the style that Chen Ziang yearned for but in his “Preface” and the poem under consideration he revealed his interest in the youxian genre. The theme common to Xiao Shi 蕭史 and Nongyu 弄玉 of youxian poetry is seen quite frequently in Zhang Hua’s poetry. Only a few of He Shao’s poems are extant, but we see in them a major interest in the youxian genre. Below is He Shao’s Poem on a Roaming Transcendent (Youxian shi 遊仙詩). It is a good example of how Chen Ziang achieved, or inherited, this genre.

59  Ge, “Chuangzuo fanshi de tichang he Chu Sheng Tang shi de puji: cong ‘Li Jiao baiyong’ tanqi” 創作範式的提倡和初盛唐詩的普及一從《李嶠百 詠》 談起, in her Shiguo gaochao, pp. 236–40. QTS, 60.715, 718. 60   Q TW, 208.5b–7a. Taguchi Nobuo argues that Dongfang’s composition of these fu reflects the prevalence of compilation of encyclopaedias. See Taguchi, “Tōhō Kyū”, 23. The use of these creatures as expressions of didactic or lyrical ideas is found in, for example, Bao Zhao, “Chihuo fu” 尺蠖賦 and “Feie fu” 飛蛾賦, Luo Binwang 駱賓王, “Yinghuo fu” 螢火賦. See Quan Songwen 全宋文, QSG, 46.7a; QTW, 197.2a–4b. 61  Owen, Early T’ang, p. 169.

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a re-evaluation of chen ziang ’ s “ manifesto of a poetic reform ”

Grass-green is the pine on the mound top; Straightly soaring is the cypress on the mountain height. Their glory and hue flourish in winter and summer; Their roots and radicles do not wither and wilt. A worthy gentleman possessing a chaste heart, Inspired by these creatures, thinks about roaming afar. He expresses his aspiration on the edge of the dark clouds; He extends his vision towards the precipice and rocks. He admired Wangzi Qiao of the past, Who accompanied the Daoist and took leave from the Yi and Luo [Rivers]. Aspiring and aerial, he soared beyond cliffy marchmounts; Flying and flitting, he rode on the volant crane. He exhausted his journey and left behind the myriad li. How could he have missed the joy of those mortal people? For a long time, I have admired the immortal beings. In ecstasy, my heart is faint and far away.

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青青陵上松 亭亭高山柏 光色冬夏茂 根柢無凋落 吉士懷貞心 悟物思遠託 揚志玄雲際 流目矚巖石 羨昔王子喬 友道發伊洛 迢遞陵峻岳 連翩御飛鶴 抗跡遺萬里 豈戀生民樂 長懷慕仙類 械然心綿邀62

Bearing in mind what Chen has to say in his “Preface”, it comes as no surprise to detect in He’s poem the same analogical mode as Chen employed in his Long Bamboo. The objects in He’s poem analogized as the poet are the pine and cypress. He Zhuo 何焯 (1661–1722) suggests that He Shao’s poem might have been written for Sima Yu 司馬遹 (posthumously known as Minhuai Taizi 愍懷 太子), who was killed by Empress Jia 賈后 (256–300).63 This reading can never be proven, however, due to lack of evidence. In addition, no one knows whether He’s poem was composed as a political allegory. What Chen Ziang’s poem refers to also remains mysterious, although his bamboo carries the symbolic meaning of “sternness” or “chastity”, according to poetic tradition. If his aim had been to demonstrate the use of metaphor and allegory, as he claimed in his “Preface” he would do, the poem is a failure because it lacks recondite reference and allegorical devices. Unlike some of his Moved by My Encountering 62  XQHWJ, 649; WX, 21.22a/b, in which the poem is attributed to He Jingzong 何敬宗 instead of He Jingzu 何敬祖 (zi of He Shao). The “six commentators” and the compilers of the Chuxue ji both gloss it as He Shao (variant 何邵 in Chuxue ji), Chuxue ji, 3.59. 63  He Zhuo, Yimen dushu ji 義門讀書記 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987), 46.895. Jinshu, 53.1461–2.

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poems, which have been given a topical reading because it is believed Chen had to be obscure about his political referent to avoid trouble,64 Long Bamboo reveals no obvious motive for presenting a potentially perilous idea in a highly ambiguous way.

The Poetic Innovation

If the “Preface” itself was a means to articulate Chen Ziang’s poetic reform, the contradiction in his statement and between his advocacy and his practice in Long Bamboo is puzzling. The “Preface” and his Long Bamboo were innovative in that they restored the youxian-yongwu poetic style. In his Moved by My Encountering poems, he restored Ruan Ji’s style, or a return to antiquity in a more general sense. These two accomplishments have long been confounded, resulting in Chen receiving excessive credit from the very first. Lu Cangyong wrote his preface to Chen Ziang’s posthumous works in a panegyric tone because of an ethical imperative. Here is how Lu praised Chen: When the Way had been declining for five hundred years, there came Mister Chen. His taboo name was Ziang, zi Boyu. He was a native of Shu Province. He rose from the regions of the Yangtze and Hanshui Rivers (eastern Sichuan Province). Like a tiger he gloated over the whole Xia (i.e., the Tang Empire). He stood out through a thousand antiquities. He completely subdued the waves of decadence. All under heaven, without exception, underwent a change in content and pattern [in literature]. 道喪五百歲而得陳君。君諱子昂，字伯玉，蜀人也。崛起江漢，虎視函夏。 卓立千古，橫制頹波。天下翕然，質文一變.65

This paragraph is preceded by Lu Cangyong’s criticism of Shangguan Yi 上官儀 (608–665), who is regarded as a representative of poetic decadence of the Early Tang. Lu’s praise of Chen Ziang is an exaggeration. This kind of exaggeration had actually become a ritual of flattery by Chen’s time. We find the same flattering words in Chen’s writings about Commissioner Cui of the Ministry of War 崔兵曹使. Chen praises Cui’s great talent and comments, “the fine literary

64  Chen Hang 陳沆, (1786–1826), Shi bixing jian 詩比興箋 (Shanghai guji, 1981), 3.97–98. 65  Lu Cangyong, “Chen Boyu wenji xu” 序, CBYWJ, “xu”, 1b–2a.

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legacy has not been lost” (siwen weisang 斯文未喪).66 The same phrase is used in his preface to a set of banquet poetry in which he praises highly his own poetic compositions and those of two other participants.67 This phrase was probably a courteous cliché in the Early Tang. Lu Cangyong’s compliment to Chen had the same function as “flattering the grave” (yumu 諛墓), as I have discussed elsewhere,68 because he wrote this preface to a friend who had passed away. Chen Ziang’s influence on Early Tang literature was certainly far less significant than Lu Cangyong suggests. “Court poetry” reached a climax soon after Chen’s death. Two products of this period mark the nadir of poetic decadence: the Jinglong wenguan ji 景龍文館記 and the Zhuying ji 珠英集, collections of poems on imperial outings, banquets and court activities of officials, etc. Regulated verse had been taking shape before the eighth century and may have been included in the examination syllabus. Poets had to adhere to this format and exercise their skills in poetic composition.69 If the “content and pattern” of poetry had been changed, as Lu claims, this must have been a change toward the artful regulated verse format, rather than a return to antiquity, which is what Chen is reputed to have advocated. The flattering sentiment evident in Lu Cangyong’s praise of Chen Ziang appeared again as an imperative decades after Lu composed this preface. If Lu’s statement was true, we would find it contradicted when reading Li Yangbing’s 李陽冰 (ca. 762) preface to Li Bai’s Collection of the Thatched Hall (Caotangji 草堂集), in which the author has the following to say about Li Bai’s poetic innovations: Lu Cangyong, the Yellow Gate Attendant, said, “Reminder Chen (i.e., Chen Ziang) completely subdued the waves of decadence. All under heaven, without exception, underwent a change in content and pattern [in literature].” [However], the poetic style of our time still bears the 66  Chen, “Qiuri yu Jingzhoufu Cui Bingcaoshi yan”, CZAJ, 2.38. This piece is not found in CBYWJ. 67  “Hui Shangren fang jian Qi Shaotushi ru jingfu xu”, CBYWJ, 7.18a; CZAJ, 7.162. 68  T. W. K. Chan, “Literary Criticism and the Ethics of Poetry: The ‘Four Elites of the Early Tang’ and Pei Xingjian”, T’ang Studies, 15–16 (1997–98), 158–9, quoting Yao Darong 姚大榮 who uses the phrase in his discussion of Zhang Yue’s 張說 (667–731) flattery of Yang Jiong 揚炯 (650–ca. 694) in Zhang’s stele inscription for the “spirit way” leading to Yang’s tomb. 69  Based on her analysis of the poems in the Zhuying ji, Jia Jinhua argues that the anthology is a landmark for the final establishment of regulated verse. Ge Xiaoyin, however, questions this dating and states that it is impossible to establish the exact time. See Jia, “The ‘Pearl Scholars’ and the Final Establishment of Regulated Verse”, T’ang Studies, 14 (1996), 1–20; Ge, “Chuangzuo fanshi”, pp. 238–9.

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characteristics of Liang and Chen palace-style poetry. Our lord (i.e., Li Bai) initiated a great change, and decadence was completely gone. The present and old collections of literary works ceased to circulate. Only the compositions of our lord stretched out over the six directions. Perhaps he can be referred to as a formidable match for the Creator.70 This passage contains some important messages. First, we find similar claims in almost every period, such as those for Pei Ziye 裴子野(469–530, or 467–518), Zhong Rong and Emperor Taizong 太宗 of Tang (r. 626–649). This phenomenon represents a constant need for poetic reform. Second, Li Yangbing did not agree that Chen Ziang had successfully checked the “decadent waves”. This was not achieved until Li Bai had made his great contributions. Such statements are seen repeatedly in various prefaces to individual collected works. Third, all writers of this kind of preface, without exception, adopt an exaggerated tone so as to render the highest credit to the person they are addressing.71 Therefore, they must first denigrate the previous tradition so as to maximize the contrast between the good and the bad. Only then can the achievement of the man to whom their praise is addressed stand out. In addition, Lu Cangyong intentionally did not mention Chen Ziang’s participation in the three banquets hosted by Gao Zhengchen and Chen’s composition of a poem entitled On the Night of the Upper Prime Festival, Imitating Little Yu’s Style (Shangyuanye xiao Xiao Yu ti 上元夜效小庾體).72 Lu attacked the poetry of Yu Xin 庾信 (513–581) because it was seen as representing poetic decadence. Here is another contradictory point that may diminish Chen’s role as a poetic reformer.73 Lu might have been attacking the inane and ornate poetry of his own time, when the style of Shen Quanqi and Song Zhiwen was most in favour. If this is the case, then Lu deserves more credit as an innovator than Chen has received for his unwitting, reputed “innovation”, because Lu

70  Qu and Zhu, Li Bai ji jiaozhu, p. 1789. 71  Yang Jiong praises Lu Zhaolin and Wang Bo for their “reform” of the Longshuo style, and gives Wang great credit for “cleaning up the old-established ornate style in one morning.” See Yang, “Wang Bo ji xu”, QTW, 191.12a/b. 72   C ZAJ, “buyi”, 234. “Upper Prime Festival” 上元節 is the fifteenth day of the first month in the lunar calendar. 73  Lu, “Chen Boyu wenji xu”, 1b. Takagi Masakazu observes that Chen was first among court poets in his early career. He gives Chen’s banquet composition “Zhuwei fu” 麈尾賦 and his contributions to Gao Zhenchen’s gatherings as examples. See Takagi, “Chin Sugō to shi no kakushin” 陳子昂と詩の革新, Yoshikawa Hakushi taikyū kinen Chūgokugaku ronshū 吉川博士退休記念中国学論集 (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1968), pp. 359–60.

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directly censured contemporary decadence by reiterating, accentuating and somewhat overstating Chen’s achievements. Of the Tang writers of prefaces to individual collected works compiled posthumously, Yan Zhenqing 顏真卿 (709–784) may be relatively objective. In one preface, he had the same imperative to offer accolades to Sun Ti 孫逖 (696– 761), a deceased colleague who had once promoted him. However, unlike Lu Cangyong and Li Yangbing, Yan argued that it was not necessary that a great writer arrived with or initiated a great age. Rather, Yan continued, individual writers arose in accordance with the natural great cycle. With this understanding, Yan insightfully criticized Lu’s excessive praise of Chen’s achievement in checking the trend toward decadence.74

The Innovator Re-defined

The motivation of Lu Cangyong and Chen Ziang in their official careers is a major factor in our re-evaluation of Chen’s innovations. Why is it recorded that Chen frequently made the acquaintance of high officials (lidi qungong 歷抵群公) when he first arrived in the capital?75 Why did he maintain this practice of forming associations with high officials? What was his intention in claiming to advocate a “return to antiquity”? Chen’s inaccurate account of the poetic tradition of the Six Dynasties was pointed out as early as the mid Tang. Apart from Yan Zhenqing, Jiaoran 皎然 (720–between 793 and 798) also strongly disagreed with Chen’s and Lu’s views on poetic decadence.76 As mentioned above, Chen himself revealed an insoluble ambivalence in his work. This ambivalence may be explained by the constant struggle Chen had in his official career. Chen strove to gain the attention of high officials in order to make himself known. Although it may be apocryphal, an anecdote from the Accounts of Specially Strange Things (Duyizhi 獨異志), attributed to Li Kang 李亢 (ca. late ninth century), reflects an important aspect of Chen’s personality. In this tale, Chen is said to have bought a zither at a very high price. When asked about it, he said that he played the zither well and would play it the following day. The next day, in front of a crowd, he lifted up the zither and threw it aside, then made a speech about his writing talent. He also invited famous 74  Yan Zhenqing, “Shangshu Xingbu shilang zeng Shangshu youpuye Sun Ti Wengong ji xu” 尚書刑部侍郎贈尚書右僕射孫逖文公集序, QTW, 337.11a/b. 75  Lu Cangyong, “Chenshi biezhuan” 陳氏別傳, in CBYWJ, “rulu”, 11b. 76  Yan Zhenqing, “Shangshu Xingbu shilang”, 337.11a. Li Zhuangying 李壯鷹, comm., Shishi jiaozhu 詩式校注 (Ji’nan: Qi-Lu, 1987), 3.162.

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people to his home for a banquet, at which he distributed his writings to the guests. In this way he gained fame overnight.77 In political life, Chen presented numerous memorials to Empress Wu. These memorials have been used in studies of Chen as proof of his righteousness and competence. But why did he do it so enthusiastically, especially during the reign of a usurper of the Tang? The traditional view is that Chen did it to maintain his upright principles and, above all, for the people. Why, then, did he cry and compose the famous Song on My Ascending to the Youzhou Terrace (Deng Youzhoutai ge 登幽州台歌) when he was ignored by Wu Youyi 武攸宜, Prince of Jian’an 建安王? All of this can be satisfactorily accounted for by reference to the vogue for “importuning an audience with high officials” (ganye 干謁) and Chen’s eagerness to impress his superiors. The most direct and effective way to achieve this goal was to show off one’s writing skills and to sell one’s distinctive talent and insights.78 Should we not be aware of all of these factors when examining the role of Chen in his time? Lu Cangyong’s personality is illustrated by the sobriquet “The recluse who follows the imperial chariot” (suijia yinshi 隨駕隱士), given him by his contemporaries. Once, when Sima Chengzhen 司馬承禎 (647–735) visited the court and was about to leave, Lu Cangyong pointed at Mount Zhongnan and said to Sima: “This mountain has many good points.” Sima gave him a sarcastic response: “In my humble opinion, it is a shortcut to official life.” This is the provenance of the proverb “the Zhongnan shortcut [to success]” 終南捷徑, referring to someone who pretends to be a high-minded recluse in order to gain fame and to progress in official life. Sima, who clearly knew of Lu by reputation, spoke these words pointedly, and embarrassed Lu. In dynastic histories, Lu is said to have been arrogant, lavish and debauched after he achieved high position. That is the reason for the historians’ comment: “His early good conduct had been totally diminished.”79 Lu Cangyong of all the so-called “Ten Friends from the Ultramundane” 方外十友 set the benchmark for being ambitious to gain high office. Once he has been stripped of his veneer of Daoism and reclusion, his eagerness to achieve high position is completely exposed. He was at the centre of the circle 77   Taiping guangji 太平廣記 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1961), 179.1331. An abridged version of this story is recorded in You Mao 尤袤 (1127–1194), Quan Tang shihua 全唐詩話, in Lidai shihua, 1.67–68. 78  Chan, “In Search of Jade”, pp. 99–109. Michigami Katsuya 道上克哉, “Chin Sugō no kōyū kankei: hōgai no jūyū o megutte” 陳子昂の交友関係―方外の十友をめぐって, Ritsumeikan bungaku 立命館文学, 430–32 (1981), 499. 79   Xin Tangshu 新唐書, 123.4275.

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of famous court poets such as Du Shenyan and Song Zhiwen during the early eighth century.80 When such a person, a good friend of Chen’s, pens a preface to Chen’s works, what else should we expect and be aware of? Despite his motive not being to reform, a role he has nevertheless been credited with, Chen Ziang still deserves credit for advocating fenggu in his “Preface” and for his efforts to demonstrate the ideal lyrical style and xingji mode in Long Bamboo. He implemented the definition of fenggu given by Liu Xie who, in his poem, emphasized both expression of one’s feelings and the use of rhetorical devices.81 In this regard, Chen’s Moved by My Encountering poems are inferior to Long Bamboo because they lack the necessary artifice to qualify as the ideal fenggu style. By unanimous agreement his Moved by My Encountering poems opened up a new era of Tang poetry by practicing restoration of the “ancient style”. Chen wrote in a different style when yongwu and the newly developed regulated verse form were in vogue. Therefore, he deserves to be known as an innovator in this respect.

80  Ge Xiaoyin, “Cong ‘Fangwai shiyou’ kan Daojiao dui chu Tang shanshuishi de yingxiang 從「方外十友」看道教對初唐山水詩的影響, in her Shiguo gaochao, pp. 65, 70. Michigami Katsuya, “Chin Sugō no kōyū” kankei” 485. 81   W XDL, 6.513–14. Liu Shipei defines the lineage from Zhuangzi to Ruan Ji and Ji Kang, and the xuanyan 玄言 poetry as “Southern writing” 南文. This style of writing pays less attention to rhetoric but stresses philosophy. Liu, “Nanbei wenxue butong lun” 南北文學 不同論, in Zhongguo jindai wenlun xuan 中國近代文論選, comp. Luo Genze 羅根澤 and Guo Shaoyu 郭紹虞 (Beijing: Renmin wenxue, 1962), pp. 574–5. Liu Xie, however, differentiates the poetry of this “Southern writing” (i.e., that of the Zhengshi and Left of the Jiang 江左) and that of Jin by the criterion of “colours” 采 (i.e., rhetoric) that the latter stresses. WXDL, 2.67. Zhong Rong’s understanding of the “wind and strength of the Jian’an” 建安風力 seems to stress the rhetoric, He assumes that Zhengshi was a decadent period, but there was a “resurrection of literary composition” in the Western Jin, represented by the poets proficient in a flashy style. From the Eastern Jin on, this “wind and strength of the Jian’an” had totally disappeared, Zhong ascribes this decadence to the “insipid and tasteless” xuanyan poetry. See Shipin, “preface”, p. 2.

