Neo-Confucian Thought in Action: Wang Yang-Ming's Youth (1472-1509) 0520029682, 9780520029682

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Neo-Confucian Thought in Action

TU WEI-MING

Neo-Confucian Thought in Action Wang Yang-ming's Youth (1472-1509)

U N I V E R S I T Y OF C A L I F O R N I A BERKELEY •

LOS ANGELES •

LONDON

PRESS

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England Copyright © 1976, by The Regents of the University of California ISBN 0-520-02968-2 Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 74-29799 Printed in the United States of America

To my Father and Mother

CONTENTS

Preface Acknowledgments Introduction THE 1. 2. 3. 4.

DECISION

55

ENLIGHTENMENT

95

The Fight Against Liu Chin, 95 The Road to Lung-ch'ang, 105 The Sudden Enlightenment, 118 New Dimensions of Human Relatedness, 129 The Structure of Self-cultivation, 137

THE 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

13

Existential Choice at Yang-ming Grotto, 55' Ch'an Buddhism and Familial Attachment, 63 Taoism and the Spirit of Tseng Tien, 72 Confucianism and the Trip to Shantung, 79 Ultimate Commitment in Peking, 88

THE 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

1

Ancestry and Birth, 13 Talented Poet and Concerned Literatus, 22 Military Strategy and Bureaucratic Routine, 31 Taoist Master and Confucian Sage, 42

THE 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

SEARCH

ix XV

The The The The The The

MEANING

147

Precept of chih-hsing ho-i, 147 Relevance of Lu Hsiang-shan, 153 Challenge of Chu Hsi, 157 Issue of ko-wu, 163 Principle of Subjectivity, 167 Implications of chih-hsing ho-i, 172

Notes Bibliography Glossary Index

177 199 211 219

PREFACE

As ONE of the most dynamic thinkers in the Confucian tradition, Wang Yang-ming has exerted profound influence on generations of East Asian intellectuals. His philosophy, spreading throughout China proper, dominated the Chinese intellectual scene from the mid-sixteenth to the late seventeenth century. Yang-ming's teaching, known as the Ydmeigaku in Japan, was expounded by such outstanding thinkers as Nakae Toju (1608-1648), Kumazawa Banzan (1619-1691), and Sakuma Shozan (1811-1864), and has been recognized as a powerful tradition in Japanese thought. The repercussions of Yang-ming's ideas are still evident in China and Japan today: Sun Yat-sen's (1866-1925) doctrine of action, Hsiung Shihli's (1885-1968) philosophy of mind, and Mao Tse-tung's theory of practice, not to mention Mishima Yukio's ritual suicide that shook the literary world in November, 1970, are all, at least in part, influenced by Yang-ming's mode of thought. Much of the strength of Yang-ming's thought lies in the dynamic quality of both his philosophical insights and his personality. During his lifetime he attracted hundreds of students, from farmers, merchants, and local gentry to scholar-officials (including prefects, censors, and highly esteemed academicians); they hailed from the remote areas of Kwangtung, Hukuang, and Kiangsi as well as from Yang-ming's native region of the Yangtze delta. Noted for his teaching on innate knowledge, which grew out of his epochmaking theory that knowledge and action are one, Yang-ming reshaped the structure of Confucian thought in a fundamental way. Intent upon underscoring the importance of self-determination, he advocated that experiential understanding of the classics through self-cultivation must take precedence over book learning. He himself exemplified the new teaching by deeds rather than by words. ix

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Under his influence, the Confucian Way could no longer be considered a privileged avenue of the literatus. It became, as it was originally meant to be, a way of being human for all. It may not be farfetched to suggest, in this particular connection, that what Yang-ming had done to Confucianism was no less profound than what Martin Luther had done to Christianity. Yang-ming's transformation of Confucianism was also exemplified by his ability to inspire men of sincere purpose and firm action. His direct confrontation with the realities of court politics and his experiences in public service as a magistrate, a judge, a minister, and a governor added new dimensions to his lifelong career as a teacher of the unity of body and mind. He was the only Confucian master in Chinese history who shone brilliantly not only in the originality of his thinking but also in his creative application of new ideas to military strategy, social organization, and the administration of local governments. Indeed, his signal success in pacifying banditry in the frontier and his ingenious capture of the leader of one of the most devastating rebellions in the mid-Ming era won him the reputation as the foremost scholar-general in the Ming dynasty. Certainly, a holistic view of Yang-ming's thought must include an understanding of mid-Ming society. As we shall see, this is particularly true in depicting his first attempt at a precise formulation of his philosophy. In early sixteenth-century China, known as the mid-Ming period, the stability of the state and society was seriously threatened by increasingly despotic rule on top and mounting restlessness from below. The scholar-officials caught in between were acutely aware of an impending crisis, a crisis marked by eunuch power in court, nepotism in the bureaucratic process, and a profound sense of insecurity in society. As the traditional demand on the individual to gain upward social mobility through the Confucian examination system became more and more difficult to meet because of a substantial increase of qualified candidates competing for a highly restricted quota, young students were easily attracted to other modes of life, defined in Taoist or Buddhist terms. The issue was perceived by Yang-ming, his contemporaries, and those who were under the influence of Confucian symbolism not as a conflict between self and society but as a struggle to be human, which by necessity must involve both. They questioned whether or not one could be truthful to one's "personal locus," which was thought to