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On Li Po Elling O. Eide Although Sinology is a field crowded with men and issues still untouched by the hand of modern scholarship, even Sinologists are often astonished to discover how little work has been done on the T’ang poet Li Po.* He and his contemporary, Tu Fu, are so closely associated, now so universally famous, that one tends to assume that these two, at least, have surely been “done” adequately for the present time. Yet, the abundance of rather careful Tu Fu scholarship is matched by a striking absence of serious Li Po material, and I suspect that no one in world literature has been so much read and so little analyzed. The fact is that since the commentary by Wang Ch’i (1696–1774), we have only a handful of significant contributions to Li Po studies: Arthur Waley’s short and rather unsympathetic biography, Erwin von Zach’s admirable but now dated translations, the invaluable though somewhat clumsy Kyoto concordance, the two useful volumes of essays and research material by Chan Ying published in Peking in 1957 and 1958, and now Kuo Mo-jo’s fresh and imaginative Li Po yü Tu Fu [Li Po and Tu Fu], the first scholarly book published in China since the Cultural Revolution. It is nice, of course, to have a writer whose appeal can survive the centuries without a mulch of annotation, and the critical neglect of Li Po does tell much about Chinese attitudes toward criticism and the man. In the little that has been written we find, for example, a kind of “homeopathic” critical approach that treats the subject matter in a fashion as carefree and bizarre as Li Po’s presumed personality, to give us a certain unlooked for measure of the poet in the critics’ eyes.1 Again, in what is written—and in the critics’ failure to write Source: “On Li Po,” in Arthur F. Wright and Denis Twitchett (eds.), Perspectives on the T’ang, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1973, 367–403. * For further discussion of the above and other works on Li Po, see the Bibliographical Note at the end of the chapter. 1  There is a measure of Li Po’s originality in the Li shih pien-i by the Ming scholar Chu Chien, who dismisses many of the best poems, most often finding them deficient in the very respects in which they are most excellent and original. The extent to which he seemed exotic can be judged by another essay, which argues that Li Po must have been a Nestorian Christian because he named one son “P’o-li” (“rock crystal”) and there is mention of a rockcrystal goblet in a Nestorian inscription. Similarly, admiration for the poem “The Road to Shu Is Hard” can be measured by the fact that two respected modern scholars, Yü P’ing-po and

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, ���9 | doi:��.��63/9789004380165_025

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on li po

695

more—there is reflected the Confucian, and now Marxist, moral judgment that while Tu Fu is good for you, Li Po, in all probability, is not. Yet important questions have been neither answered nor asked, and although Wang Ch’i and his two predecessors have identified most of the place-names and allusions, the appreciation of Li Po, as man or poet, is no deeper or more firmly grounded today than it was at the close of the T’ang dynasty. One of the questions that has long intrigued me—a basic question about the nature of Li Po’s accomplishment—is, simply, what was it about Li Po that so excited Tu Fu’s admiration? Why, indeed, was he one of the very few Chinese poets to be widely and immediately recognized as a genius by his contemporaries? Needless to say, the traditional view that they admired him because he was a genius and that he was a genius because he was supernaturally inspired is no more helpful than the explanation that his poems seem powerful and spontaneous because he was a passionate man who wrote spontaneously. This, clearly, is mistaking effect for cause, and I am fond of pointing out that “spontaneous” poetry is not written spontaneously any more than fast music is written in a hurry. The publication of Dylan Thomas’s workbooks nicely checked our own tendency to make a similar mistake about a Western poet, and Yeats made the point well in “Adam’s Curse”: We sat together at one summer’s end, That beautiful mild woman, your close friend, And you and I, and talked of poetry. I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.’ To probe the question of how Li Po achieved effects worthy of Tu Fu’s admiration and, further, to identify those effects more clearly, I have been reading Li Po’s poems, attempting to use a rigorous philological method while employing the same sensors and permitting myself the same reactions that I would allow when reading English poems. That is to say, I start with my own somewhat simplistic definition of poetry as “the art of putting language under tension to make the pieces vibrate so that the whole will say more than one has any right to expect,” and I then look to see what Li Po is doing to get maximum vibration from his language.

Li Ch’ang-chih, continue to insist that it must have been written to dissuade the emperor from flight to Shu. A great poem should mark a great occasion.

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696

eide

Thus far, I am satisfied with the results, for the analysis has in no way fragmented the poems or killed the poetry. On the contrary, it has shown them to be extremely well knit, meaningful, and often moving. Here, I should like to discuss three of the poems that are, I believe, considerably better, more complex, and more meaningful than has generally been supposed. When we see what is said and something of how it is said, I think we can also begin to see just what it was that so dazzled Tu Fu and his contemporaries. The transcription that accompanies the Chinese texts is Karlgren’s reconstructed T’ang dynasty pronunciation, which contributes to an appreciation of the poems by revealing a great deal about their structure. The translations, Chinese texts, and tone-pattern schematizations are divided into stanzas according to the rhyme changes revealed by that transcription: a new rhyme, a new stanza. In what follows I shall not explain every allusion and term; rather, I shall concentrate almost entirely on techniques, relationships, facts, and speculations that have not previously been touched upon by the commentators. In the notes Li Po’s compositions will be identified by their numbers in the Kyoto concordance, and for my basic text I use the facsimile of the unique Sung edition, also found in the Kyoto index series. For the transcription of ancient Turkish, I follow V. M. Nadeljaev et al., Drevnetjurkskij slovar’ (Leningrad: Nauka, 1969). “My Trip in a Dream to the Lady of Heaven Mountain” is a good starting point because it is the easiest of the three poems, and because it provides examples of some half-dozen of Li Po’s most characteristic devices for getting the most out of his language. David Hawkes has already called attention to the way he enriches the texture of his poem by drawing on Taoist mysticism and other shamanistic or supernatural elements found in earlier poetry.2 Indeed, with its flight through space theme, it belongs to one of the most venerable traditions in Chinese literature. Most interesting, however, is the way Li Po weaves the supernatural, natural, philosophical, and literary elements into a net that involves the reader in the act of creativity—reflecting that a line can be taken in this way or in that and savoring the embellishments of sound and allusion, he becomes a participant in the performance of the poem. 2  David Hawkes, “The Supernatural in Chinese Poetry,” The Far East: China and Japan (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1961), pp. 311–24. Many of the images in this poem correspond with shamanistic techniques and symbols analyzed by Mircea Eliade in Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy, Bollingen Series, no. 76 (New York: Pantheon, 1964), e.g. dream, flight through space, ascending a ladder, entering trance and awakening, journey to the center of the earth, music, confluence of spirits, and the world tree (the Rooster of Heaven perches in a kind of world tree).

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697

on li po 夢

遊

天

姥

mi̯ung-

i̯ǝ̯u

t‘ien

muo: ṣǎn

山

別

東

魯

b‘i̯ät tung luo:

諸

公

tśi̯wo kung

1

海

客

談

瀛

洲

2

χậi:

k‘ɐk

d‘âm

i̯äng

tśi̯ǝ̯u

煙

濤

微

茫

信

難

求

˙͘ien

d‘âu

mjwe̯i

mwâng

si̯ěn-

nân

g‘i̯ǝ̯u

3

越

人

語

天

姥

4

ji̯wɐt

ńźi̯ěn

ngi̯wo:

t‘ien

muo:

雲

霓

明

滅

或

可

覩

ji̯uən

ngiei

mi̯wɐng mi̯ät

ɣwək

k‘â:

tuo:

5

天

姥

連

天

向

天

橫

6

t‘ien

muo:

li̯än

t‘ien

χi̯ang-

t‘ien

ɣwɐng

勢

拔

五

岳

掩

赤

城

7

śi̯äi-

b‘uât

nguo:

ngåk

˙͘iä̯ m:

tś‘i̯äk

źi̯äng

天

台

四

萬

八

千

丈

8

t‘ien

t‘ậi

si-

mi̯wɐn-

pwǎt

ts‘ien

d̑ ‘i̯ang:

對

此

欲

倒

東

南

傾

tuậi-

ts‘ie̯:

i̯wok

tâu-

tung

nậm

k‘i̯äng

9

我

欲

冥

搜

夢

吳

越

10

ngâ:

i̯wok

mieng

ṣi̯ǝ̯u

mi̯ung-

nguo

ji̯wɐt

一

夜

飛

度

鏡

湖

月

͘iě̯ t

i̯a-

pjwe̯i

d‘uo-

ki̯ɐng-

ɣuo

ngi̯wɐt

11

湖

月

昭

我

影

12

ɣuo

ngi̯wɐt

tśi̯äu-

ngâ:

͘iɐ̯ ng:

送

我

至

剡

谿

13

sung-

ngâ:

tśi-

źi̯äm:

k‘iei

謝

公

宿

處

今

尙

在

14

zi̯a-

kung

si̯uk

tś‘i̯wo-

ki̯əm

źi̯ang-

dz‘âi:

淥

水

蕩

漾

淸

猿

啼

15

luk

świ:

d‘âng:

i̯ang-

ts‘i̯äng

ji̯wɐn

d‘iei

脚

著

謝

公

屐

16

ki̯ak

d̑ ‘i̯ak

zi̯a-

kung

g‘i̯ɐk

身

登

靑

雲

梯

śi̯ěn

təng

ts‘ieng

ji̯uən

t‘iei

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698

eide

17

半

壁

見

海

日

18

puân-

piek

kien-

χậi:

ńźi̯ět

空

中

k‘ung

tȋ u̯ ng

19

千

20

ts‘ien

聞

天

雞

mi̯uən

t‘ien

kiei

巖

萬

轉

不

定

mi̯wɐn-

tȋ w ̯ än:

路

ngam

luo-

puət

d‘ieng-

迷

花

倚

石

忽

已

瞑

miei

χwa

͘ie̯:

źi̯äk

χuət

i:

mieng-

21

熊

咆

龍

吟

殷

巖

泉

22

ji̯ung

b‘au

li̯wong

ngi̯əm

͘iə̯ n:

ngam

dz‘i̯wän

傈

深

林

兮

驚

層

巔

23

li̯ět

śi̯əm

li̯əm

ɣiei

ki̯ɐng

dz‘əng

tien

楓

靑

靑

兮

欲

雨

24

pi̯ung

ts‘ieng

ts‘ieng

ɣiei

i̯wok

ji̯u:

水

澹

澹

兮

生

煙

świ:

d‘âm-

d‘âm-

ɣiei

ṣɐng

͘ien

25

列

缺

霹

靂

26

li̯ät

k‘i̯wät

p‘iek

liek

丘

巒

崩

摧

27

k‘i̯ǝ̯u

luân

pəng

dz‘uậi

洞

天

石

扇

28

d‘ung-

t‘ien

źi̯äk

śi̯än-

訇

然

中

開

29

χwɛng

ńźi̯än

靑

冥

浩

蕩

不

見

底

30

ts‘ieng

mieng

ɣâu:

d‘âng:

puət

kien-

tiei:

日

月

照

耀

金

銀

臺

ńźi̯ět

ngi̯wɐt

tśi̯äu-

i̯äu-

ki̯əm

ngiěn

d‘ậi

31

霓

爲

衣

兮

風

爲

馬

32

ngiei

jwie̯

͘je̯i

ɣiei

pi̯ung

jwie̯

ma:

雲

之

君

兮

ji̯uən

tśi

tȋ u̯ ng

k‘ậi

ki̯uən

ɣiei

紛

紛

而

來

下

p‘i̯uən

p‘i̯uən

ńźi

lậi

ɣa:

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699

on li po 33

虎

鼓

瑟

兮

鸞

囘

車

34

χuo:

kuo:

ṣi̯ɛt

ɣiei

luân

ɣuậi

tś‘i̯a

仙

之

人

兮

列

如

麻

35

śi̯än

tśi

ńźi̯ěn

ɣiei

li̯ät

ńźi̯wo

ma

忽

魂

悸

以

魄

動

36

χuət

ɣuən

g‘jwi-

i:

p‘ɐk

d‘ung:

恍

驚

起

而

長

嗟

37

χwâng:

ki̯ɐng

k‘ji:

ńźi

d̑ ‘i̯ang

tsi̯a

惟

覺

時

之

枕

席

38

i̯wi

kåk

źi

tśi

tśi̯əm:

zi̯äk

失

向

來

之

煙

霞

śi̯ět

χiang-

lậi

tśi

͘ien

ɣa

39

世

間

行

樂

亦

如

此

40

śi̯äi-

kǎn

ɣɐng

lâk

i̯äk

ńźi̯wo

ts‘ie̯:

古

來

萬

事

東

流

水

kuo:

lậi

mi̯wɐn-

dz‘i-

tung

li̯ǝ̯u

świ:

41

別

君

去

兮

何

時

還

42

b‘i̯ät

ki̯uən

k‘i̯wo-

ɣiei

ɣâ

źi

ɣwan

且

放

白

鹿

靑

崖

間

43

ts‘i̯a:

pi̯wang- b‘ɐk

luk

ts‘ieng

ngai

kǎn

須

行

卽

騎

訪

名

44

si̯u

ɣɐng

tsi̯ək

g‘jie̯

p‘i̯wang- mi̯äng

ṣǎn

安

能

摧

眉

͘ân

nəng

dz‘uậi

mji

折

腰

事

權

貴

kjwe̯i-

45

山

tśi̯ät

͘iä̯ u

dz‘i-

g‘i̯wän

暫

樂

酒

色

凋

朱

顏

dz‘âm-

lâk

tsi̯ǝ̯u:

ṣi̯ək

tieu

tśi̯u

ngan

My Trip in a Dream to the Lady of Heaven Mountain: A Farewell to Several Gentlemen of Eastern Lu 1 2

Seafarers tell of a magic island, Hard to find in the vague expanse of mist and towering waves.

3 4

In Yüeh men talk of the Lady of Heaven, Glimpsed by chance, dissolving and glowing, amid the rainbows and clouds.

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5 6 7 8

The Lady of Heaven, joining the heavens, faces the Heavenly Span, Her majesty tops the Five Summits and shadows Vermilion Wall. Heavenly Terrace rises up forty-eight thousand staves, Yet tips southeast beside her as if it wanted to fall.

9 10

Wanting to probe the mystery in a dream of Wu and Yüeh, Through a night I flew across the moon on Mirror Lake.

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

The moon on the lake projected my shadow, Escorting me to the River Shan. The place where Duke Hsieh once retired stands to the present day; The lucent waters swiftly purl and shrill-voiced monkeys cry. Duke Hsieh’s cleated clogs on my feet, I climbed the ladder of blue clouds. From the slope I could see the sun in the ocean; From space I could hear the Rooster of Heaven.

19 20

A thousand cliffs, ten thousand turns, a road I cannot define; Dazzled by flowers, I rest on a stone and darkness suddenly falls.

21

Bears grumbling, dragons humming, fountains rumbling on the mountainside. Quaking before a deep forest. Frightened by impending spires. Green, green the gum trees. On the verge of rain. Rough, rough the river. Breaking in spray.

22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Flashing, cracking, roaring, clapping, Hills and ridges crumble and fall. The stone gates of the Grotto Heavens Boom and crash as they open wide. The Blue Dark is a rolling surge where bottom cannot be seen, Where sun and moon throw glittering light on platforms of silver and gold.

31 32

Rainbows are his clothing. His horses are the wind. The Lord Within the Clouds appears. All things swirl as he descends.

33 34

Tigers strumming zithers. Coaches phoenix drawn. The immortals now assemble. Arrayed like rows of hemp. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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on li po 35 36 37 38

With the sudden excitement of my soul, my vital force is roused; I rise distraught and startled, long and drawn my sighs. There is only the pillow and mat on waking; Gone are the mists of a moment ago.

39 40

The pleasures found within the world are also just this way; Ten thousand affairs out of the past are an easterly flowing stream.

41 42 43 44

Parting now I leave you. When shall I return? A white deer will soon be loosed within the blue-green shores; When I must go, I shall ride away to visit the peaks of renown. How could I ever furrow my brow and bend my back in service of rank and power? To hurry the pleasures of love and wine wilts man’s youth away.

45

How shall the poem be read? On how many levels? Li Po delights in playing with levels of meaning, and the technique is particularly appropriate here, where he is also playing with real and unreal worlds. The poem is a technicolor dream and a rhapsody about a real mountain; a frolic with allusions and word magic and an exercise in rejuvenating an ancient theme; a discourse on timeless eternity and the carefully clocked narration of a single day. It is also an essay in Taoist metaphysics, a statement of personal belief, and a magnificent description of a mountain thunderstorm. Probably no one will miss the progression from night to day that parallels Li Po’s progress up the mountain. But note also the progression of the storm: sunlight, gathering clouds, wind, rain, thunder and lightning, and finally clearing with rainbows and the reemergence of the animals and birds. The darkening of trees before the storm is nicely observed, and earlier usage gives gum trees special association with rain; just as dragons and tigers have associations with gathering clouds and rising wind. In all, this description of a thunderstorm seems to compare very well with the highly praised storm in the mu‘allaqa of Imr al-Qays (fl. c. 530), who was apparently also a wanderer addicted to wine, women, and poetry in the Li Po manner.3 This blending of levels and blurring of distinctions between real and unreal worlds makes for effective poetry and must have been one of the characteristics to excite Tu Fu’s admiration. It is also a reminder that the poem is no mere exuberant outburst of song. Indeed, it is somewhat surprising to discover that Li Po, from whom we might expect and accept almost any fantasy, 3  See A. J. Arberry, The Seven Odes: The First Chapter in Arabic Literature (London: Allen and Unwin, 1957), p. 66. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

702

eide

is so careful to maintain a balance between the real and unreal. As if he were providing his reader with justifications for the suspension of disbelief, he often reconciles poetic license with rationality—as he does here by setting his fantasy within a dream and permitting us to explain the flight through space as the water-reflected moon’s projection of his shadow.4 A better appreciation of this characteristic feature may have been one reason that Tu Fu and other good Confucians of the T’ang could accept Li Po more wholeheartedly than could the scholars of later dynasties. With the main features of the poem in mind, we might look back at the contribution made by literary allusion. (For a general analysis of this device, see chapter 12.) The two opening couplets are the first blocks in a structure full of echoes and a sly reminder of an important precedent for one of the dominant themes: the exploration of worlds. Like this poem, “The Rhymeprose on a Trip to the Heavenly Terrace Mountains” by Sun Ch’o (c. 310–97) also opens with reference to mysteries on land and sea: Across the sea there are [the islands] of Fang-chang and P’eng-lai, On land [the ranges] Ssu-ming and T’ien-t’ai. Both these are where the mystic sages roamed and taught, Where ghostly sylphs, encaverned, dwelt.5 From this, Sun Ch’o proceeds with an exploration of mountains that is at the same time an exploration of Buddhist-flavored Neo-Taoist metaphysics. In the present poem we find Li Po improving upon Sun’s lines to introduce his own geometaphysical explorations; and any suspicion that it is all coincidence is removed by line 9, where he again borrows from Sun Ch’o, using the rare and rather technical term ming-sou, which I have translated as “to probe the mystery.”6 Farther along in the poem, the T’ang reader must have been pleased to note the echoes of the poet Hsieh Ling-yün (385–433) and the click-clack 4  Cf. the Kyoto concordance, nos. 502, 578, and 636. 5  Quoted from Richard B. Mather, “The Mystical Ascent of the T’ien-t’ai Mountains: Sun Ch’o’s Υu-t’ien-t’ai-shan fu,” Monumenta Serica 20 (1961): 234–35. 6  Here, I follow the Ho-yüeh ying-ling chi, hereafter Ho-yüeh, notable for its interesting variants, as I do also for the last line of this poem. All other texts I have seen ignore that variant and write, “It would mean that my heart and face would never be able to smile” (shih wo pu te k’ai hsin yen).To my knowledge the Ho-yüeh variant is the only instance in polite Chinese literature where the pleasures of wine and sex are mentioned together without some sort of reproving noise.