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be a center of relationships rather than an isolatable individuality, amid a variety of depersonalizing forces. My research has led me to believe that the single most important perennial concern in Yang-ming's formative years was his quest for sagehood defined in terms of Confucian symbolism. Consequently, a major focus of this study is an examination of what Yang-ming meant by the term "sagehood." Such a concern may seem strange to those who are familiar with the textbook account that Confucianism, with its particular emphases on social relations and public service, seems uninterested in what may be called the search for the perfection of the inner self. Indeed, many interpreters of Chinese history in the West have given the impression that a typical Confucian in traditional China was a scholar-official whose primary function in society was to assist the government in maintaining law and order. Since the Confucian sought to achieve this goal by harmonizing with the world, he preferred to use moral persuasion through civil service and education rather than political coercion. As a result, the Confucian's involvement in bureaucratic routines significantly restricted his range of spiritual pursuits and he became, by and large, a pragmatic government functionary. It is true that a Confucian might also be a talented artist, a creative poet, or a spiritual leader, but his overall commitment to roles defined in social and political terms made his other activities appear peripheral. Furthermore, it is often assumed that the quest for sagehood is oriented toward inner freedom. This quest, it is suggested, necessarily involves an outright rejection of established social norms. While society demands adherence to its empty conformity, the individual for the sake of self-realization must be freed from the stifling rigidities imposed upon him. This line of reasoning is predicated on the belief that the conflict between self and society is unavoidable and that self-realization must be defined in terms of a persistent struggle against social coercion. Viewed from this perspective, it is difficult to understand how a scholar-official, deeply involved in politics, could at the same time truthfully commit himself to the quest for sagehood. Another equally disturbing difficulty emerges from the common assumption that, since sagehood signifies a form of wisdom obtained through reflection and introspection, it is basically associated with a contemplative mode of life. Understandably, the popular

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image of a Confucian sage is that he is not only virtuous and wise but also extremely advanced in age. It therefore seems highly unusual that such a concept should be applied to a young activist like Yang-ming. No matter how far one stretches the imagination, one can hardly see the relevance of attaining sagehood to an aspirant scholar-official. Actually, in mid-Ming China, when the Confucian persuasion was unquestionably the most powerful intellectual force in society, it was not unusual to find Confucian generals and thinkers as well as Confucian bureaucrats and literati. The problem, then, would seem to lie in our deep-rooted habit of perceiving sagehood as a static personality ideal. It is difficult for us to see that sagehood can also be understood as a dynamic process of self-transformation. At issue here is not only what sagehood really means but also how it can be attained, since the meaning of sagehood is predicated on the mode in which it is pursued. Actually, in Confucian symbolism, sagehood is viewed neither as an unattainable goal nor as an abstract norm but, instead, as a standard of inspiration. The sagely way is a point of orientation that directs the Confucian to humanize himself so that the world around him can also be humanized. Thus the Way is always sought in the context of human-relatedness, which enables and sometimes impels a Confucian to assume an active role in society and politics. However, since sagehood is primarily an ethico-religious ideal, it is based on a set of values significantly different from what is commonly understood as social prestige or political power, and the quest for sagehood frequently leads to tension and conflict with the existing sociopolitical order. The Confucian, consequently, must work his way through society, even though he is fully aware that his spiritual self-definition inevitably contradicts the value system of the status quo. Similarly, although Confucian sagehood entails profound selfknowledge which, by implication, involves a persistent search for inner freedom, the sagely way never departs from the human world. The Confucian has no spiritual sanctuary comparable to the Christian church or the Buddhist temple. Ideas of afterlife, supernatural beings, and transcendent realities are peripheral to his ultimate concern. Indeed, a true Confucian can never become a hermit, for his quest for personal authenticity is inseparable from his commitment to society. And it is in this sense that the Confucian