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703

on li po

­consonance (ki̯ak d̑‘i̯ak zi̯a- kung g‘i̯ɐk) in line 15 that underscores the reference to Hsieh’s mountain-climbing shoes. He might also have paused over line 6 to remember the opening of Hsiang Yü’s famous poem: “My strength could topple mountains, my energy covered the world.” But lines 5 and 8 contain the features most characteristic of Li Po and most deserving of our attention here. I sometimes detect in his poetry what, for want of a better word, might be called a “trigger”—a pun, a bit of strange syntax, or an unexpected word which, when recognized and “activated,” sets off a chain of associations alerting the reader to new levels of meaning and camouflaged allusions elsewhere in the poem. Line 5, as usually construed, is taken to say, “The Lady of Heaven, joining the heavens, stretches across the heavens.” But this reading requires a syntactic construction that is atypical of Li Po, and I suspect that we have, instead, one of his “triggers.” Slowing down to decide whether he likes the line’s three repetitions of “heaven,” the reader might recall the rather obscure constellation “Heavenly Span,” a group of eight stars in Cassiopoeia that is thought of as a bridge across the Milky Way. Just such a bridge would be necessary to reach the magic islands, located, as the Lieh-tzu tells us, in a ravine filled with the waters of the earth and the Milky Way.7 At the same time, the obscurity of this asterism is just what is needed to alert the reader so that he will give proper attention to what follows. Sun Ch’o’s high estimation of those mountains notwithstanding, the Heavenly Terrace reels back and tips southeast before the greater magic of the Lady of Heaven. We are, however, being asked to sense more than magic, for there is also cosmology and allusion here. The “T’ang wen” section of the Lieh-tzu, which tells us about the magic islands cut off by the waters of the Milky Way, also tells us about Kung-kung breaking the Pillars of Heaven, the celestial counterpart of the Heavenly Terrace, causing the earth and sky to tilt, with the result that, ever after, heavenly bodies have rolled toward the west, while the waters of the earth flow southeastward into the sea. The reader need not, of course, recall this Lieh-tzu story in order to follow the poem on at least one level, but he probably will recall it if he has proceeded with all his sensors out, seeking confirmation of his suspicions about the “Heavenly Span.” The recollection, then, will tend to confirm those suspicions, while simultaneously tightening the poem by setting up resonant associations between outwardly unrelated lines. It is, at the same time, noteworthy—and characteristic of Li Po—that these associations should be established by knotting together threads of allusion and reference in a common external source which 7  See A. C. Graham, The Book of Lieh-tzǔ (London: John Murray, 1960), p. 97.

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itself has some more general relevance to the poem.8 In this case, recollection of the Lieh-tzu chapter adds depth to the poem, since, like the poem on one level, it too is concerned with the concept of worlds within worlds. One might note, incidentally, that this cosmology also anticipates and “explains” line 40, thereby pumping a bit of juice back into that tired cliché about life being like an easterly flowing stream. Anticipation is only one of the ways Li Po revives clichés. He does it with parallelism in lines 14 and 15 of the next poem, balancing “green shadows” against “birds flying” to remind us that this “green” is “kingfisher green.” As if informed of Roman Jakobson’s observation that everything sequent is simile, he does it with juxtaposition in line 4 of the third poem, where the proximity of “orchid-strong jaw sinew”9 reactivates the sense of “cheeks” in ch’üan-ch’i, which is usually regarded simply as a mysterious term meaning “a fast horse.” A final noteworthy aspect of Li Po’s craft displayed in this poem is his manipulation of meter, tone, and rhyme to tighten the structure and reinforce the imagery and literary allusion. The usual observation that Tu Fu was a great master of regulated verse, while Li Po preferred a freer and less rigorous style seems to have led to a critical consensus that Li Po did not do anything particularly worthy of analysis in this area. But look at what is happening here: Immediately obvious are the six two-line stanzas punctuating the poem— all but one of which rhyme in the oblique tones. One also quickly notices lines like 22–24 and 31–34, recalling the patterns (and the word magic) of the “Nine Songs,” and others like 25–28 and 35–38, which are reminiscent of, and sometimes actually borrowed from, Han dynasty rhyme prose. At closer inspection, one then discovers the unusual tonic features of the poem, set forth here with “o” for the even tones and “x” for the oblique ones, while the rhyming lines are marked by “R.”

8  Cf. “The Road to Shu Is Hard” (no. 062), where the totemism of ancient Shu (Szechwan) and the snake and cuckoo symbolism all come to life after one is led back to the Hua-yang kuo chih and the lore of that area. 9  Although jaw sinews could easily be likened to the tough, flat leaves of the orchid (an Epidendrum), it is by no means certain that lan did mean “orchid” at the time this term was coined. If lan does denote a plant and is not simply a phonetic borrowing, it might be better to translate it as “boneset” (Eupatorium perfoliatutn), or “agrimony” (E. cannabinum). It is clear that in many early texts lan is often a member of the genus Eupatorium, perhaps E. Lindleyanum (= E. Chinense and E. Kirilowii?). Still, as Bretschneider notes, the occasional emphasis on great fragrance suggests than lan may have sometimes denoted “orchid” even in the Classics. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

705

on li po 1 2

xx ooo oooo xoo

R R

3 4

xo xox ooox xxx

R R

5 6 7 8

oxoo xoo xxxx xxo ooxx xox xxxx ooo

R R

9 10

xxoo xox xxox xox

R R

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

ox xxx xx xxo xoxx oxx xxxx ooo xx xox oo ooo xx xxx oo ooo

19 20

ooxx xxx ooxx xxx

R R

21 22 23 24

oooo xoo xooo ooo oooo xx xxxo oo

R R

25 26 27 28 29 30

xxxx oooo xoxx oooo ooxx xxx xxxx ooo

31 32

oooo oox oooo oooox

R

R R R R

R R R R R R

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706

eide

33 34 35 36 37 38

xxxo ooo oooo xoo xoxx xx xoxo oo oxoo xx xxoo oo

R R

39 40

xoox xox xoxx oox

R R

41 42 43 44 45

xoxo ooo xxxx ooo ooxo xoo ooooxo xox xxxx ooo

R R R

R R

R

In tonic poetry, as in music, monotony produces a tension that one seeks to resolve, perhaps unconsciously, by getting on to a contrasting or “resolving” tone as quickly as possible. Here, in lines 6–8, 11–15, and 31–32, for example, the long sequences of words in the same tonic category—particularly those in the less easily sustained oblique tones—are quite extraordinary, and one can hardly doubt that they contribute to the poem’s breathless pace, which seems so appropriate to the narration of events in a dream. Neither can one doubt that the effect was intentional, for even and oblique tones would be much more evenly dispersed in a random text, and we shall see Li Po using tones to achieve special but very different effects in the next poem.

1 2 3 4 5

廬

山

謠

寄

盧

侍

御

虛

舟

li̯wo

ṣân

i̯äu

kjie̯-

luo

źi-

ngi̯wo-

χi̯wo

tśi̯ə̯u

我

本

楚

狂

人

ngâ:

puən:

tṣ‘i̯wo:

g‘i̯wang

ńźi̯ěn

鳳

歌

笑

孔

丘

b‘i̯ung-

kâ

si̯äu-

k‘ung:

k‘i̯ə̯u

手

持

綠

玉

杖

d̑ ‘i̯ang:

śi̯ə̯u:

d̑ ‘i

li̯wok

ngi̯wok

朝

別

黃

鶴

樓

b‘i̯ät

ɣwâng

ɣâk

lə̯ u

五

嶽

尋

仙

不

辭

遠

nguo:

ngåk

zi̯əm

si̯än

puət

zi

ji̯wɐn:

tȋ ä̯ u

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707

on li po 6

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

16 17 18 19

20 21 22 23

一

生

好

入

名

山

遊

˙i̯ět

ṣɐng

χâu-

ńźi̯əp

mi̯äng

ṣǎn

i̯ə̯u

廬

山

秀

出

南

斗

傍

li̯wo

ṣǎn

si̯ə̯u-

tś‘i̯uět

nậm

tə̯ u:

b‘wâng 張

屛

風

九

疊

雲

錦

b‘ieng

pi̯ung

ki̯ə̯u:

d‘iep

ji̯uən

ki̯əm:

tȋ a̯ ng

影

落

明

湖

靑

黛

光

˙i̯ɐng:

lâk

mi̯wɐng

ɣuo

ts‘ieng

d‘ậi-

kwâng

金

闕

前

開

二

峯

帳

ki̯əm

k‘i̯wɐt

dz‘ien

k‘ậi

ńźi-

p‘i̯wong tȋ a̯ ng-

銀

河

倒

挂

三

石

梁

ngi̯ěn

ɣâ

tâu-

kwai-

sâm

źi̯äk

li̯ang 望

香

爐

瀑

布

遙

相

χi̯ang

luo

b‘uk

puo-

i̯äu

si̯ang

mi̯wang-

廻

崖

沓

嶂

崚

蒼

蒼

ɣuậi

ngai

d‘ập

tśi̯ang-

li̯əng

ts‘âng

ts‘âng

翠

影

紅

霞

映

朝

ts‘wi-

i̯ɐng:

ɣung

ɣa

˙i̯ɐng-

tȋ ä̯ u

日

ńźi̯ět

鳥

飛

不

到

吳

天

長

tieu:

pjwe̯i

puət

tâu-

nguo

t‘ien

d̑ ‘i̯ang

登

高

壯

觀

天

地

間

təng

kâu

tṣi̯ang-

kuân

t‘ien

d‘i-

kǎn 還

大

江

茫

茫

去

不

d‘âi-

kång

mwâng

mwâng

k‘i̯wo-

puət

ɣwan

黃

雲

萬

里

動

風

色

ɣwâng

ji̯uən

mi̯wɐn-

lji:

d‘ung:

pi̯ung

ṣi̯ək

白

波

九

道

流

雪

山

b‘ɐk

puâ

ki̯ǝ̯u:

d‘âu:

li̯ǝ̯u

si̯wät

ṣǎn

好

爲

廑

山

謠

i̯äu

心

χâu-

jwie̯

li̯wo

ṣǎn

輿

因

廬

山

發

χi̯əng-

˙i̯en

li̯wo

ṣǎn

pi̯wɐt

閑

窺

石

鏡

淸

我

ɣǎn

k‘jwie̯

źi̯äk

ki̯ɐng-

ts‘i̯äng

ngâ:

si̯əm

謝

公

行

處

蒼

苔

沒

ɣɐng

tś‘i̯wo-

ts‘âng

d‘ậi

muət

zi̯akung

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708 24 25 26 27 28 29

eide 早

服

還

丹

無

世

情

tsâu:

b‘i̯uk

ɣwan

tân

mi̯u

śi̯äi-

dz‘i̯äng 成

琴

心

三

疊

道

初

g‘i̯əm

si̯əm

sâm(-)

d‘iep

d‘âu:

tṣ‘i̯wo

źi̯äng

遙

見

仙

人

綵

雲

裏

i̯äu

kien-

si̯än

ńźi̯ěn

ts‘ậi:

ji̯uən

lji:

手

把

芙

蓉

朝

玉

京

śi̯ǝ̯u:

pa:

b‘i̯u

i̯wong

d̑ ‘i̯äu

ngi̯wok

ki̯ɐng

先

期

汗

漫

九

垓

上

sien

g‘ji

ɣân-

muân-

ki̯ǝ̯u:

kậi

źi̯ang-

願

接

盧

敖

遊

太

淸

luo

ngâu

i̯ǝ̯u

t‘âi-

ts‘i̯äng

ngi̯wɐn- tsi̯äp

A Lu Mountain Song for the Palace Censor Empty-Boat Lu

6

I am, in fact, the Madman of Ch’u, Making fun of Confucius with a Phoenix Song. In my hand I carry a green jade cane And set forth at dawn from Yellow Crane Hall. When I search for immortals on the Five Summits, I never complain how far, For all my life I have liked to roam in the mountains of renown.

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Lu Mountain bursts in splendor at the side of Southern Dipper; The nine panels of Folding Screen covered in cloud brocade; And shadows fall on the shining lake to grow like indigo eyebrow paint. The Golden Gates before me open with a curtain between two spires, The Silver River upside down hangs across three beams of stone. The Incense Burner and the waterfall look to each other from far away, The winding cliffs and huddled peaks rise in the blue on blue. Green kingfisher shadows and red clouds intensify in the morning sun, And birds fly on but never arrive, and the skies of Wu are long.

16 17 18 19

Climbing the height gives a splendid view of all of heaven and earth; The mighty Yangtse in endless flow departs and never returns. Yellow clouds for ten thousand miles have colored the driving wind, White waves on the nine circuits are flowing mountains of snow.

20 21

I like to sing about Lu Mountain, With inspiration from Lu Mountain.

1 2 3 4 5

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709

on li po 22 23

At rest, I gaze in Stony Mirror to purify my heart; Green moss obscures the tracks that Duke Hsieh left behind.

24 25 26 27 28 29

Sublimed cinnabar, taken soon, will throw off worldly care; When the heart is a lute thrice tuned, the Way can be attained. Far above I see the immortals in the midst of luminous clouds, Proceeding to court in the Palace of Jade with lotuses in their hands. I made a promise long ago to meet Boundless above the nine spheres; I wish I could take Lu Drifting along to visit Transcendently Pure.

As we turn now to “A Lu Mountain Song for the Palace Censor Empty-Boat Lu,” it might be best to stay with the discussion of tonic features, for in this poem, which is also superficially about a mountain, we have an equally lush vocabulary, but a totally different disposition of tones. The striking thing in “Lu Mountain Song” is that sequences in the same tonic category are regularly avoided—so much so, in fact, that a balance of even and oblique tones before the caesura becomes a dominant pattern throughout the poem: 1 2 3 4 5 6

xx xoo xo xxo xo xxx ox oxo xxoo xox xoxx ooo

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

ooxx oxo ooxx oxo xxoo oxo oxoo xox ooxx oxo ooxx oox ooxx ooo xxoo xox xoxx ooo

16 17 18 19

ooxo oxo R xooo xxo R ooxx xox xoxx oxo R

R R R R R R R R R

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710

eide

20 21 22 23

xo ooo xo oox ooxx oxo xoox oox

24 25 26 27 28 29

xxoo oxo ooxx xoo oxoo xox xxoo oxo ooxx xox xxoo oxo

R R R R

(and ooox xoo R)

R R

As can be seen, eight of the lines (1, 6, 10, 15, 16, 17, 19, and 26) do not have the balance or “resolution” before the caesura, but the pattern is sufficiently well established by the others so that these departures from that pattern can themselves make a contribution to the effectiveness of the poem. It is hard to be sure how much of this was intentional on Li Po’s part, but it is interesting to observe that in several cases (lines 1, 6, 10, and 15) any weakening of the caesura that one might feel as a result of the imbalance would not be inappropriate to the sense of the line. It is also interesting, and probably more significant, that irregular lines predominate in the third stanza (lines 16–19), setting it off tonically from what precedes, just as it is set off by its shift of focus, anticlimactic imagery, and the double meanings which will be discussed below. It would seem very possible that Li Po counted on this tonic variation to serve as a “trigger” alerting the reader to the special significance of the lines. The peculiar nine-line second stanza,10 which has always given commentators so much difficulty, may be similarly served by the irregularity of line 10 which tends to “set off” the three opening lines. This slight variation of the pattern (together with the perfect tonic identity of lines 7 and 8 and some balanced expressions in the later couplets) may have made it easier for the T’ang reader to guess that the stanza was, as it turns out, Li Po’s own “Phoenix Song,” to be construed as a tercet with three rhyming refrains. In any event, the tonic features of this poem like those of the first, must have made an impression on Tu Fu even though he preferred to use tones very differently in his own poetry. 10  I may be alone in accepting the Sung text without emendation. Most critics substitute d̑‘i̯ang, “long,” for tȋ a̯ ng-, “curtain” in line 10 and explain that mi̯wang- in line 12 must be given the special, even-tone reading mi̯wang. One wonders how they felt about the parallelisms in the couplets made up of lines 10–11, 12–13, and 14–15.

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on li po

711

And just as these tonic features stand in sharp contrast to those of the first poem, so does the experience of “Lu Mountain Song” proceed in a somewhat different order. In the first poem, the primary intent was conveyed rather quickly through vivid description and fairly obvious multiple levels of meaning, leaving the reader to work out his appreciation of details at leisure. Here, though one is again struck by a rich description of a mountain, the numerous details must sink in first before the poem can burst open to reveal the full range of its intention. (And it is, of course, appropriate that the more difficult poem should have the more regular tonic pattern to sustain the poetry and guide the reader through its complexities.) On a first reading, one notices a variety of little excellences: the consonance and alliteration of li̯wok ngi̯wok d̑‘i̯ang: and ɣwâng yâk lə̯u in lines 3 and 4 to underscore the rightness of these phrases in a Taoist-flavored poem; the survey of the landscape with lines echoing Hsieh Ling-yün (385–433) followed by contemplation in a mirror (also echoing Hsieh), where one may survey the past and future;11 and the evocation of the Huai-nan tzu which features “Lu Drifting” (Lu Ao) and such personified abstractions as “Boundless” and “Transcendently Pure.” One might also pause over line 9 to think of Cho Wen-chün, famous for “eyebrows like distant mountains,” and wonder if she, too, were not hiding behind a brocade screen12 when she listened to Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju play the second famous “Phoenix Song.”13 Gradually, as one rereads, still other random elements begin to make an impression. How like Li Po to write a “Lu Mountain Song” for a Mr. Lu—Wallace

11   “Stony Mirror” was a round rock formation on the east side of Lu Mountain— perhaps composed of mica which abounds in the area. The magic of mirrors is frequendy mentioned, as in the Ōkagami: “When I look upon a shining mirror, both those things already past and those still in the future do I see,” quoted from Reischauer and Yamagiwa, Translations from Early Japanese Literature (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1951), p. 291. 12  The eyebrows of Cho Wen-chün are described in the Hsi-ching tsa-chi (SPTK) 2.2b. I have no early text saying that she was behind a screen, but that picture seems to suggest itself naturally. See, for example, Ming jen tsa-chü hsüan (Peking: Jen-min Wen-hsüeh, 1962), p. 121. 13  The seduction of Cho Wen-chün by Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju is given in the Shih chi (Po-na-pen) 117.2a. The text of what purports to be his irresistible “Phoenix Song” can be found in the Υüeh-fu shih chi (SPTK) 60.9a. The original “Phoenix Song” was, of course, that sung to (or at) Confucius by the madman Chieh-yü to urge him to get out of political affairs. See Legge, Analects 18.5.

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Stevens would have made it “A Jamaica Song for Mr. James”—and does not the man-mountain association make it all the more reasonable to associate Li Po with the waterfall, and the Incense Burner Peak (“lu” again) with Mr. Lu, the authority on throne room protocol?14 Then one pictures Li Po at the mountain top discovering that his elevation so minimizes ground distance that the birds, seen as far-off specks, seem to fly endlessly without getting anywhere. And it is, of course, a “mountain of renown”—one where elixirs can be brewed most satisfactorily. Thus, green shadows and red clouds, the food of would-be immortals who would themselves learn to fly, seem all the more nicely to anticipate the more elaborate elixir, sublimed cinnabar, mentioned in line 24. From this point, one begins to struggle a bit, especially with the difficulties of line 25; the immediate context suggests the Taoistic interpretation, “making one’s heart pure as lute music through breath control concentrated on the three cinnabar fields of the body,”15 but it is hard to forget that the phrase “lute heart” occurs first and most memorably in the Shih chi biography of Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju, where it is recorded that Ssu-ma seduced the young widow Cho Wen-chün by “luting his heart”—that is, conveying his feelings in lute music— as he played his “Phoenix Song.” If this is to be the interpretation, then the words san-tieh, previously construed as “the three cinnabar fields,” may be taken in their more usual sense of “three repetitions or refrains,”16 and one is thereupon drawn back to the second stanza, where Li Po seems to have written his own “Phoenix Song” consisting of a tercet with three refrains. He says he is making fun of Confucius (and therewith the establishment), but he is writing

14  Perhaps one could work out a typology of plays on words in Chinese. Here we have a near identity of both sound and characters; in the last line of this poem something that is more of a pun and nonce kenning; and something else again in poem no. 702, where Li Po says, “T’ai-po Mountain talks with me.” Yet another type might be represented by the word tieh when used to mean “the three cinnabar fields,” as here in line 25; there is even the remote possibility of an interlingual pun in line 24 of the third poem. 15  I am indebted to Professor Nathan Sivin for help with the Taoist interpretation of this line. 16  The most famous “three refrains” are the so-called “Yang-kuan san-tieh” evolved from a poem by Wang Wei (699?–761?). That poem in no way resembles this, but it suggests that songs with three “refrains” or “repetitions” were popular in the T’ang. I am grateful to Professor Laurence Picken for calling to my attention the Ch’in-hsüeh ju-men (Shanghai: Chung-hua T’u-shu-kuan, 1881?), B.16a–19a, where the compiler Chang Ho (fl. c. 1850) gives a score for the “Yang-kuan san-tieh” and shows how, at a late period at least, the words were associated with the music. Professor Ogawa Tamaki discusses the “Yang-kuan san-tieh” briefly in “The Song of Ch’ih-le: Chinese Translations of Turkic Folk Songs and Their Influence on Chinese Poetry,” Acta Asiatica 1 (1960): 54n1.