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perceives sagehood as the most genuine and sincere manifestation of humanity in the world. Therefore, to a Confucian, the dichotomy of inner freedom and social participation does not present itself as a meaningful choice. The way to be human must be pursued as if the two were, in reality, one. To borrow a term from Herbert Fingarette, "the secular as sacred" is a defining characteristic of Confucian teaching. Consequently, the way to sagehood is not a withdrawal to a contemplative mode of existence but a dynamic process of self-transformation to be continuously enacted throughout one's life. The pursuit of sagehood as a dynamic process of self-transformation is certainly laden with far-reaching psychological implications. While one could describe and interpret Yang-ming's youthful adventures in a psychohistorical framework, the question of how he managed to deal creatively with his psychological stresses is noted here only as background. This study is focused on the interplay between the kind of symbolic resources Yang-ming continually tapped in formulating his own self-definition and how, through his intellectual appropriation of these resources, he fundamentally reshaped some of the well-established patterns of the thought that he drew upon. Thus, this study could be characterized as an analysis of the first crystallization of Yang-ming's thought in his quest for sagehood. It has been assumed in this book that the reader already knows a great deal about Ming intellectual history in general and Wang Yang-ming's life and thought in particular. Since the problems dealt with are perennial issues in the Confucian tradition, however, I also cherish the thought that my work may be of some interest to scholars in Asian thought and comparative religion. In March 1972, during the annual meeting of the Association for Asian Studies in New York, a special panel was organized to commemorate the five-hundredth anniversary of Wang Yang-ming's birth. In June of the same year, an international research seminar under the sponsorship of the East-West Philosophers' Conference was held at the University of Hawaii to celebrate the same event. Since then, a significant number of new interpretive accounts of Wang Yangming's life and thought have appeared in English for the first time. I hope that my work will make a modest contribution to this ongoing scholarship.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

IN THE course of my study on Confucian thought in general and on Wang Yang-ming in particular, I have received continuous guidance for almost two decades from three inspiring teachers, Professors Hsu Fu-Kuan, Mou Tsung-san, and T'ang Chiin-i, who are currently all senior fellows at the New Asia Research Institute in Hong Kong. Professor Nishitani Keiji of Kyoto and Professor Okada Takehiko of Kyushu have helped me to understand Yang-ming's spiritual quest as an expression of the Asiatic mode of thinking. Professor Wing-tsit Chan, whose pioneering work on Chinese philosophy has been a great source of encouragement to students of Ming thought, read the entire manuscript and generously advised me on many substantive issues. Professor Wm. T. de Bary of Columbia University has for several years provided intellectual leadership in the development of Neo-Confucian studies in America; through his good offices, I have benefited immensely from conversations with experts both at home and abroad. I am indebted to four scholars who in different ways guided my early research on Wang Yang-ming, which resulted in a dissertation for Harvard University (1968): Professor Robert N. Bellah and Professor Erik H. Erikson in their graduate seminars enlightened me on the religious and psychological aspects of Wang Yang-ming's personality; Professors Benjamin I. Schwartz and Yang Lien-sheng, my thesis advisors, carefully supervised me through the first two drafts of the manuscript. My appreciation also goes to Professors James T.C. Liu and F.M. Mote of Princeton University. As "teachers and friends" (shih-yu chih chien), they offered many penetrating suggestions for my postdoctoral research on Wang Yang-ming. xv

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

In writing this study I have learned a great deal from long discussions with my colleagues and friends at the University of California. I should like particularly to thank Gerard Caspary, Ch'en Ch'i-yun, John Ewell, Irwin Scheiner, and Frederic Wakeman for their insightful observations and constructive criticisms. I am grateful to Mrs. Grace O'Connell for her assistance in typing the manuscript for the Press. I owe a particular debt of gratitude to Paige Wickland for her painstaking scrutiny of the final draft. I wish also to acknowledge my indebtedness to four institutions who kindly gave me support at critical stages of my research: HarvardYenching Institute, the East Asian Research Center at Harvard University, the Council of the Humanities at Princeton University, and the American Council of Learned Societies. I acknowledge further the two publishers for permission to quote from copyright material: the Columbia University Press, for extracts from Wing-tsit Chan's annotated translation of Instructions for Practical Living and Other Neo-Confucian Writings by Wang Yang-ming (1964) and the Princeton University Press, for extracts from Cary F. Baynes* English rendition of Richard Wilhelm's German translation of the Book of Changes.