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to Mr. Lu. Could it be that when he says “Confucius” (k‘ung: k‘i̯ə̯u), he is also punningly pulling the leg of his friend “Empty-Boat” (k‘ung tśi̯ə̯u)? Suddenly it all seems too much, for we have complexity without sufficient form and direction. Everything resonates, but there is no progression. And we may even note that we seem to be left with a very limp stanza in lines 16–19, coming as an anticlimax after the exuberance of what went before. The answer is that Li Po is trying to make his reader see something more— something that would have been more readily appreciated by Empty-Boat, Tu Fu, or any of their contemporaries. Fortunately, we have the keys to the mystery. Empty-Boat, a native of unreliable Fan-yang—which had become the more unreliable since An Lu-shan established his base of power there—was appointed to the post of palace censor sometime shortly after 756, at the height of the An Lu-shan Rebellion.17 When news of the appointment reached Li Po in 759 or 760, he was no doubt quick to see that a Fan-yang man at court was in a precarious position—especially quick to see it, perhaps, because news of the appointment was probably brought to him by Chia Chih, drafter of EmptyBoat’s appointment, a man of considerable influence who had himself fallen from favor and had stopped to visit with Li Po on his way into exile.18 With this in mind, we need only the “trigger” of the poem’s last line to be convinced of what Li Po is up to here. When he says he would like to take Lu Drifting (Lu Ao) along, we know that he means Empty-Boat Lu, not only because of the general sense of the poem and the identity of the surnames, but also because a palace censor, an authority on protocol, would be precisely the man to take if you were planning to have an audience with the immortals. We can be still the more certain because Empty-Boat’s name comes from the Chuang-tzu, where the ideal man is likened to an untied boat, both empty and drifting along.19 Thus, Li Po has constructed his line so that Lu Ao’s name plus the next word become a pun or kenning for Empty-Boat Lu. The ploy is just outrageous enough to send the reader back through the poem to confirm and reorganize his initial impressions. There is no doubt now that Li Po is having fun, that the dual interpretations and innuendoes are really there, and that this is, indeed, his “Phoenix Song.” In fact, two “Phoenix Songs.” One, like the original sung for Confucius, to warn Empty-Boat of political dangers; the other, like Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju’s, to seduce 17  The edict promoting Empty-Boat to the post of palace censor may be found in the CTW 367.2a. We know it cannot have been drafted until after its author Chia Chih (718–72) was appointed editor of imperial edicts and proclamations in 756. 18  For that visit, see Li Po’s poem no. 378. 19   Chuang-tzu 32.1.

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Empty-Boat with the attractions of Lu Mountain so that he, too, will run away. And if the warning seems weak in comparison with the praise of the mountain, we need only reexamine the third stanza with an expectant eye. Surveying the world from his lofty perch, Li Po can contemplate the “yellow wind” from the West, stirred up by the Sogdian An Lu-shan. That same height would make it hard to see waves on the “nine rivers” of Kiukiang at the foot of Lu Mountain even if one could conceive of them as “flowing mountains of snow,”20 but the impossibility is the magic of the line, for it forces us to see instead the social order of the T’ang flowing away like water to the sea. The use of the word circuit instead of channel or river is, then, no accident here as some have assumed. Li Po is reminding us that he is thinking of China’s plight by recalling the Nine Circuits into which China was divided by Emperor Yü after he had dug the nine rivers to control the flood. The symbolism is heightened by the evocation of lines from Hsieh Ling-yün: But a thousand thoughts torment me day and night, Ten thousand passions harass me, dawn till dusk. I climbed the cliffs to watch the Stone Mirror shining. I pushed through the forest and entered the Gates of Pine. Tales of the Three Rivers are mostly forgotten by now, Only the names of the Nine Streams still remain. The magic things rarely display their marvels, The weird people hide their subtle souls.21 In his contribution to the present volume, Hans H. Frankel has proposed six topoi as characteristic of poems concerned with the contemplation of history: (1) ascent to a high place; (2) looking into the distance in conjunction with viewing the past; (3) the durability of rivers and mountains as a contrast to human transience; (4) reference to historical personalities and extant relics of the past; (5) description of a landscape devoid of historical association; and (6) tears. It is probably no mere coincidence that we can find something of at least five of the topoi in this one stanza, where Li Po is contemplating China’s past, present, and future. 20  Kiukiang supposedly derives its name (“Nine Rivers”) from the “nine channels” Emperor Yü dug to control the floods. It is improbable that there were nine obvious channels, not even commemorative ones, in Li Po’s day, so there is all the more reason to see something else in this line. 21  Quoted from J. D. Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream: The Life and Works of Hsieh Ling-yün (385–433), Duke of K’ang-lo (Kuala Lumpur: University of Malaya Press, 1967), 1: 154.

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Admittedly, Tu Fu or a contemporary would have responded to all of this much more readily than we do today. But I suggest that his response would have proceeded more or less in the order I have described, causing him to marvel at the skill and wit with which Li Po had woven his lines together to create a dense and beautiful poem that is also an effective statement about himself and his society. An appreciation of this skill in making statements about himself and his society depends, of course, on knowing as much as possible about Li Po and the T’ang—but properly applying what we do know can also enable us to learn still more. The last poem provides a case in point, for we can see there that the T’ang reader’s familiarity with the facts of Li Po’s life must have greatly reinforced the impact made by the poem. At the same time, we today can, by careful correlation of the facts at hand, see that Li Po may be telling us more than we have previously known about what it was like to live in the T’ang and to be Li Po. Before considering the poem itself, I will have to digress to summarize my own position on various questions relating to Li Po’s background and ancestry. This is necessary when proposing a correlation of Li Po’s life and poetry because one never knows to which group of believers his readers happen to belong: those who feel that Li Po was so surely of foreign origin that there is nothing to discuss; those who feel that he was so thoroughly Chinese that there is nothing to discuss; or those, like Herbert Franke, who feel that the question is meaningless because “Li Po belongs to Chinese literature just as Chamisso does to the German and Joseph Conrad to English.”22 The trouble is that for Franke’s analogy to work, we would have to have a Conrad suspected by some of Polish birth, protesting his English origin, but often writing about Poland and sometimes composing in Polish at the court of an English king who was uneasy about his own Slavic ancestry and suspicious of all foreigners including Poles. To draw only the most reasonable conclusions from the most reliable sources—Li Po himself; the writings of Li Yang-ping, Wei Hao, and Liu Ch’üanpo, who knew Li Po; and the inscription by Fan Ch’uan-cheng, who knew Li Po’s granddaughters—we ought to be able to agree on the following general propositions, which are sufficient to support the present analysis of his poetry: 1. Li Po was born in 701, somewhere in Central Asia, where his family had been living for a century or more. In a letter datable to 757, Li Po wrote that he was fifty-six years old—thus born in 701.23 Li Yang-ping and Fan Ch’uan-cheng indicate that the family returned to China no earlier than 705. (He probably 22  Herbert Franke, Sinologie (Bern: A. Francke, 1953), p. 169. 23  No. 1008 in the Kyoto concordance.

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died in late 762 or early 763, but we cannot use the Li Yang-ping preface to establish the year of his death as virtually all recent writers have been inclined to do. That preface, dated November 30, 762, says only that Li Po was sick and nothing about his having died.) 2. There is no reason not to accept the claims that while “in exile” the Lis lived in Suyab, now Tokmak in the Kirghiz S. S. R., and near T’iao-chih in what is now northern Afghanistan.24 Both spots were on the trade routes, and it scarcely matters whether the areas were under Chinese control at any given time. Once exiled, the Lis might have gone secretly where they pleased (it is said that they changed their name), and we cannot, for that matter, even be positive that the family was Chinese to begin with. In any event, we know that there were upheavals in the Lis’ claimed ancestral home area (near T’ien-shui in Kansu) during the late Sui, when they are said to have fled, and we know that an embassy from northern Afghanistan was able to reach China without difficulty in 705.25 3. Much more likely than not, the Li family was engaged in trade both before and after their return to China. That would have been the most usual way to make a living along the trade route, and when they returned to China, the Lis returned to Szechwan, known for its foreign merchant community, rather than to their claimed ancestral home. A merchant background would also account for the fact that Li Po seems always to have had plenty of money without holding land or office; and the double stigma of being a “foreign merchant” might be added to “drink” and “indifference” on the list of possible explanations for his failure to enjoy the usual civil service career. China’s ethnocentrism and Confucian disdain of merchants are well known. In fact, Li Po does not seem to have been indifferent to a career, and it is questionable whether he really drank more than some successful officeholders.26 24  Waley objects that the T’iao-chih in Afghanistan, which slipped from Chinese control around 680, would have been forgotten by most people in the eighth century. Perhaps so, but people who had lived there would not have forgotten the old name, and Li Yang-ping is probably only recording what he heard from Li Po. 25  See Edouard Chavannes, Documents sur les Tou-kiue (Turcs) Occidentaux (Saint Petersbourg, 1903; reprint Paris: Adrien-Maisonneuve, n.d.), p. 157. 26  Kuo Mo-jo is one of the few to defend Li Po against the charge of alcoholism. On page 196 of the paperback edition of his new book (see Bibliographical Note) he observes that Tu Fu has 300 compositions (21 percent of the total) with references to drinking, while Li Po has only 170 (sixteen percent of his total). One could, however, still come away with the impression that Li Po was the greater drinker. He uses the word “wine” some 210 times in his poems, while for Tu Fu the count is only 176 occurrences. Of course, if Li Po did not drink inordinately, the talk about his drinking could have been a disingenuous way of

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4. There is no reason not to believe Liu Ch’üan-po and Fan Ch’uan-cheng when they imply that Li Po could compose in a foreign language, and there is at least one poem (no. 945) by Li Po himself with a similar suggestion. It would be strange if the Lis did not know Turkish or some other foreign language after living for a century in Central Asia; and many people, including members of the T’ang royal family, are said to have known Turkish. Naturally if they were merchants, there would have been all the more reason to keep the language alive even after their return to China. 5. Regardless of whether he was born to it or whether it was acquired, Li Po shows the marked influence of Central Asian culture. We know, of course, that he writes about Central Asian subjects, as in the poem we are about to consider. We might also note that his elder son Po-ch’in ( rimes

6 6 6 7 9 5 9 6 7 6 5

3 2 0 3 1 0 1 2 3 0 0

229

48

981

stanzas= rimes

13 10 6 13 10 5 10 9 11 6 5

Counting lines instead of complete poems, we see that Li Bo is by far the best represented poet in the anthology. There are other interesting shifts when we adopt this perspective. For instance, Wang Wei who has more poems than anyone except Chang Jian, is represented by barely half as many lines of poetry as Li Bo. Chang Jian likewise slips down toward the middle of the pack. This table also gives the number of poems by each poet with two or more different rhymes; since a change in rhyme marks a new stanza, we can talk about this in structural as well as aural terms. Only three poets—Li Bo, Li Qi, and Gao Shi—have more than three poems that change rhymes. For Li Bo this includes nearly all of his poems, for Li Qi and Gao Shi not quite half. Looking at all of the poems in the anthology, almost four-fifths of them use just a single rhyme. I am not a data-cruncher and do not usually put much stock in quantitative analysis, but here it is yielding some interesting material. If we go on in this way to examine poems on the stanzaic level, it becomes even more interesting. But it might be necessary at this point to reiterate I am well aware that no anthology can substitute for unrestricted and desultory reading. However, the Heyue yingling ji is the product of an appreciative and discriminating reader whose familiarity with contemporary poetry is clearly extensive. As far as we can tell, Yin Fan seems a fair representative of his class and to be largely akin to the poets whose works he is anthologizing. He has no practical bestowals of

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value either to give to or receive from these men. To this extent, his judgment regarding the best poetry of his time is as near as we are likely to get to a reliable contemporary appraisal. If it sometimes is at variance with what we take for granted about High Tang verse, this may usefully expand our horizon of expectations. Now, as to stanzaic form: all of us who study Chinese poetry learned early on, and we continue to teach our own students that the most “regular” style of rhyming occurs at the end of even-numbered lines—in the pattern abcbdb …—with an option of also rhyming the first line—hence, aabaca … But it is maintained that the simple abcb pattern is dominant. Except, even with a relatively large sample of 229 poems, as we have here, it isn’t always so. Let us look at Table 4, which will need some explanation. table 4

李白 李頎 高適 崔顥 常建 王昌齡 王維 王季友 岑參 陶翰 儲光羲 薛據 劉昚虛 賀蘭進明 張謂 崔國輔 孟浩然 祖詠 王灣 廬象 崔署

total

reg.

* (n)

ii

iii

v

x

%reg.

56 36 29 21 18 17 17 13 13 12 12 11 11 11 10 10 10 9 8 8 6

11 9 10 6 14 13 11 3 4 10 11 9 10 3 4 8 5 4 6 5 5

27 (25) 15 (12) 18 (14) 14 (12) 2 (0) 4 (0) 4 (1) 10 (7) 5 (2) 2 (0) 1 (0) 2 (1) 1 (0) 4 (3) 5 (3) 2 (1) 5 (1) 4 (2) 2 (0) 3 (1) 1 (0)

7 12 1 1 2

2

1

8

18 25 36 29 78 76 65 23 31 83 92 82 91 27 40 80 50 44 75 62 83

2 4

4 1

1

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Heyue Yingling Ji And The Attributes Of High Tang Poetry

綦毋潛 閻防 李嶷

total

reg.

* (n)

 6  5  5

 6  4  3

 1 (0)  2 (0)

354

174

ii

iii

134(81) 33 2 ----------180----------

v

x

%reg.

100 80 60 1

10

49.1

total=no. of stanzas; reg.=abcb…; *=aaba…; (n)= * stanzas internal; ii=rimed couplet; iii=rimed triplet; v=rimed quintain; x= 1+ rime (e.g., abcdbd) or excess (e.g., aaaaba); %reg.=% regular.

The order in which the poets are arranged here is by total number of stanzas, which modifies yet again the sequences examined previously The second column (“reg”) gives the number of stanzas that are of the abcb pattern. It might be surprising, given what we think of as the normal attributes of Tang verse, that abcb stanzas are actually in the minority in this anthology. We can see, however, that some poets adhere to this form with great consistency, like Chang Jian, Wang Changling, Wang Wei, Tao Han, Chu Guangxi, Xue Ju, Liu Shenxu, Cui Guofu, Wang Wan, Cui Shu, Qiwu Qian, and Yan Fang. Others are more evenly split between this regular rhyme pattern and what I suppose we should call “irregular” ones, these being Zhang Wei, Meng Haoran, Zu Yong, Lu Xiang, and Li Ni. The most interesting cases are those who generally eschew the abcb pattern and choose to employ rhyme more plentifully. The works of these poets take more advantage of their language’s resources of assonance and in so doing supply an added dash of music to their compositions. These poets are Helan Jingming, Cen Shen, Wang Jiyou, Cui Hao, Gao Shi, Li Qi, and most “irregular” of all, Li Bo. All of this may suggest that even “old-style” (guti 古體) verse is more irregular, more of the time, than we normally assume. Other examples could be adduced, beyond this anthology’s corpus. For instance, Wang Changling has a poem (not included in HYYLJ) called “Lay of the Harp” (Konghou yin 箜篌引 in forty-five heptametric lines, every one of them rhyming.19 Or there is Fu Jiamo 富嘉謨, a poet from the early eighth century, 19  See Wang Changling shi zhu 王昌齡詩注, ed. Li Yunyi 李雲逸 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1982), 2.90–93; Quan Tang shi 全唐詩 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1960), 141.1436.

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the one and only extant poem of whom consists of twenty-one lines, composed entirely of rhyming triplets.20 “Irregular” stanzas include not only those of the aaba variety but also stanzas consisting of a rhyming couplet, a rhyming triplet, a rhyming quintain, as well as those that contain even more unusual patterns like interlocking rhymes or that begin with a run of more than two rhyming lines before settling into normal alternation. One can see from this table that Li Qi, for instance, is the poet of our group most fond of doublets, employing them for a full third of his stanzas. Helan Jinming and Cen Shen share this liking. Li Bo does also, but let us look at the other options he takes of superfluous rhyming, options that almost no one else in the group attempts. To lend more specificity to these numbers, the following Table 5 presents in a different fashion the information that stands behind Table 4, being a stanzaic and rhyming breakdown of every poem in the anthology. Individual poems are separated by semicolons. The first number is the total number of lines in the poem, followed in parenthesis by the number of rhymes. Then comes an exact listing of stanzas, giving the number of lines in each stanza. An asterisk (just as in Table 4) indicates that the stanza to which it is attached is an aaba … pattern. A parenthetical “(ls)” at the end of a poem’s stanzaic analysis indicates it is a lüshi, and a parenthetical (“j”) indicates it is a jueju in recent-style. The rest should be self-explanatory. table 5 王昌齡 王維 常建 李頎

李白

Individual poem and stanza breakdown: no. of lines (rimes), stanza details

16 (1); 22 (1); 14 (1); 10 (1); 24 (1); 16 (1); 14 (1); 12 (1); 8 (1), ls; 4* (1), j; 16 (2)—8/8; 6* (1); 8 (1), ls; 4* (1), j; 32 (1); 4* (1), j 14 (1); 20 (2)—12/8; 8* (1); 8 (1); 8 (1); 8 (1), ls; 16 (1); 4 (1), j; 4 (1), j; 8 (1) x; 8 (1)x; 10 (2)—4*/6*; 4* (1); 8 (1), ls; 16 (1) 16 (1); 8 (1); 8 (1), ls; 8* (1); 8 (1), ls; 8 (1), ls; 8 (1); 8 (1); 8 (1), ls; 24 (1); 6 (1); 6* (1); 12 (4)—4/4/2/2; 24 (1); 12 (1) 40 (1); 12 (1); 20 (1); 18 (1); 16 (1); 16* (1); 12 (3)—6/2/4*; 16 (4)—4*/4*/4*/4*; 18 (4)—8*/4*/4*/2; 30 (5)—8/14/4*/2/2; 20 (6)—4*/4*/4*/2/4*/2; 12 (6)—2/2/2/2/2/2; 8 (1), ls; 4* (1), j 20 (3)—6/4/10*; 21 (3)—12x/3/6*; 6 (2)—4x/2; 47 (6)—14/4*/ 9x/2/9x/8; 12 (2)—8x/4; 44 (10)—4*/4*/2/8/2/4*/6x/8*/2/4*; 63 (14)—4*/4*/4*/10x/4*/5x/4*/4*/4*/4*/4*/4*/4*/4; 10 (1); 12 (3)— 4/4*/4*; 4* (1); 14 (3)—6*/2/4*; 26 (6)—2/4*/4/8/4*/4; 7 (2)—4*/3

20  “Mingbing pian” 明冰篇, Quan Tang shi 94.1011.

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Heyue Yingling Ji And The Attributes Of High Tang Poetry

高適

儲光羲 崔顥 陶翰 劉昚虛 薛據 崔國輔 孟浩然 王灣 岑參 廬象 賀蘭進明 崔署 綦毋潛 祖詠 王季友 張謂 李嶷 閻防

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24 (3)—4/8/12; 16 (1); 6 (1); 8 (1); 4 (1), j; 16 (3)—4/4*/8*; 22 (3)—4/8*/10*; 16 (3)—4*/8*/4*; 14 (4)—4*/4*/2/4*; 28 (6)— 4*/4*/4*/4*/8*/4*; 12 (1); 4* (1), j; 4* (1) 14 (1); 14 (1); 14 (1); 14 (1); 16 (1); 16 (1); 12 (1); 14 (1); 16 (1); 4* (1), j; 16 (1); 14 (1) 16 (1); 16 (1); 8* (1), ls; 4 (1), j; 64 (8)—4/14*/6*/8*/4*/10*/4*/14*; 20 (1); 12 (1); 14 (4)—4*/4*/2/4*; 10 (2)—4*/6*; 8* (1), ls; 8 (1), ls 12 (1); 18 (1); 20* (1); 16 (1); 18 (2)—10*/8; 30 (1); 12 (1); 16 (1); 20 (1); 14 (1);20 (1) 18 (1); 10 (1); 14 (1); 16 (1); 12 (1); 8 (1), ls; 12 (1); 12 (1); 12 (1); 16 (1); 8* (1) 18 (1); 20 (1); 4* (1); 8 (1); 8 (1); 24 (1); 20 (2)—10/10*; 20 (1); 16 (1); 16 (1) 8 (1), ls; 18 (1); 4 (1); 4 (1); 4 (1), j; 4 (1); 8 (2)—4*/4*; 20 (1); 4 (1), j 8 (1), ls; 4* (1), j; 8 (1), ls; 8 (1), ls; 8* (1), ls; 8 (2)—4*/4*; 8 (1), ls; 8 (1); ls; 4*(1), j 30 (1); 36 (1); 22 (1); 34 (1); 8 (1), ls; 8 (1), ls; 8* (1), ls; 4* (1), j 24 (1); 16 (1); 4* (1); 12 (3)—4/4/4*; 8 (4)—2/2/2/2; 8 (2)—4*/4*; 4* (1) 16* (1); 12 (1); 16 (1); 10 (1), p; 16 (2)—12/4*; 16* (1), p; 20 (1) 8 (1), ls; 8 (1), ls; 10 (1); 8 (3)—2/2/4*; 8* (1); 8 (2)—2/6*; 8 (2)—2/6* 18 (1); 12 (1); 8* (1), ls; 12 (1); 14 (1); 16 (1) 10 (1); 8 (1), ls; 12 (1); 8 (1), ls; 8 (1), ls; 8 (1), ls 12 (2)—8/4*; 16 (3)—10/4*/2; 8 (1), ls; 12* (1), p; 8* (1), ls; 4 (1), j 12* (1); 14 (3)—4*/6*/4*; 8 (2)—4*/4*; 24 (1); 16 (1); 20 (5)—4*/4*/4*/4*/4* 20 (1); 16 (1); 24 (1); 10 (3)—4*/2/4*; 12 (3)—4/4*/4*; 4* (1) 8(1), ls; 8(1), ls; 6*(1); 6(1), p; 6*(1) 16 (1); 12 (1); 18 (1); 16 (1); 8* (1), ls

These data reveal the unusual formal inventiveness of some poets. For instance, both Li Qi and Cen Shen have a poem composed entirely of rhyming couplets. Cui Hao has a poem made up of three aaba quatrains into which he slips a rhyming couplet. Wang Jiyou has a poem made up of five aaba quatrains, Gao Shi one consisting of five aaba quatrains with an aaba octet inserted, Li Qi a poem that begins with an abcb quatrain that is followed by an abcb fourteen-line stanza and then an aaba quatrain and then finishing with

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two rhyming couplets. But no one matches Li Bo in the complexity of stanzaic construction in longer poems or in an overall abundance of rhyme. This deserves closer attention. In his path-breaking article of 1973 called simply “On Li Po,” the late Elling Eide asked us to ponder “why was he one of the very few Chinese poets to be widely and immediately recognized as a genius by his contemporaries?”21 Eide’s article, with its detailed philological analysis of four poems, was a provocative push in the right direction. As he demonstrated, increased awareness of the phonic attributes of Li Bo’s poems will go a long way in helping to find an answer to this question. Such awareness should be an integral part of our critical resources when reading any Tang poet. For poems are not just words, not even—as Coleridge famously averred—”the best words in the best order.” If we only decode the semantic content of a Tang poem and do not simultaneously hear it, we are doing little more than reading prose. It is something like reducing Pope to Wordsworth, Byron to Southey, Hopkins to Hugh Blunt, Dylan Thomas to John Ashbery. From the mere numbers in our Tables 4 and 5 we can recognize Li Bo’s frequent singularity with regard to his rhyming tendencies and stanzaic structures. This is perhaps the most visible—or rather, audible—aspect of his distinctive idiom. In the headnote to the thirteen poems by Li Bo included in our anthology, Yin Fan characterizes works such as “Shu dao nan” 蜀道難, and by implication their author as well, as “even more unordinary than what is unordinary” (qi zhi you qi 奇之又奇), and he goes on to say “So it is that from the sao-poet (i.e., Qu Yuan 屈原, reputed author of “Li sao” 離騷) to now, scarcely has there been this kind of lyric style” 然自騷人以還 , 蘚有此體調也. That first comment, qi zhi you qi, with its echoes of the first chapter of Laozi,22 is the succinct and most memorable way to make the point of Li Bo’s uniqueness. The concluding remark, however, is somewhat puzzling: no one reading Li Bo’s poetry would ever compare either its content or its form to those of Qu Yuan. What does Yin Fan mean by this? I suspect it is first of all the inimitability of Qu Yuan’s persona that Yin Fan has in mind. Qu Yuan was the first well-defined, individual personality in the history of Chinese poetry; there had been no one like him before. Similarly, says Yin Fan, there had been no one as singular as Li Bo since Qu Yuan. In the 21  “On Li Po,” in Perspectives on the Tang, ed. Arthur F. Wright and Denis Twitchett (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1973), 367–403. 22  Viz., the phrase xuan zhi you xuan 玄之又玄, “even more mysterious than what is mysterious.”

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opening sentence of his headnote, Yin Fan had said, “By his very nature Bo is given over to wine and his impulsiveness cannot be held in check. Having nestled in the hinterlands for more than a decade, it is no wonder that his writings are for the most part self-willed and uninhibited” 白性嗜酒 , 志不拘 檢 。 常林棲十數載 , 故其為文章率皆縱逸. In other words, he did not learn his craft in the study-room like everyone else. Perhaps we also recall that it was when Qu Yuan left the bounds of normal society that he is said to have found his own voice. In his comparison, Yin Fan must also be thinking of the formal irregularity often indulged in by Li Bo. The term tidiao 體調, “lyric style,” or more literally “lyricism in form/structure,” suggests as much. But it is not that Li Bo’s style resembles that of Qu Yuan. Rather the point is that just as Qu Yuan is identified with a distinctive form of poetry, the sao-style, so Li Bo in many of his poems (especially those selected by Yin Fan) writes in a style completely his own. No other Tang poet plays with the language so thoroughly as music, so freely as a harmonic vehicle. Nor is anyone as willing as he is to dare new effects or experiment with unconventionality. Of course one must be successful with such experiments, else they are either worthless or risible. The admiring verdict of Li Bo’s contemporaries is undeniable about his success. Here surely we are near the heart of what was felt so compelling about his poetry. Modern scholars are fond of saying that the special characteristic of Li Bo as a poet is his preference for and mastery of guti verse, particularly yuefu 樂府 poetry. This mistakes effect for cause—besides ignoring the fact that Li Bo was equally adept when writing within the tighter restrictions of jinti verse. But as we can see, virtually every poet represented in Heyue yingling ji is a master of guti poetry and there are plenty of excellent yuefu on display as well. We will instead find Li Bo’s genius, like that of Mozart, in the brightness and ease he infuses into all genres, the light touch with which he executes both required and unexpected maneuvers. It is especially the poems in which the outer signs of genius may be seen in singularity of form that Yin Fan chose for his anthology. The poems he included, in the order in which they appear there (and in which they are tabulated in Table 5 above) are the following: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

“Zhan chengnan” 戰城南 “Yuan bieli” 遠別離 “Yetian huangque xing” 野田黃雀行 “Shu dao nan” 蜀道難 “Xinglu nan” 行路難 (no. 1)

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6. “Meng you Tianmu Shan, bie dong Lu zhugong” 夢遊天姥山別東魯 諸公

7. “Yi jiuyou, ji Qiaojun Yuan canjun” 憶舊遊寄譙郡元參軍 8. “Yong huai” 詠懷 (古風 no. 9) 9. “Chou dongdu xiaoli, yi doujiu shuanglin jianzeng” 酬東都小吏以斗 酒雙鱗見贈

10. “Da suren wen” 答俗人問 11. “Guyi” 古意 (自酒初熟山中歸) 12. “Qiang jin jiu” 將進酒 13. “Wu qi qu” 烏棲曲 Only four of these poems (nos. 4, 5, 6, 12) are among the thirty-five by Li Bo included in Tangshi sanbaishou. Sun Zhu’s Li Bo is not quite the same as Yin Fan’s. Yin Fan’s selection of Li Bo contains a much higher proportion of “irregular” works. Poems like “Yuan bieli,” “Meng you Tianmu Shan,” “Qiang jin jiu,” “Shu dao nan,” and one that we will look at presently seem distinctive in content and even more distinctive in form. There are no obvious precedents for them in the tradition. In this sense they are, as Yin Fan says, “unordinary,” and in this sense their author only can be compared with Qu Yuan. Here we arrive at a perfect marriage of form and content. But I do not believe that Li Bo was a freak of nature who discovered all the techniques of his poetry ab ovo. He picked up inflections from Bao Zhao 鮑照 (ca. 414–466) and Xie Tiao 謝脁 (464–499), as scholars have noted. He learned even more, very much more—and this has so far not been recognized— from Lu Zhaolin 盧照鄰 (ca. 635–ca. 684). The details of this must be the subject of a different paper, to be called “Li Bo and His Precursors,” after the model of Borges’s brief essay on “Kafka and His Precursors,” which would examine texts in which we can identify from prior times what we usually recognize now as Li Bo’s unique voice. The pre-echoes in Lu Zhaolin are many. Simply to mention a few of them: we find the same self-regarding, firstperson flourishes that are thought special with Li Bo (actually we find these often as well in the other three of the “Four Elites of Early Tang” [chu-Tang sijie 初唐四傑] especially Wang Bo 王勃 [649–676] and Luo Binwang 絡賓王 [ca. 628–ca. 687]); unusual formal innovations, especially in the two lengthy and multi-part sao-style poems Lu wrote at the end of his life;23 and even— most startling of all—an extended self-portrayal, near the conclusion of one of the sao-poems, of Lu Zhaolin as an “exiled transcendent,” the very role so 23  That is, his “Wu bei” 五悲 (Five Griefs) and “Shi ji wen” 釋疾文 (Text to Resolve Illness).

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peculiarly identified with Li Bo during his lifetime and ever after.24 But that, as I say, is for another time. The present paper has been something of an anomaly for me: although it is about poetry, it has not quoted a single poem. In large measure it is part of the introduction to a complete translation of Heyue yingling ji which I hope to finish soon. But I cannot conclude without discussing at least one poem from the anthology. And it should be one of Li Bo’s. This is number seven in the sequence of Yin Fan’s selections and is not now one of Li Bo’s betterknown or often-read works. It draws our attention here for several reasons. At sixty-three lines it is the longest poem in Heyue yingling ji, except for a poem by Cui Hao that beats it by one line.25 It is also one of the “unordinary” ones, dynamic in movement and awash in rhyme—we shall note particularly the rhyming quintain that is placed at a point of rising excitement. It is also a poem of a very personal sort—a heart-felt remembrance written to a friend now far away, recalling four key events: their first meeting many years previously in Luoyang and then three later occasions when they shared each other’s company. The title is “Remembering Former Travels, Sent to Yuan of Qiaojun, Aidede-Camp.” (A black dot following the last Chinese character of a line marks a rhyme.) The “Yuan” of the title seems to be Yuan Yan 元演, a cousin of Li Bo’s better-known friend Yuan Danqiu 元丹丘.26 Notes are supplied where necessary with the translation, to clarify certain points. It might be useful in advance to be aware of the narrative structure of the poem. Lines 1 through 8, the first two stanzas, recall the friends’ first encounter, in Luoyang. Lines 9 through 12, the third stanza, is an interlude of separation. Lines 13 through 31, including the fourth through sixth stanzas, focus on their second meeting, in Hubei. Lines 32 through 51, the seventh through eleventh stanzas, is the longest section of the poem, remembering their third meeting, in Shanxi. The next stanza, the twelfth, comprising lines 52 through 55, is another interlude of separation. Lines 56 through 59, the thirteenth and penultimate stanza, tells of their most recent meeting, in He’nan. Lines 60 through 63, the fourteenth and final stanza, concludes with a reverie of reminiscence.

24  For a discussion of this surprising section of the “Shi ji wen,” see Kroll, “The Representation of Mantic Arts in the High Culture of Medieval China,” in Coping with the Future: Theories and Practices of Divination in East Asia, ed. Michael Lackner (Leiden: Brill, 2014). 25  “Zeng Huaiyi shangren” 贈懷一上人 (Presented to the Monk Huaiyi). 26  See esp. Yu Xianhao 郁賢皓, “Li Bo yu Yuan Danqiu jiaoyou kao” 李白与元丹丘交遊考, in his Li Bo congkao 李白从考 (Xi’an: Shaanxi renmin chubanshe, 1982), 103–106.

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Li Bo, “Remembering Our Former Travels, Sent to Yuan of Qiaojun, Aide-deCamp” 憶舊遊寄元譙郡參軍27 憶昔洛陽董糟丘· I

4

remember long past in Luoyang, Mr. Dong of the Mound of Lees 為余天津橋南造酒樓·  Made mine his wine-loft south of the bridge of Heaven’s Ford,28 黃金白璧買歌笑 Where I bought song and laughter with yellow gold and white-jade discs, 一醉累月輕王侯· During one long binge of many months disdaining princes and nobles. 海內賢豪青雲客· Of

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the worthies and powerful within the four seas, or guests from clouds in the blue, 就中與君心莫逆· Among all it was only you with whom my heart was never at odds. 迴山轉海不作難 Compassing the mountains, rounding the seas, was not any trouble for us, 傾情倒意無所惜· Spilling thoughts and pouring out feelings with nothing ever held back. [stanza break]

27  Since there is at present only one annotated edition of Heyue yingling ji (see n. 10 above) and its comments on this poem are rather perfunctory, the reader is best referred to the versions in Li Bo quanji jiaozhu huishi jiping 李白全集校注匯釋集評, ed. Zhan Ying 詹 鍈 (Tianjin: Baihua wenyi chubanshe, 1996; hereafter lbqjjp), 12.1942–59; Li Bo ji jiaozhu 李白集校注, ed. Qu Tuiyuan 瞿蛻園 and Zhu Jincheng 朱金城 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980; hereafter LBJJZ), 12.844–51. The poem is variously dated by scholars as being written in 732, 735, or 746–751. This is not the place to address the question, for it does not affect our reading of the poem. 28  Nothing is known of this Mr. Dong. “Mound of Lees” is a nickname indicating his profession as a wineshop proprietor; it might also be the name of his shop. The hypermetrical first two words of the second line (printed in smaller font-size) are of course an exaggeration, but Li Bo recalls the shop as though it had been put at his disposal. The Bridge of Heaven’s Ford was the middle of three bridges spanning the Luo River just south of the Meridian Gate (Duanmen 端門) that led into the “imperial city” (huangcheng 皇城) that was the main bureaucratic center of Luoyang and which itself led northward to the palace city. Mr. Dong’s wineshop, being south of the bridge, must have been located in the city’s Jishan 積善 ward.

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我向淮南攀桂枝· Then I went south of

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the Huai, lingering by cinnamon branches,29 君留洛北愁夢思· As you stayed north of the Luo, longed for in sadness and dreams— 不忍別 A separation I could not bear 還相隨· Till again we should go on together. 相隨迢迢訪仙城·  And

16

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going on together some time after, we visited Mount Xiancheng,30 三十六曲水回縈·  With the river winding round about six and thirty bends. 一溪初入千花明· Along one stream first we plunged into brilliance of a thousand flowers, 萬壑度盡松風聲· Passed all the way through a myriad vales to the sound of wind in the pines. 銀鞍金絡到平地 On silver saddles with halters of gold we moved on to level ground, 漢東太守來相迎· Where the Prefect of Handong commandery came out to welcome us.31 紫陽之真人 There the Perfected One of Purple Yang32 邀我吹玉笙· Blew a jade mouth-organ, inviting us 餐霞樓上動仙樂 To his Loft for Quaffing Rose-Clouds, where transcendent music played,33 29  The area south of the Huai River in Anhui and Jiangsu was traditionally associated with the imagery of cinnamon trees and reclusion since the “Zhao yinshi” (招隱士, Summoning the Recluse) poem from the Chuci collection in the second century BCE. 30  Mt. Xiancheng (Transcendents’ Fortress) lay to the east of Suizhou 隨州 (present-day Suixian 隨縣), Hubei. The river referred to here is the western run of the Huai. 31  Handong commandery was an alternate name for Suizhou. Founded by the Sui as Handongjun, its name was changed to Suizhou in 620, then back to Handong in 742. 32  The Perfected (or Realized) One of Purple Yang is a Daoist priest surnamed Hu 胡, for whom Li Bo would later compose a memorial stele-inscription. See “Handong Ziyang xiansheng beiming” 漢東紫陽先生碑銘, LBQJJP “jiwai shiwen,” 4494–4510; lbjjz 30.1734–38. The epithet “Purple Yang” is resonant in Daoist history as belonging to the Perfected Person born in 80 bce as Zhou Yishan 周義山 and who eventually ascended to transcendence, later becoming one of the divinities who appeared to Yang Xi 楊羲 in the Shangqing 上清 revelations of 363–370. 33  “Quaffing rose-clouds” was a Daoist method of nourishing one’s spiritual essence, known to adepts. Li Bo also wrote a sixteen-line pentametric poem, likely during this same visit, inscribed on the wall of the Master Hu’s loft, “Ti Suizhou Ziyang xiansheng bi” 題隨州紫

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dulcetly mellisonant as the calls of simurgh or phoenix.