INTRODUCTION

since Wang Yang-ming's formulation of his precept on the "unity of knowing and acting" (chih-hsing ho-i) almost five hundred years ago, numerous attempts have been made to appreciate its meaning in the context of Neo-Confucian thought. Understandably, the majority of interpretations reflect particular concerns that are quite remote from the general direction of Yang-ming's thinking when the precept first came into being. Among those who attempted to relate chih-hsing ho-i to Yang-ming's life, few bothered to probe what may be called the "inner sensibility" of Yangming's spiritual quest. One notable exception is Professor Wing-tsit Chan's systematic inquiry into Yang-ming's thought and life in a series of annotated translations and monographic studies. His pioneering work provides the necessary foundation for further inquiry into Wang Yang-ming's life and thought. Another original contribution in the English language is David Shepherd Nivison's seminal essay 6n "The Problem of 'Knowledge' and 'Action' in Chinese Thought since Wang Yang-ming," in which the idea of chih-hsing ho-i is envisioned as one of the perennial issues in the intellectual tradition of China. 1 My attempt, by contrast, is a limited one. It is neither to offer a comprehensive treatment of Yang-ming's formative years nor to present a systematic analysis of chih-hsing ho-i. Rather, I intend to arrive at an appreciation of the inception of a great idea by feeling out the inner sensibility of the young man whose personal struggle centuries ago has actually become an integral part of the Confucian tradition as a whole. Such an appreciation requires careful investigation of both Wang Yang-ming's biography and Ming history. Thus, this study will examine both the specific EVER

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intellectual concerns and some less specifiable influences of Wang Yang-ming as a young man in Ming society which, in my opinion, contributed significantly to the birth of chih-hsing ho-i. Of course, to study Wang Yang-ming is to confront a great event in the intellectual history of China. For me, it is also an attempt to look into the dynamics of his life and teaching, not only as a memorable occurrence in the past but as a concrete manifestation of a perennial issue in the living tradition of Confucianism. I believe that the event of Wang Yang-ming symbolizes a dialectical development between a way of life continually guided by self-awareness and a method of teaching born of experiential search. From one perspective, Yang-ming's life seems to signify a sincere effort to actualize a personality ideal that can transcend the restrictions of society and history. From another perspective, Yang-ming's teaching seems to reflect the inner struggle of an individual at a specific juncture of time and place. Some honor him as a witness of the Confucian Tao; others see his experiential quest for self-realization as a departure from the Way of the sages. I would suggest that Yang-ming's life does contain a message that can be universalized into a general precept and that his teaching certainly conveys a sense of immediacy that must be appreciated in terms of his particular life situations. One of my basic suppositions is that Yang-ming's teaching involves neither a set of speculative ideas abstractable from the inner experience of the person concerned nor a form of intellectual exercise expounding theories about external truths. I must hasten to add that such an assumption slights neither the function of imagination nor the role of objectivity in Yang-ming's thought. However, to many students of Confucian humanism, the most striking characteristic of Yang-ming's teaching is that it manifests a kind of unmitigated human care through his own quest for self-realization in the concrete world of social relations. Teaching so conceived requires the participation of the teacher's whole life, for the value of the spoken word lies not so much in its argumentative power as in its ethico-religious foundation, which in this connection means the spiritual attainment of the teacher himself. Ideally, the teacher's way of life becomes a continuous crystallization of his teaching and his teaching becomes a continuous manifestation of his inner experience.