袖長管催欲輕舉· As the pipes hurried, sleeves swayed long, on the verge 24

of lifting away, 漢東太守酣歌舞·  While the Prefect of Handong commandery tipsily sang and danced. 手持錦袍覆我身 Taking up in his hands a damask robe, he draped it over me, 我醉橫眠枕其股· As drunkenly I lay insensate, pillowed on his thigh. 當筵意氣凌九霄· From the mats our thoughts and fancies rose up to the

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ninth empyrean, 星離雨散不終朝· But like stars we scattered, like rain dispersed, before the dawn was full, 分飛楚關山水遙· Each in own flight from the borders of Chu, to mountains and rivers afar—34 余既還山尋故巢· I heading back to the mountains, to seek out my onetime nest, 君亦西歸度渭橋· And you returning westward, to cross the Wei River bridge.35 [stanza break] 陽先生壁, LBQJJP 25.3563–68; lbjjz 25.1437–38. A difficult question, which would take us too far afield to pursue here, is raised by a prose “preface” possibly also resulting from the same visit. It is called “Preface [to Poetry] on a Winter Night at the Master Ziyang’s Loft for Quaffing Rose-clouds in Suizhou, Seeing Off Yuan Yan, Master of Mists, on his Reclusion at Mount Xiancheng” (“Dongye yu Suizhou Ziyang xiansheng Canxia lou, song Yanzi Yuan Yan yin Xiancheng shan xu” 冬夜於隨州紫陽先生餐霞樓送烟子元演隱 仙城山序), lbqjjp 27.4143–45; lbjjz 27.1591–93. (“Master of Mists,” 烟子 was Yuan Yan’s Daoist byname, complementing that of his cousin Yuan Danqiu which was “Master of Rose-clouds,” Xiazi 霞子.) In brief, the problem is that in this preface Li Bo states that Yuan Yan was convinced by Hu Ziyang’s description of Mt. Xiancheng as a spiritual environment to go immediately there for a period of reclusion, which was the very occasion for “seeing him off.” But in our poem Li Bo says (line 31) that upon their parting in Suizhou, Yuan headed to Chang’an. Also we note that in our poem Li Bo and Yuan Yan had roamed enjoyably together on Mt. Xiancheng before reaching Suizhou and being welcomed by Hu Ziyang. Full discussion must await another time, but perhaps the years that passed between the time Li Bo wrote the preface and when he wrote his reminiscing poem had caused him to confuse or telescope certain events. 34  Suizhou (Handong) was near the northern border of the old state of Chu. 35  That is, the Wei River bridge outside the capital city, Chang’an. One presumes Yuan was going there on official business or perhaps to sit for the jinshi exam. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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君家嚴君勇貔虎· The respected lord of

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行來北京歲月深·  So

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時時出向城西曲· One

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your family was fearless as tiger or bear, 作尹並州遏戎虜· Serving as governor of Bingzhou whence he curbed the hostile caitiffs.36 五月相呼度太行 In the fifth month then you bid me to cross the Taihang range; 摧輪不道羊腸苦· Though it dash my cart-wheels I heeded not the ordeal of Sheep-gut Pass.37 I came on into the northern capital when the months of the year were full, 感君貴義輕黃金· And was moved by your noble manner making free with gold at hand. 瓊杯綺食青玉案  Snow-gem cups and gossamer food on trays of bluegreen jade 使我醉飽無歸心· Made me drunk and sated, left me no thought of going home. time and another we went out beyond the citywall’s west corner, 晉祠流水如碧玉· Where the river’s flow by the shrine of Jin was as jade of cyan-blue.38 浮舟弄水簫鼓鳴 Adrift in a boat, enjoying the river, we made the syrinx sing forth,

36  This refers to Yuan’s father. Bingzhou included Taiyuan 太原 (also called Jinyang 晉陽 in Tang times), in present-day Shanxi. It was the ancestral place of the Li 李 family that ruled the Tang dynasty. Li Bo’s visit there probably took place in 735. In 742 Taiyuan was officially designated the northern capital; its chief civil magistrate was a “governor” (yin 尹), like that of Chang’an and Luoyang, the western and eastern capitals. The use of the term “northern capital” in line 36 is obviously from the time-perspective of the poem’s composition. The “hostile caitiffs” are the Türkic tribes north of Bingzhou, in what is today Inner Mongolia, who were a constant worry for the dynasty. 37  The Taihang mountains separate southern Hebei from Shanxi. Li Bo was evidently in the Shandong area before responding to Yuan’s invitation to visit him in Taiyuan. Sheep-gut Pass in the Taihang range was famously mentioned as a perilous spot by Cao Cao 曹操 (155–220) in his poem “Ku han xing” 苦寒行 on the hardships of soldiers on campaign. 38  The “Jin shrine” was that dedicated to Shu Yu 叔虞, son of King Wu 武王 of Zhou and the first enfeoffed ruler of the state of Tang. The shrine was about four miles southwest of Taiyuan, near the Jin River, and was for obvious reasons important to the Tang dynastic family. Paul W. Kroll - 978-90-04-38016-5 Downloaded from Brill.com11/09/2020 07:55:48PM via free access

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微波龍鱗莎草綠· As the rippling waves were dragon scales and nutgrass

was bright green.

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興來攜妓恣經過· When in the mood we took courtesans by hand, indulg-

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翠蛾嬋娟初月輝· With alcedine brows alluringly drawn, in the gleam of

ing our every whim, 其若楊花似雪何· Like willow flowers they were, and oh so resembling snow! 紅糚欲醉宜斜日 In their rosy make-up, nearly drunk, just right in the sun’s slanting rays, 百尺清潭寫翠蛾· Or by a tarn, clear a hundred feet down, that traced their alcedine brows. early moonlight, beauties sang in turns and danced in their gauzy clothing. 清風吹歌入空去 A clear breeze wafted their songs away and into space, 歌曲自繞行雲飛· Where songs and tunes wrapped round clouds flying on high. 美女更唱舞羅衣· The

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此時歡樂難再遇· The happiness and joy of those times was hard to come

by again, westward I made my way to proffer a “Fu on Tall Poplars Palace.”39 北闕青雲不可期 At the northern pylons I could not hope to mount up to clouds in the blue;40 東山白首還歸去· To my eastern mountains, white-haired back home once more I went.41 [stanza break] 西遊因獻長楊賦· As

39  Li Bo was now going to Chang’an. To offer up a “Fu on Tall Poplars Palace,” alluding to a composition on imperial hunting expeditions by Yang Xiong 揚雄 (53 bce–18 ce), means to seek favor at court. He uses the same reference for his being called to court in 742, of offering a “Tall Poplars fu,” in another poem; see the opening line of “Da Du xiucai Wusong shan jian zeng” 答杜秀才五松山見贈, lbqjjp 17.2756, lbjjz 19.1137. 40  The northern pylons was traditionally where petitions to the throne were presented. Mounting up to “clouds in the blue” means ascending to official preferment. 41  Returning to the “eastern mountains” is reminiscent of the celebrated reclusion of the statesman Xie An 謝安 (320–385), but before—not after, as with Li Bo—his service at court.

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56

渦水橋南一遇君· Then at the south end of Guo River’s bridge all at once

60

言亦不可盡 My words, they cannot say it all, 情亦不可極· Nor can feelings be told to their end. 呼兒長跪緘此辭 I call to the boy and, kneeling long, now I seal up these

I came upon you,42 鄼臺之北又離羣· But soon north of the Terrace of Cuo we parted company again.43 問余別恨今多少 You asked me there how often must we be pained by such separations, 落花春暮爭紛紛· As falling blossoms at springtime’s waning fluttered in fractious confusion.

lines, 寄君千里遙相憶· To send a thousand miles to you—so far, but remembering you.

One of many excellences in this poem, with regard to the matters of form and style that we have been discussing, is the deft way in which Li Bo slows his pace at three crucial moments in the poem. He drops from heptametric lines to trimeter with the first parting from his friend in lines 11–12. He shifts to pentameter upon the invitation to Hu Ziyang’s magic loft in lines 19–20 (whence the heights of happiness are reached soon after with an unusual stanza of five rhyming lines). And he slows again to pentameter for the final stanza’s opening couplet, the closural aspect of which is emphasized by this being the only fourline stanza in the poem that does not use an aaba rhyme-scheme and which moreover begins with a couplet whose lines are identical to each other in wording except for two synonymous changes—this, another means of slowing the movement, so that the final emotion-laden couplet can be better savored. We might also note some of the other formal, as well as aural, features by means of which Li Bo structures the poem. It is made up of a dozen quatrain 42  The Guo River bridge referred to here was near Qiaoxian 譙縣, in Bozhou 亳州 (near present-day Boxian), He’nan. It was in Qiaoxian that Yuan held the office of aide-decamp, mentioned in the poem’s title. 43  The Terrace of Cuo was in Cuoxian, a short ways east of Qiaoxian (near present-day Yongcheng 永城 district, He’nan). It was reportedly the place where the early Han dynasty general Xiao He 蕭何 (d. 193 bce) was enfeoffed as Marquis. Versions of our poem that read the first four words of line 57 as “At the head of the bridge south of the Wei” 渭南橋頭 are obviously in error.

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stanzas, but with two exceptions: the fourth stanza consists of ten lines (13–22), the opening four lines of which rhyme (aaAa) before it falls into normal alternation in its remaining six lines; and the previously mentioned sixth stanza (lines 27–31) which is a rhyming quintain. These two stanzas punctuate narrations of unusual detail (in the first case) or exceptional pleasure (in the second case). Another “irregular” feature is the third stanza. I have construed it as an aaba quatrain, the last couplet consisting of two trimeter lines. But what look like successive trimeter lines in Li Bo’s poetry are usually best taken as one heptametric line, with a heavy caesura in the fourth position (3-x-3). If we consider this one line rather than two, it then gives us a stanza that is a triplet, all lines rhyming. Since this stanza tells us of the friends’ (first) parting, perhaps a stanza with a final couplet of cut-short lines—or a truncated stanza of only three lines—matches the sense of rupture. In longer poems of more than a few stanzas we often find poets alternating between level- and deflected-tone rhymes in succeeding stanzas. Li Bo largely does that here, beginning in the first stanza with a level-tone rhyme. But in two places he does not keep to a consistent alternation. The unusually long (for this poem) ten-line fourth stanza, with its emphatic aaAa beginning uses a level-tone rhyme, even though the preceding third stanza also used a (different) level-tone rhyme; longer stanzas normally favor level-tone rhymes.44 And the eleventh stanza (lines 48–51) is again a level-tone rhyme following after the preceding stanza’s (different) level-tone rhyme, the two stanzas here, however, being lexically knitted together by the “thimble-phrasing” (dingzhen 頂針) of the term cui’e 翠蛾 (“alcedine brows”) which ends the tenth stanza and begins the eleventh, carrying across the two stanzas the incident being recalled. One begins to see why Yin Fan chose this poem for inclusion as a representative work of the “unordinary” Li Bo. Although it is today probably the least known and least read of the thirteen Li Bo poems in the Heyue yingling ji selection (perhaps mainly because of its length), it is a perfect example of Li Bo’s irregular formal genius. As to topic, there are, to be sure, many mementos of friendship in medieval Chinese poetry. This surely is one of the most beautiful and engagingly written of them, and it can be prized as such. Many of the poems in Heyue yingling ji are likewise compositions addressed to parting or absent friends, but none is more particular, more complex, more individualized, than this.

44  Because there are altogether more words available in level-tone than in deflected-tone rhyme groups.

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While I have no doubt that Yin Fan himself felt and responded to the emotion in the poem, he does not speak of its affect. His critical remarks about Li Bo, as with the other twenty-three poets of his anthology, are directed mainly toward an appreciation of craft rather than subject matter. To gain a fresh perspective on High Tang verse, one which differs from later established views and reveals to us the inclinations of at least one well-informed contemporary reader, we might wish to consider such questions more than we normally do. Appendix

Yin Fan’s hyylj Preface

(1) After Zhaoming, heir-designate of the Liang, compiled the Wen xuan, there were more than a dozen individuals who put together presentations in a similar manner, all of them claiming that they were more excellent than the rest, gentlemen of the highest discernment, though few could fully be so credited. Again, from the Datong era (535–46) to that of Tianbao (742–present) nearly a thousand men have plied the brush [as poets], but aside from those in influential positions or personally well-connected, fewer than two in five among them could stand out vividly from the others. So why is it necessary for us to be compiling whenever we encounter a poem so that ever and anon we are filling up scrolls? To be sure, in planting an honest reputation for after one’s death, one ought not be “slavering and glavering.” Should the critical selection not be the most exact and jade be intermixed with stone, it will lead to the opinion of the many being confused and confounded and be painful to those who truly “know the tone.” 梁昭明太子撰文選, 後相效著述者十有餘家, 咸自稱盡善, 高聽之士, 或未全許. 且大 同至天寶, 把筆者近千人; 除勢要及賄賂者, 中間灼然可上者, 五分無二. 豈得逢詩輒 纂, 往往盈帙. 蓋身後立節, 當無詭隨, 其應詮揀不精, 玉石相混, 致令眾口銷鑠, 為知 音所痛.

(2) *** Long ago Ling Lun fashioned the pitch-harmonics, this being indeed the foundation of literary design. In this way, vital force exists owing to the harmonics in it, integral balance is lit up according to its harmonics, genius is made clear by the harmonics it attains. And if one is to excel in the lyric arena, one cannot but be aware of the place in it of the harmonics of sound. 昔伶倫造律, 蓋為文章之本也. 是以氣因律而生, 節假律而明, 才得律而清焉. 寧預於 詞場, 不可不知音律焉.

(3) But the sage Kong’s editing of the Poems is not something that has been understood in all ages. From the Han and Wei on to the Jin and Song there were some dozen or so

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eminent poets, yet when one looks at their yuefu there still are minor slips in them. In the Qi, Liang, Chen, and Sui, those of inferior grade really were numerous; and those who were narrow specialists held tight to their jealousies, which did significant damage to the Way [of poetry]. 孔聖刪詩, 非代議所及. 自漢魏至於晉宋, 高唱者十有餘人, 然觀其樂府, 猶有小失. 齊 梁陳隋, 下品實繁, 專事拘忌, 彌損厥道.

(4) Now, those with skill in literature are not those who say that the four tones are necessary to realize the most fluent beauty or that the eight defects must all be avoided. And even if we do not adhere to the rule of “tweaking the second word,” that is not a profound deficiency. To wit, “Her gauze cloak, how if flutters and swirls!/ Her long skirt trails after the breeze” [which consists of ten level-tone words in succession] still retains a decorous lyric tone, to say nothing of other lines [with less severe “defects”]. 夫能文者匪謂四聲盡要流美, 八病咸須避之. 縱不拈二, 未為深缺. 即「羅衣何飄飄, 長 裾隨風還」, 雅調仍在, 況其他句乎.

(5) Likewise, in phrasing there is harder and softer, in lyric tone there is higher and lower, but as long as phrasing and lyric tone match up, well balanced from beginning to end, with no falling off in the middle, this is to “know the tone.” And even if Mr. Shen [Yue] finds fault with Prince Cao [Zhi] for not having been awake formerly [to the euphonic necessities in poetry], the Reticent Marquis would be going much too far to say so. 故詞有剛柔, 調有高下, 但令詞與調合, 首末相稱, 中間不敗, 便是知音. 而沈生雖怪曹 王無先覺, 隱侯言之更遠.

(6) Those whose works I, Fan, have collected here are quite different from all others in that they are well-schooled in the newer sounds and also knowledgeable about the older styles, drawing equally on refined ornament and plain substance, bringing together both the [classic style of the Guo-] feng and the [more exuberant style of the Li-]sao. To talk of true vigor, they carry on the tradition of the Jian’an era (196–220); to speak of fine differentiation of sound, even the [poets of the] Taikang era (280–90) cannot come up to them. So let there be nothing here to make the finest scholars of future times complain in any respect. 璠今所集, 頗異諸家, 既閑新聲, 復曉古體, 文質半取, 風騷兩挟. 言氣骨則建安為傳, 論 宮商則太康不逮. 將來秀士, 無致深憾. ***

(7) Now, there is writing that comes from beyond oneself, from vital force, and from feelings; there is the decorous style, the low, and the popular. Only if an anthologist is able to carefully scrutinize these several styles and meticulously specify their

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provenance can he determine the better from the worse and pronounce on what should be included or excluded. 夫文有神來, 氣來, 情來; 有雅體, 鄙體, 俗體. 編紀者能審鑒諸體, 委詳所來, 方可定其 優劣, 論其取拾.

(8) As to those like Cao [Zhi] and Liu [Zhen], their poems are mostly direct in language with little precise parallelism. Sometimes there even are five successive characters in deflected tones or ten all in level tone, yet a relaxed control is maintained throughout. But still the tendency of the pint-sized and hypersensitive is to dispraise the ancients for not distinguishing one tone from another and for the artlessness and plainness of their verses, being too fastidious to learn anything from their example. And so these sorts “attack from a different angle,” pushing on heedlessly, with a theory that is inadequate but always with words to spare, totally lacking in evocative imagery, only prizing frivolous allure. Even if one fills a coffer with their writings, of what use would they be? 至如曹劉, 詩多直語, 少切對, 或五字並側, 或十字俱平, 而逸駕終存. 然挈瓶膚受之流, 責古人不辨宮商徵羽, 詞句質素, 恥相師範. 於是攻異端, 妄穿鑿, 理則不足, 言常有餘, 都無興象, 但貴輕艷. 雖滿篋笥, 將何用之.

(9) From the [Qi and Liang reigns of the] Xiao clan onward, pretentious glitter was specially emphasized. At the beginning of the Wude era (618–27) faint ripples [of this trend] were still in evidence, but by the end of the Zhenguan era (627–50) a [new and] conspicuous standard was gradually being raised. In the Jingyun era (710–12) there was something of a breakthrough in far-reaching lyric tone. But it was only after the fifteenth year of Kaiyuan (727) that both euphonic imperatives and pervasive vigor were alike perfected. Truly, from His Highness on down there was then a dislike of the showy and a fondness for simplicity, an aversion to the contrived and a bent for the sincere, which effected in the lyrical arena within the Four Seas a consonant appreciation of the ancient, so that the Airs of the South (i.e., the 周南 and 召南) and the court-songs of Zhou are commended and accessible in the present day. 自蕭氏以還, 尤增矯飾. 武德初, 微波尚在. 貞觀末, 標格漸高. 景雲中, 頗通遠調. 開元 十五年後, 聲律風骨始備矣. 實由主上惡華好普朴, 去僞從真, 使海內詞場, 翕然尊古, 南風周雅, 稱闡今日.

(10) I, Fan, am no expert but have flattered myself that as an amateur I might make a choice edition from the host of talents, thus celebrating the excellence of our peerless dynasty. As it happens, my current withdrawal from the greater world has enabled me to follow through with this long-cherished intention. 璠不揆, 竊嘗好事, 願刪略群才, 贊聖朝之美. 爰因退跡, 得遂宿心.

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(11) Now, in very truth, the twenty-four men [whose works are included here]—Wang Wei, Wang Changling, Chu Guangxi, and the others—are all of them the finest souls of our rivers and alps. This collection, then, has readily been so named. The poems here are two hundred thirty-four, and are divided into two scrolls. The earliest dates from the jiayin year [of the current cycle, i.e., 714], the latest from the guisi year (753). In the sequential arrangement in which I have set them out, each poet is introduced by a brief evaluative headnote. But if a poet’s reputation does not match with the facts or his talent does not concord with the Dao, then even if the weight of his prestige would overpower the formidable magnates Liang [Ji] and Dou [Xian], he will not after all be included here. 粵若王維, 王昌齡, 儲光羲等二十四人, 皆河嶽英靈也, 此集便以河嶽英靈集為號. 詩二 百三十四首, 分為上下卷, 起甲寅, 終癸巳. 倫次於敘, 品藻各冠篇額. 如名不副實, 才不 合道, 縱權壓梁竇, 終無取焉.

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The Formation of the Tang Estate Poem Stephen Owen The Tang estate poem, although not without precedents, first took on its characteristic features during the second reign of Zhongzong 中宗 (705–710),1 when notices of literary occasions increasingly made reference to estates as such (zhuang 莊, shu 墅, or bieye 別業). A new interest was taken in exurban nature, sometimes around Luoyang but primarily in the Chengnan 城南 region south of Chang’an, and with that interest came a set of values that was to linger on into later estate and garden poetry. Such heightened interest was clearly related to the formation of vast Chengnan estates by the imperial princesses—Taiping 太平公主, Anle 安樂 公主, and Changning 長寧公主—who, together with Empress Wei, dominated both the era and the emperor. The estates of the three princesses were all sites of imperial visits mentioned in the record of court occasions preserved in Tangshi jishi 唐詩紀事.2 Many of the poems on these occasions have been preserved in what seem to be the full original series in Wenyuan yinghua 文苑英華.3 The formal pomp of an imperial visit by Zhongzong to his daughter’s or sister’s estate yielded a poetry little different from that of other court excursions during the period. The interest in estates, however, went beyond the conventions of celebrating such court occasions. We also find poems on the Source: “The Formation of the Tang Estate Poem,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 55 (1995): 39–59. 1  What I am considering the “estate poem” overlaps with banquet and excursion poetry. It is not so much a true subgenre as a topic, involving the adaption of existing subgenres to the growing interest in private estates and exurban nature early in the eighth century. The estate poem is closely related to the rich corpus of poems on imperial excursions and their attendant banquets. It is also also in the lineage of poetry on open air banquets, such as the “Gathering for a Banquet at Ande’s Mountain Pool” (Ande shanchi yanji 安德山池宴集), from the first part of the seventh century. Wenyuan yinghua (Taibei: Xinwenfeng chuban gongsi, 1979) 165.5b–7a. From later in the seventh century we have the private estate banquet of Gao Zhengchen; see Tangshi jishi (Taibei: Taiwan zhonghua shuju, 1970) 7. 86–93; see also Stephen Owen, Poetry of the Early T’ang (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), pp. 276–80. 2  Tangshi jishi 9.113–15. 3  It seems likely that the Wenyuan yinghua editors had access to an old collection of the poems on these occasions, which was copied into Wenyuan yinghua.

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more modest estates of lesser princesses and courtiers. Located on the margin between wild and domesticated Nature, the estate became a space of private withdrawal without the renunciation of public life. It is the literary construction of such a space, which went hand in hand with more tangible dredging and piling, that is my topic here. On the fourth of June in the year 710, just two months before he died, probably poisoned by his wife, the emperor Zhongzong paid a visit to the estate of the Princess Changning, his daughter by Empress Wei. The estate had been built near Mount Zhongnan on the site of an abandoned guard camp, combined with land confiscated from one Gao Shilian. It was supposed to have had a three-storied mansion, with the local landscape improved by the usual laborintensive means.4 Several of the literary courtiers of the Xiuwen guan 修文館 (Bureau for the Enhancement of Letters) were in attendance and composed poems for the banquet.5 The following is the offering by the venerable Li Jiao 季嶋, one of the Grand Scholars 大學士 of the Xiuwen guan (“In Attendance at a Banquet at Princess Changning’s Eastern Villa: To Command”; 03538):6 別業臨靑甸, 鳴鸞降紫霄. 長筵鵷鷺集, 仙管鳳凰調. 樹接南山近, 煙含北渚遙. 承恩咸已醉, 戀賞未還鑣.

To where her villa looks out on green meadows singing simurghs descend from the Lavender Empyrean. Yuan birds and egrets gather on long banquet mats, to immortal pipes phoenixes sing in harmony. Close-by the trees touch on South Mountain, as afar mists enfold the northern isles. 4  Xin Tang shu (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1975) 83.3653. 5  Wenyuan yinghua 176.7b–8a. The Xiuwen guan was a literary bureau founded in 708 by Shanguan Wan’er: see Zhang Yue 張説, Tang Zhaorong Shangguan shi wenji xu 唐昭容上官 氏文集序, Quan Tang wen (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983) 225.18a. 6  The five-digit numbers refer to poems in Hiraoka Takeo 平岡武夫 et al., Tōdai no shihen 唐代の詩編, Tang civilization reference series, 11–12, Institute for Humanistic Studies, Jimbun (Kyoto: 1964–64). This poem is given in an even earlier source, the Chuxue ji 初學記 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1962) 10.246. I have followed Chuxue ji and Wenyuan yinghua in reading 鸞 rather than 鑾 of Quan Tang shi, though there is little reason to prefer either of these closely related words; these may well be luan, “carriage bells.” Both Chuxue ji and Wenyuan yinghua read 鴛 rather than 鵷, the Quan Tang shi reading. Although the compound is sometimes written 鴛鷺, 鴛 here is understood as 鵷. In the last line I have followed Chuxue ji and Quan Tang shi in reading wei 未 rather than lai 來, the Wenyuan yinghua reading, which looks like an error.

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Receiving Grace, all have grown drunk, craving enjoyments, we have not turned our horse-bits homeward. Li Jiao here follows the well-established conventions of the court poem, whose rules of exposition permitted a range of variation known to all. In the opening couplet the title is amplified with a line on the villa and a line on the imperial visit; the second couplet describes the party, balancing the courtiers (yuan birds and egrets) with the imperial couple (phoenixes). The third couplet describes the scene symmetrically, balancing north and south, mountains and waters, proximity and distance; and the final couplet expresses gratitude and an enjoyment that makes the visitors reluctant to leave. Yet the courtier poets present were less effusive when visiting the politically unimportant Princess Changning than when visiting the powerful Princesses Taiping or Anle. At the estate of Princess Anle Li Jiao wrote as follows (03702):7 黄金瑞榜絳河隈, 白玉仙輿紫禁來. 碧樹靑芩雲外聳, 朱樓畫閣水中開. 龍舟下瞰鮫人室, 羽節高臨鳳女臺. 遽惜歡娯歌吹晚, 揮戈卻使曜靈回.

An auspicious placard of gold at a nook in the Scarlet River, then white jade coaches of gods from Lavender Precincts came. Sapphire trees, green pinnacles thrust up beyond the clouds, crimson mansions and painted towers appeared amid the waters. His Dragon Boat spied downward into chambers of the merfolk, feathered insigniae look down on high from the phoenix girl’s terrace. 7  Wenyuan yinghua 176.4b sets this occasion with Princess Anle; the collection and Quan Tang shi make it Princess Taiping. In the fourth line Wenyuan yinghua reads qian 前 rather than zhong 中. In the last line I follow Wenyuan yinghua reading queshi 卻使 rather than gengque 更卻 of Quan Tang shi. There is a nice point in the first line of this poem, which I have translated as nominal, according to the received text. There is, indeed, a Scarlet River, Jianghe 絳河, as part of the stellar regions; hence it is an appropriate figure for the emperor coming from Heaven. However, in the antepenultimate position of the first line in the preceding poem we have the homophonous jiang 降, to “descend from.” This is probably the correct reading; thus: “descends from the nook in the River [of Stars].”

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Then in our pleasures came sudden regret that the singing and piping grew late— and a pike is flourished to enforce the Radiant Spirit to turn back.8 The formal pomp of these two poems by Li Jiao contrasts sharply with poems from another visit to Princess Changning’s estate. This visit cannot be dated precisely, but it was probably in the early spring of 710, a month or two before the imperial visit described in the first piece above. The visitor was Shangguan Wan’er 上官婉兒, the most influential literary figure of the day, ghostwriter, it was said, for Zhongzong, the Empress, and the princesses. Shangguan Wan’er, the granddaughter of the court poet Shangguan Yi 上官儀, had as a child barely escaped death when her grandfather fell from power and her immediate family was executed. Her face tatooed with the mark of a criminal, she had been taken into the palace, where she rose through her talents to become Empress Wu’s secretary.9 During Zhongzong’s reign she became a political ally of Princess Anle and was made Zhongzong’s “Consort of the Shining Countenance” (Zhaorong 昭容)—her tatoo having presumably been concealed by the makeup of a great court lady. She sponsored the foundation of the Xiuwen guan, organized the lavish poetry picnics for the amusement of the court, and served as arbitrix in poetry competitions. Shangguan Wan’er was every bit as capable of rhetorical formality as Li Jiao. But on the occasion of a private visit, she wrote “Twenty-five Poems on Visiting Princess Changning’s Pool for Floating Winecups” 遊長寧工主流杯池二十五, which are rather different from the poetry composed in the august imperial presence (00272):10 檀欒竹影, 飆風松聲. 不煩歌吹, 自足娯情.

Swaying gracefully, bamboo shadows, whishing gusts, sounds of pines. We need not bother with piping and song— these serve to please my mood on their own. The motif of natural sounds taking the place of manmade music was a commonplace of Nature poetry and can be traced back to Lu Ji’s Zhao yin shi 8  The reference here is to the Lord of Luyang waving his pike to make the sun turn back and thus protract time. 9  Hou xi qi cai, zhi qing er bu sha ta 后惜其才, 止黥而不殺他. Xin Tang shu 76.3488. 10  The primary source of all these poems is Tangshi jishi 7.

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招隱詩 in the third century. It takes a moment to recall that what Shangguan Wan’er is describing here is not wild nature but the Chengnan estate of an imperial princess. Or to put it more precisely, it is the estate of an imperial princess praised not in the glittering terms of court and immortal hierarchies, but as the dwelling of the recluse in the wilderness. As party music is replaced by natural sounds, so too is human companionship replaced by forests (00274). 枝條鬱鬱, 文質彬彬. 山林作伴, 松桂爲鄰.

Boughs and branches, swollen and dense, pattern and matter in balanced perfection. My companions are the woods of the hills, pine and cassia are my neighbors. Shangguan Wan’er finds one of the highest Confucian values, “pattern and matter in balanced perfection,” in the trees, which thus may stand in place of human beings (the original locus of a balance between pattern and matter). If this poem had been written by someone outside the court, it might easily be read as an implicit rebuke to the literary amusements that Shangguan Wan’er herself organized for the court. In this “nature-ism” and in the “naive” style appropriate to it, Shangguan Wan’er is anticipating Wang Wei’s famous Wangchuan ji 輞川集. In the pentasyllabic quatrains she wrote on this same occasion, she comes closer still. Before returning to Shangguan Wan’er’s remarkable series of poems, which articulate the values of nature and the simple life within the highest echelons of court society, we might consider another series of poems that clearly reveals the uneasy conjunction of these two extremes. The “Nature” in which the earlier recluse was supposed to dwell was virtually defined by its figurative distance from the emperor and the center of power: so long as one was out of reach to the court and the bureaucracy, relative physical distance was immaterial. The recluse might consort with fishermen and woodcutters and still claim to be alone and away from all human society.11 The new “court recluses” of the Chang’an exurbs retained all the rhetoric of the traditional recluse. They claimed to inhabit a perfectly natural setting—although their version of “Nature” was usually constructed at immense expense and labor— and they reveled in being cut off from all human society, which paradoxically 11  Let me here dispose of the figure of “greater reclusion” dayin 大隱, the person who maintains a spiritual distance though serving in court. As popular a motif as that was, it does not figure importantly in these Tang poems.

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made their dwellings a popular destination for visits by the emperor and his courtiers. Shen Quanqi’s poem below offers a wonderful formulation: “Peach Blossom Spring meets the ninefold Palace.” This was an encounter of antithetical extremes, in which the center of political power (“the ninefold palace”) and the place defined by its rupture from centered political space (Peach Blossom Spring) came together. On January 18, 710, His Majesty and the court paid a visit to the estate of Wei Sili 韋嗣立, a powerful figure during the reign of Empress Wu and one of the Senior Scholars in the Xiuwen guan. Wei Sili’s estate was located in Parrot Valley in the foothills of Mount Li, and the visit was made in transit between the capital and the winter palace on Mount Li. Wei Sili earned a good reputation among historians for his memorials urging fiscal restraint during this period of lavish expenditure; but on this occasion he was said to have provided a hundred wagons of food and rustic dinnerware for the imperial picnic. Zhongzong, delighted, renamed the place Xiaoyao Valley 逍遙谷, “the Valley of Free Roaming,” and oxymoronically enfeoffed Wei Sili as the Duke Xiaoyao 逍遙公.12 To celebrate the occasion, Zhongzong and the literary courtiers all composed poems, which Wei Sili then had engraved on stone.13 Zhang Yue 張説 wrote the preface, which is included in Zhang Yue’s collected works as “An Account of the Eastern Mountain,” Dongshan ji 東山記.14 The preface begins with an uneasy conjunction of the highest public office and a yearning for the private life in Nature: The Minister of War and at the same time holding the lower third grade in the Secretariat-Chancellory, Grand Scholar in the Xiuwen guan, Lord Wei embodied in his person genuine tranquility, and his thoughts were in harmony with secluded remoteness. Though assisting gloriously in the halls of state, his concerns lie remote in woodland and heath. At the bend of the Eastern Mountain [i.e., Mount Li] he has an estate. There the mountain haze moves onto the moors, and mist in the thickets rises away from common things. Here are rocky tarns and bamboo slopes, a study among the pines and a plot for herbs. Rainbow springs shoot lightning, 12  There was precedent for this title, which had been granted to an earlier Wei, one Wei Xiong 韋敻 by the Northern Zhou emperor. In contrast to Wei Sili’s double role, Wei Xiong was a recluse who at first refused to serve. I am indebted to David Knechtges for pointing this out. 13   Wenyuan yinghua 175.8a–11b. The poems survive in two series, one in pentasyllabic pailü and the other in heptasyllabic quatrains. 14   Quan Tang wen 226.1a–2a.

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and cloudy trees moan emptily. All a blur, it seems like a dream; across difficult paths, one forgets all devices. He may be called a Kui or Long of hill and vale, or a Chaofu or Xu You in cap and robe. In the final oxymoron, the legendary ministers of the ancient sage-king Shun are made into recluses of the wilderness, while those who so resolutely fled public life, Chaofu and Xu You, are made to dress as officials. Some decades later, after describing a world of inverted values, Li Bai would return to this same example in the concluding section of the “Song of Minggao: to Cen the Summoned Scholar” 鳴皋歌送岑徴君 (08084): 若使巢由桎梏於軒冕兮, 亦奚異於夔龍蹩蹵於風塵.

Were one to force Chaofu and Xu You to be shackled by coach and crown, how would that be different from Kui and Long limping along in the windblown dust? Li Bai finds in these figures a nightmare of human nature violated by inappropriate roles; Zhang Yue, however, cheerfully celebrates the coexistence of antithetical impulses. It was precisely such doubleness that made possible the nature poetry of exurban Chang’an and Luoyang. Praise required historical examples, and there were none in the writers’ vast repertoire of cases that perfectly fit the oxymoronic union of statesman and recluse. The closest anyone could come was the Eastern Jin statesman Xie An 謝安, to whom Zhang Yue refers in his preface and whose example is implicit in its title. Xie An did have a villa in exurban Jinling, where he entertained courtiers, but he hardly fit the description of a Nature-loving recluse. Whenever “Peach Blossom Spring touches the ninefold Palace,” the proper result is either that Xu You washes out his ears and runs away or the emperor drafts a useful minister into his service. The poets, hard-pressed for historical examples with which to praise Wei Sili, had to turn to those recluses about to lose their amateur status, such as Zhuge Liang and Taigong. The following is Shen Quanqi’s 沈佺期 contribution to the occasion (05070):15

15  The primary anthology sources are Wenyuan yinghua 175.8b–9a and Tangshi jishi 11.160. These present some variants from the present text followed, which is that of Lianbo 連波 and Zha Hongde 查洪德, Shen Quanqi shiji jiaozhu 沈佺期詩集校注 (Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou guji chubanshe, 1991), p. 116.

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Owen 奉和幸韋嗣立山莊侍宴應制 台階好赤松, 別業對靑峰. 茅室承三顧, 花源接九重. 龍旗縈秀木, 鳳輦拂疏筇. 徑狹千官擁, 流長萬騎容. 水堂開禹膳, 山閣獻堯鍾. 皇鑒淸居遠, 天文睿獎濃. 巖泉他夕夢, 漁釣往年逢. 共榮丞相府, 偏降逸人封.

A Companion Piece to Imperial Command: “His Majesty Visits Wei Sili’s Mountain Estate—in attendance at a banquet” His terrace stairs are right for red pine,16 his country villa faces green peaks. Thatched chambers thrice received royal regard,17 Peach Blossom Spring touches the ninefold Palace. Dragon banners wind through tall trees, phoenix palanquins brush sparse bamboo. The paths strait, the thousand officers crowd, the stream long, room for ten thousand riders. At the hall by waters appear viands for Yu, in a mountain tower Yao’s goblets are offered. Our Sovereign examines this pure, remote dwelling, celestial text is a rich sublime reward. Cliff streams are dreams of evenings to come; fishing was encountered in years gone by.18 We share the glory of the Minister’s Precincts, he is specially granted enfeoffment as one disengaged. In the last couplet, as a special mark of imperial favor, Wei Sili is publicly honored with a title that by its definition is beyond the emperor’s power to bestow, a title that declares indifference to the public glory it represents. Any student of the Tang knows that the Tang elite could enjoy oxymorons and contradictory values poetically, free from any sense of conflict. I strongly suspect that Wei Sili did not wake up in the night and worry whether he wanted to be a leading officer of the court or live the private life in his exurban estate. 16  Although this probably refers here to the legendary tree, the association is clearly the Master Red Pine, Chisongzi, an immortal commonly referred to in estate poems of the period. 17  Referring to the three visits Liu Bei payed to gain the cooperation of Zhuge Liang. 18  Probably an allusion to Taigong.

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He obviously enjoyed both roles and, moreover, enjoyed displaying himself to the court as the private man living in Nature. But playing such a double role depended on the development of Chengnan and the capital region as “domestic” Nature, a space that was accessible to court and capital and could “stand for” more remote regions of reclusion. The “distance” of Wei Sili’s estate (line 11) is spiritual; the need for more pragmatic distances of reclusion is often proposed as something to be rejected. One of the most durable commonplaces in the poetry of this brief period took the form: Why bother to go far away to X [dwellings of the immortals or famous sites of wild Nature]?—you can find it right here! Or as Shangguan Wan’er observed epigrammatically (00276): 莫論圓嶠, 休説方壺. 何如魯館, 即是仙都.

Tell me no more of Round Spire, stop talking of Fanghu. How can they match the lodge of Lu—19 the Great City of Immortals is right here. Nearby in the Chengnan region the aristocrats and courtiers of the early eighth century found the land of immortals and the great mountains of hermits. This was Nature purchased (or confiscated) and physically modeled. Something of the dominance attained by this domestic version of Nature can be seen a century later, when the famous writer Liu Zongyuan 柳宗元 was exiled to the remote region of Yongzhou, the realm of wild Nature. There he purchased a small and useless hill, Gumu Hill, cleared its excessive vegetation to reproduce the aesthetic of exurban Chengnan, an aesthetic based on constructed Nature; and then he speculated on how much people would pay for it if it were located in the capital region.20 The estates of Chengnan and farther reaches of the capital region, such as Wei Sili’s estate by Mount Li, gave private life a practical space within a public life. One did not need to shrink away into diminutive spaces of imaginary vastness, as had Yu Xin 庾信 (513–581) in the “Poetic Exposition on My Small Garden,” Xiaoyuan fu 小園賦; nor did one need to remove oneself from public life altogether. The aristocrat and the court official had discovered the

19  The “Lodge of Lu,” Lu guan 魯館, is elsewhere referred to in court poetry of this period. I am uncertain of the allusion, if it is such. It might simply be a building on the estate. 20   Liu Zongyuan ji 柳宗元集 (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979), pp. 765–66.

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weekend retreat. Sometimes they acknowledged the contradiction of the public man in Nature, as at the end of the passage by Zhang Yue above; but more often, once they set out from the city, they were content to ignore it and lose themselves in the role of the recluse. Reclusion became not an absolute decision but one role among many, a construct that included both the constructed Nature of the Chengnan estate and the construction of private life through poetry. Some of the finest examples of the estate poem are Du Shenyan’s “Five Companion Pieces for Wei Chengqing’s ‘Visiting the Mountain Pool of Princess Yiyang’ ” 和韋承慶過義陽公主山池五首 (03741–45), probably from Zhongzong’s second reign (Du Shenyan died in 708).21 Wei Chengqing was the half-brother of Wei Sili and had been a close associate of the infamous Zhang Yizhi. The Princess Yiyang was the daughter of Gaozong’s Pure Consort Xiao, killed by Empress Wu, and had been out of favor during Empress Wu’s reign. The set begins with an announcement of the impetus for the visit: yexing, a “rustic impulse,” the mood of the moment. The picnickers leave the capital, carefully affirming their commitment to official life while at the same time admitting their urge to enjoy the “wilds” of Chengnan. 1 野興城中發, 朝英物外求. 情懸朱紱望, 契動赤松游. 海燕巢書閣, 山雞舞畫樓. 雨餘淸晚夏, 共坐北巖幽.

A rustic impulse came forth in the city, the flower of court sought the intangible. Hopes for vermilion cords clung in their hearts,22 but their fancies urged red pine excursions.23 Sea swallows nest in the library tower, pheasants dance in the painted mansion. The last of the rain cools late summer, as we sit together in North Cliff’s seclusion.

21  See Xu Dingxiang 徐定祥, Du Shenyan shi zhu 杜審言詩注 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, n.d.), pp. 10–11. The primary anthology sources are Wenyuan yinghua 165.7b– 8a and Tangshi jishi 6.77–78. I have followed Xu’s text except where indicated. 22  Vermilion cords mark high office. 23  “Red Pine” is the Tangshi jishi reading, referring either to the “red pines” or to the immortal Red Pine. Wenyuan yinghua reads “Red Spring,” chiquan 赤泉, an immortal place.

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2 徑轉危峰逼, 橋斜缺岸妨. 玉泉移酒味, 石髓換粳香. 綰霧靑條弱, 牽風紫蔓長. 猶言宴樂少, 別向後池塘.

The path bends round, sheer peaks press on it, the bridge slants where the gaping bank blocks.24 Jade springs displace the flavors of wine, stone marrow replaces aromas of rice. Threading through fog, the green twigs supple,25 pulling the breeze, lavender vines long. As if to suggest that the joy of the feast is diminished, we go off elsewhere, to the pond at the rear. 3 攜琴遶碧沙, 搖筆弄靑霞. 杜若幽庭草, 芙蓉曲沼花. 宴遊成野客, 形勝得山家. 往往留仙歩, 登攀日易斜.

Holding zithers, we round sapphire sands, waving brushes, we toy in green wisps of cloud. Duruo’s the plant of this secluded yard, lotus, the flowers of the winding pond. As we picnic we become travelers of the wilds, in scenic splendor we reach a home in the hills. Everywhere the paces of immortals are stayed, we climb our way up, and the sun soon slants down. 4 攢石當軒倚, 懸泉度牖飛. 鹿麛衝妓席, 鶴子曳童衣. 園果嘗難遍, 池蓮摘未稀. 卷簾唯待月, 應在醉中歸.

Clustered stones rest against railings, waterfalls fly past the windows. Dwarf deer dash upon mats for dancers, 24  Reading xie with Tangshi jishi; other texts read hui 回, “turn,” wei 危, “sheer,” and tong 通, “gets through.” 25  Reading tiao with Wenyuan yinghua and Tangshi jishi rather than si 絲.

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little cranes tug at the gowns of the lads. We cannot taste all the fruits of the orchard, pool lotuses are picked but not made few. We roll up curtains to wait for the moon, we will surely go home in drunkenness. 5 賞玩期他日, 高深愛此時. 池爲八水背, 峰作九山疑. 地靜魚偏逸, 人閒鳥欲欺. 淸溪留別興, 更與白雲期.

For amusements we plan on days to come, for height and withdrawal we cling to this moment. This pool turns away from the Eight Rivers,26 the peaks make us wonder if they be the Nine Mounts. The place serene, fish particularly insouciant, the humans at ease, birds make sport of us. At Blue Creek, the impulse to stay our departure, we agree to meet again in the white clouds. It scarcely matters that this was the estate of an imperial princess. She was a middle-aged princess of no particular political importance; we suspect she must not have been in residence, or some polite acknowledgment of her existence would have been required. Her estate had become essentially a rustic park for the amusement of Chang’an officials. “Rustic impulses” could be satisfied by a good daytrip to Chengnan and, even more important, by the promise to repeat the experience. Such anticipation of repeating the experience was a favorite ending for the party poem during this period, but this particular party involves playing the recluse in the wilderness. Repeatability distinguishes a temporary role from an absolute choice about how to live one’s life. When the court meets Nature, and the ninefold Palace touches Peach Blossom Spring, there are other encounters. In the poems above and other estate poems there is a particular attention to junctures where something of Nature meets something artefactual and human. The poets are drawn to such margins where something of Nature leans on, presses against, bounces off, or tugs at the human presence. Active verbs in the “eye” of the line bear special 26  The Eight Rivers are those of the Chang’an region. Reading wei with Wenyuan yinghua and Tangshi jishi, rather than fen 分.

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weight. The architecture is not simply “in” the landscape: it is construed in an active relation—bending, avoiding, touching its natural surroundings. Such active conjunctions are stylistic as well as thematic and descriptive. Nature is recast in a transformation of the formal court style, in couplets associated with the artificial craft of the court poet. There is none of the stiffness demanded by the imperial presence, but in this “touching” or “meeting” ( jie 接) of antithetical worlds Nature is often figured anthropomorphically, or at least, as acting with intention. Poets openly “construct” Nature just as estate builders do; and their pleasure is not in wildness but in the play of Nature’s partial humanization. The encounter is transitory. The temporary quality of the excursion is always on the poet’s mind. Through the last three poems of the series Du Shenyan notes the day passing, thinks of leaving, and anticipates returning. Du Shenyan’s series represents the legacy of the banquet poem. It sustains the tension between art and Nature, with the poet always ready to reluctantly withdraw. Visiting the estate of Princess Changning in 710, Shangguan Wan’er crosses the boundary of forgetting; she writes “as if” she truly were the recluse who belonged in the natural setting, and her style shifts accordingly. Later in 710, after Zhongzong’s death, Shangguan Wan’er was executed. But this woman who set court poetic fashion seems to have been announcing a new sensibility in this, the last year of her life. It was a sensibility that had profound implications for the breakup of an aristocratic world. The mobility of roles embodied in the “weekend recluse” was the counterpart of a greater mobility of status and position. If the imperial Consort of the Shining Countenance, whose face was tatooed as a criminal, could play the male hermit, then roles were not determined by one’s status or by the social situation: they could be freely chosen, chosen in such a way that allowed the person to forget her other life. That element of self-fashioning in role-playing was to be one of the strongest characteristics of the period that followed, the High Tang. Shangguan Wan’er’s series of twenty-five poems on Princess Changning’s estate is, in many ways, a hybrid work. In the first of the pentasyllabic regulated verses the line, “The jade ring springs up over the remote construct” (yuhuan teng yuan zhuang 玉環騰遠創), recalls the figured formality of imperial visits.27 27  The six pentasyllabic regulated verses are found in Wenyuan yinghua 176.8a–9a. While these do not constitute a clear temporal progression, as does Du Shenyan’s set, the first seems clearly an introductory piece. These, along with other poems of the set, are included in Tangshi jishi, where they are arranged by genre. In addition to the pentasyllabic regulated verses, there are seven tetrasyllabic quatrains, nine pentasyllabic quatrains, and three heptasyllabic quatrains.

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But in the process the Consort of the Shining Countenance, one of the most powerful political and cultural figures of her day, is transformed into the recluse who shuns the world, describing herself in most unladylike terms as “wild and free” (fangkuang) (00281): 放曠出煙雲, 蕭條自不群. 漱流淸意府, 隱几避囂氛. 石畫装苔色, 風梭織水文. 山室何爲貴, 唯餘蘭桂薰.

Wild and free, I emerged from mist and cloud, with cool indifference I felt not of the common herd. Rinsing in currents, I cleared the seat of thoughts, leaning on an armrest, I shunned the noisy pall. Rock paintings adorned in the colors of moss, the wind’s shuttle weaves patterns in waters.28 What makes these mountain chambers so prized?— here remains the aroma of orchid and cassia. The first half of this poem is strongly marked as a male role. The transformation of reclusion from an absolute decision about how to live or a temporary consolation during one phase of a person’s life into weekend role-playing made it possible to assume the role with greater ease than had heretofore been possible. During this period dominated by women (as opposed to the reign of Empress Wu, which was dominated by one woman), Shangguan Wan’er could unselfconsciously step into a role that had previously been reserved for men. In none of the twenty-five poems is there even a hint that the author is a woman; they do not express any of the unease women writers sometimes showed in transgressing their gender roles. In the mixed-sex court occasions of Empress Wu’s and Zhongzong’s reigns we might expect that gender would disappear into status, but in these poems Shangguan Wan’er assumes a private role, ostensibly speaking for herself. Just how literally are we to read the recluse’s gesture at the beginning of the third of the pentasyllabic regulated verses (00279)? 霽曉氣淸和, 披襟賞薜蘿.

Morning of clear skies, air gentle and cool, I pull open the folds of my gown to enjoy the ivy. 28   Tangshi jishi, the primary source, reads mu 木 for shui 水. Although shui is by far the easier reading, mu is an interesting possibility.

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Pijin 披襟, “pulling open the folds of one’s gown,” also means to “feel open and free”; but in the Tang the psychological implications can never be entirely dissociated from the empirical act that embodied them. We have difficulty imagining the middle-aged Consort of the Shining Countenance wandering alone through the mountains, and even more difficulty imagining her baring her breast in a gesture of insouciant freedom. Perhaps a discreet tug would have been enough to convey the message visually—if that were necessary—a mere sign of the hermit’s liberation from sumptuary propriety. But just as Wei Sili, Minister of War and Grand Scholar of the Xiuwen guan, can play at being a hermit, so can Shangguan Wan’er. Shangguan Wan’er’s pentasyllabic quatrains in this series have a staged simplicity that in some ways anticipates Wang Wei’s Wangchuan ji. 攀藤招逸客, 偃桂協幽情. 水中看樹影, 風裏聽松聲.

Pulling myself along by vines, I summon the aloof one, lying resting against cassia suits my reclusive mood. In the waters I look at reflections of trees, in the wind I listen to sounds of the pines.29 泉石多仙趣, 巖壑寫奇形. 欲知堪悦耳, 唯聽水泠泠.

Springs and rocks offer much zest of immortals, ravine and cliff outline wondrous shapes. If you would know what most delights the ear, just listen to the trickling of waters.30 巖壑恣登臨, 瑩目復恰心. 風簧類長笛, 流水當鳴琴.

Climb cliff and ravine as much as you please, they dazzle the eye and content the heart. Breeze in bamboo is like long flutes, flowing waters serve as the sounding zither.31

29  00283. Despite the simplicity of the diction, the use of a parallel second couplet in a quatrain recalls late Six Dynasties practice. 30  00285. 31  00286.

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Owen 瀑溜晴疑雨, 叢簧晝似昏. 山中眞可玩, 暫請報王孫.

Cascading streamlets seem rain in clear skies, bamboo thickets in daylight seem dusk. One may truly amuse oneself in the hills, and I pray you let me report this to the Prince.32 The buildings of Princess Changning’s estate are hardly ever mentioned, except in the concluding couplets of the first of the regulated verses (00277). 鑿山便作室, 憑樹即爲楹. 公輸與班爾, 從此遂韜聲.

Digging in hills, she made her chambers, laying weight on trees, she formed pillars right there. Gongshu Ban, Lu Ban, and Wang Er33 from this henceforward sheathe your renown.34 The venerable trope of Nature taking the place of human artifice, from the Zhao yin shi of Lu Ji 陸機 and Zuo Si 左思, seems to have been made literal on Princess Changning’s estate. If the estate actually used artificial grottoes or rooted trees (still living?) as architectural supports, it would be an excellent index of a naturalizing fashion at work in the construction.35 Shangguan Wan’er’s series is a stylistic hybrid, at times seeking a language proper to the experience of Nature, at other times, as when she rhetorically addresses the exemplars of artifice, coming up with phrases such as taosheng, “sheathe renown.” But in these poems we can see the beginning of a sensibility for stylish rusticity in the highest levels of capital society. This forms the background for one of the most common dimensions of High Tang poetry, when 32  00289. The “Prince,” wangsun 王孫, is an emblematic figure from “Calling Back the Recluse,” Zhao yinshi 招隱士, in the Chuci. There the recluse who lives in dangerous and violent nature is recalled to civilization. Shangguan Wan’er’s inversion anticipates the closing couplet of Wang Wei’s famous “Autumn Darkness Dwelling in the Mountains,” Shanju qiuming 山居秋暝: “Spring’s sweetness ends as it will, / yet you, my Prince, may linger on” 隨意春芳歇, 王孫自可留. 33  Gongshu Ban and Lu Ban were two famous craftsmen of antiquity, who in some traditions are collapsed into a single name. Wang Er is another famous craftsman. I am indebted to David Knechtges for the identification of Wang Er. 34  Taking the peculiar compound taosheng in the sense of taoguang 韜光. 35  One possibility is that naturalizing architecture has priority here and that Shangguan Wan’er is adapting her poetic style to correspond to it.

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the gentry of the capital would take a day off and venture into Chengnan to “visit the recluse” or themselves retire to their estates to await such visits. It is but a short step from Shangguan Wan’er visiting Princess Changning’s estate to the poetry of the private estate. Song Zhiwen 宋之問 had an exurban Luoyang estate at Luhun and a Chang’an estate at Lantian, an estate that would, in the next generation, become Wang Wei’s own. “My Mountain Estate at Lantian” 藍田山莊 (03253)36 宦遊非吏隱, 心事好幽偏. 考室先依地, 爲農且用天. 輞川朝伐木, 藍水暮澆田. 獨與秦山老, 相歡春酒前.

Official travels are not reclusion in low office, the heart loves being hidden and out of the way. To site your house, give precedence to following the lay of the land; to be a farmer, make use of Nature. At Wang Stream I cut down trees at dawn, with the Lan’s waters I irrigate fields at dusk. Alone with old men of the hills of Qin I make merry before the spring wine. As Wei Sili, by the title of Duke Xiaoyao, was figured as Zhuangzi, the Clerk of the Lacquer Garden, who attained spiritual freedom in his low post, so Song Zhiwen claims the status of liyin 吏隱, “reclusion in low office,” “reclusion as a clerk.” Although by no means a great court officer of Wei Sili’s stature, Song Zhiwen, one of the Regular Scholars (zhixueshi 直學士) of the Xiuwen guan and a courtier in close attendance on Zhongzong, could hardly claim “reclusion in low office.” It was, however, a pleasing role; and the poetry of this role was taking shape around the private estate.37 Like Princess Yiyang’s estate, which in Du Shenyan’s poems bends to the topography, and Princess Changning’s estate, where trees serve as columns, Song Zhiwen’s buildings “follow the lay of the land”: the artefactual is made to conform to the natural. In the decades that followed, the stylized simplicity of the great courtier who “follows the lay of the land” and plays the farmer or recluse became commonplace. The more elegant courtly verse, however, did not disappear altogether. Imperial presence anywhere summoned a formality that remained 36   Wenyuan yinghua 319.7a. This juan contains some interesting seventh century precedents by Yang Jiong and Lu Zhaolin. 37  See also 03185, 03190, and 03252. Song also had an exurban Luoyang estate at Luhun.

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Owen

by and large unchanged from Zhongzong’s reign and earlier. And though the grand might prefer to assume the pose of the simple life, there were feasts and other occasions that demanded echoes of imperial formality. Du Shenyan’s “artful” style of estate poetry, which foregrounds the margin between Nature and art, did not disappear; it survived and was transformed, creating an image of nature different from the one preferred by the courtier turned weekend recluse. One remarkable couplet from Du Shenyan’s series reads: Dwarf deer dash upon mats for dancers, little cranes tug at the gowns of the lads. This couplet was remembered in an early poem by Du Shenyan’s grandson Du Fu, already a mature man and writing in the 740s or early 750s. “Another Upon Zheng’s Eastern Pavilion” (10908) 華亭入翠微, 秋日亂淸輝. 崩石攲山樹, 淸漣曳水衣. 紫鱗衝岸躍, 蒼隼護巢歸. 向晚尋征路, 殘雲傍馬飛.

This splendid pavilion enters azure mists, where comes autumn sun’s clear glow in disarray. Fallen boulders slant upon mountain trees, and clear ripples tug sheets of algae. Lavender scales vault, dashing on shores, a blue-gray hawk returns to guard the nest. Towards evening I seek the road I must travel, with tattered clouds flying past horse’s flank. Echoing Grandfather’s memorable “tug” (yi 曳) in the third position of the pentasyllabic line, Du Fu cannot resist adding the parallel “dash on” (chong 衝) across the couplet break. Whoever the Zheng of Du Fu’s poem was, his or her immediate family would not have been in office; that would usually have required some designation of official title when stating the occasion. We have left both court and officialdom; and yet the place is depicted with distinct craft of an older court poetry. As the aristocrat and high court officer learned to play the role of the recluse, with a poetry of simple grace appropriate to the role, a poet with no office could play the gracious courtier when visiting the pavilion of someone of no rank.

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The Formation of the Tang Estate Poem

1019

The same style occurs elsewhere in Du Fu’s earlier poetry, most notably in the two series comprising fifteen poems on visiting the “mountain woods” of one General He (10936–45, 10946–50). And Du Fu would frequently allude to that style in his later poetry, whenever he wanted to evoke the magic of a lost era. To assume a temporary role does not mean one is insincere, but simply that a life decision is not required. Wang Wei’s poems often celebrated the pleasures of the private life in nature at Wang’s Lantian estate, and scholars have often placed these poems in the context of a withdrawal from active participation in court life. Such an attempt to link the values expressed in poetry to the putative sentiments of an extended phase of a person’s life can be misleading. One could be both recluse and courtier, without being tormented by the contradiction (or the contradiction could be transformed into a theme that was part of the whole). Very gradually through the eighth century the “private” came to be conceived not as the alternative to a public life, but as part of a life that could simultaneously contain both public and private. Opening a space for the private or for a theatrical performance of the private within the social sphere was an important event in Chinese civilization, and over the next few centuries a cultural repertoire of private roles for public people evolved. Although ownership did not become an important theme in prose and poetry until the ninth century, it was what separated the estate poem from a simple excursion into Nature. The Six Dynasties recluse had usually lived in unowned Nature; increasingly in the Tang, the peace and security found in natural surroundings required ownership of space.38 Ownership and construction go hand in hand: no one digs ponds, builds hills and pavilions, or plants groves in wild, unowned Nature. Shelter, and not the simulacrum of Nature, is the recluse’s construct. But for the weekend recluse on his estate, the role of recluse is assumed and the space is constructed: experience is staged, and the person having the experience will ever more loudly claim his spontaneity and insouciant ease. Since the rounded contours of hills, flowers, and trees were commonly figured as parts of women, we might think of Shangguan Wan’er, her face tatooed with the mark (wen 文) of a criminal, named at the same time The Shining Countenance, Zhaorong. She was inclined to write, literally, on Princess Changning’s natural landscape (00282): 38  Xie Lingyun, of course, wrote of his estate; but it was as a space of radical separation from public life rather than a weekend retreat. By the early ninth century writers commonly speak of ownership explicitly, along with purchase and prices.

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Owen 莫怪人題樹, 祇爲賞幽棲.

Don’t blame me if I write upon your tree— it’s only because I appreciate this hidden roost. Nature is both the topic and the material medium of expression; expression declares Nature to be such. But Nature here is a socially framed space designed to elicit such an expression, and the expression is reinscribed on Nature to be displayed to the human entourage. If there remains any trace of unease in the contradiction, it is in mo guai 莫怪, “don’t blame me,” or “do not think this [improperly] strange.”39 This gracious injunction calls to mind the propriety of Nature uninscribed, unmarked by either appreciation or blame.

39  It is uncertain here whether guai 怪 should be taken simply as “marvel,” or in the extended sense it had already acquired of “blame”.

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