INTRODUCTION

3

It is not my intention to glorify Yang-ming as a paradigm of the exemplary teacher, if such a characterization overlooks the uncertainties and anxieties he experienced throughout his life. I am aware that one is easily struck by the apparent conflict between his many-sided talents and his single-minded dedication to a few carefully selected Confucian precepts. In fact, some scholars feel that there is a remarkable rupture between Yang-ming's role as a prominent political figure in the Ming dynasty and his image as a great Confucian master of traditional China. The variety in his life situations and in his interests may give the impression that he had difficulty in integrating his personality. I would contend, however, that even if we accepted the view that Yang-ming himself never realized his own perception of what a true Confucian ought to be, it is in the inseparability of his life and teaching that Yangming's strength or weakness really lies. Such a contention by no means implies that, since Yang-ming advocated the unity of life and teaching, he must have actually harmonized the conflict between a heuristic ideal and the reality of the life in which the ideal was supposed to have been realized. It simply suggests that, unlike the unity of a speculative construct or an epistemological system, the integrity of Yang-ming's teaching is based on his life experiences rather than on an objectifiable structure of propositions. We may certainly doubt the practicality or even the validity of such an approach to teaching. But if we are willing to take Yang-ming's claim seriously, a kind of fiduciary commitment on our part becomes necessary. Methodologically, it is important to note that a conscious design to arrive at a sympathetic understanding of Yang-ming's problematics, far from being insufficiently critical of historical evidence, is intended to underscore a dimension of Yang-ming's teaching that cannot be properly appreciated by mere description or by detached analysis. Accordingly, one of my main concerns is to understand why, despite the miserable plight of the scholar-official under the despotic control of the Ming court and the predicament of the Confucian thinker in a rigidly structured system of social rituals, Yang-ming persistently upheld the Mencian principle of the perfectibility of man and the attainability of sagehood by self-effort. To him, the axiom that "every person can become a sage" was not only an ideal but also a potential realizable in the daily affairs

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of each person. Indeed, he felt that sageliness within, the ultimate basis for self-realization, was an inalienable aspect of human nature. Man's inner goodness in this sense is not an assumption but an experienced reality. This is quite remarkable if we take note of the tremendous physical suffering and psychological frustration that Yang-ming must have encountered throughout his life. The prevailing image of Yang-ming as a highly respected Confucian master of his times, as the most influential scholar-general of the Ming dynasty, or as one of the most original and brilliant thinkers in the entire history of China tends to overshadow his life as a record of, in his own terminology, "a hundred deaths and a thousand sufferings." I think it is appropriate to characterize Yang-ming as a man who deepened the ethico-religious meaning of Confucianism and broadened the repertoire of Confucian possibilities not by adapting himself to the well-established values of his time but by courageously challenging the ideological and political authority of the status quo. This was done at the risk of his career, his life, and the fortune of his family. Actually, it is not farfetched to view Yang-ming's life chronology in terms of a series of agonizing experiences: his inability to speak until the age of six, his restlessness in youth, his failure to pass the metropolitan examination twice in his late twenties, his loss of a sense of togetherness with the only significant political and literary group of his generation, his abortive attempt to find a meaningful life in either the Taoist cult of longevity or the Ch'an Buddhist practice of spiritual detachment during his self-imposed moratorium in his early thirties, his traumatic experience of being publicly humiliated, probably in the presence of many high officials, by suffering a beating of forty strokes in the palace for his criticism of the eunuch Liu Chin in 1506, and his lonely and precarious existence in the remote region of Kweichow as an exiled official in his late thirties. Even after he had survived the ordeal of banishment, Yang-ming continued to face a variety of difficult challenges: the terrible dilemma of having to launch four extermination campaigns against bandits and rebels, numbered in the tens of thousands, in the border areas of Kiangsi, Fukien, and Kwangtung when he was in his forties; the dangerous predicament of being accused of plotting rebellion shortly after he had defeated and captured Prince Ning and thus eliminated one of the most serious threats to the survival

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of the Ming court; and, finally, an untimely death at fifty-seven, which occurred on the road hundreds of miles away from home, after he had successfully carried out the strenuous task of pacifying the aborigines of Kwangsi.* Indeed, Yang-ming's pattern of life is fundamentally different from our conventional idea of what the Confucian scholar-official ought to be: a conscientious bureaucrat, a loyal servant of the court, a dedicated teacher of classics and history, and a patriarch of a large family. To be sure, Yang-ming was an able administrator who not only revitalized the pao-chia system in the Ming but also established new organizations such as the Ten-family Placard system and the institution of the community compact. However, his administrative talent was manifested not in bureaucratic routine but in creative responses to exigencies. Yang-ming's real strength in the broad area of statecraft lay in military strategy. Yang-ming was also a loyal minister, but his loyalty to the emperor was tempered by a strong sense of righteousness, which he consciously applied as a principle governing the relationship between sovereign and minister. Undoubtedly he was a dynamic teacher, but he resisted the temptation of encapsulating his inner experiences in words. By characterizing his teaching as that of the "body and mind," he envisioned teaching as an integral part of a holistic process of self-realization. The available sources show that Yangming had assumed the role of the householder for the Wang family, but his lighthearted attitude toward the mourning ritual seems to have caused uneasiness among his relatives. It also drew sharp criticism from his best friend, Chan Jo-shui (Kan-ch'iian, 14661560).3 In what sense, then, can Wang Yang-ming be understood as a Confucian? Certainly his approach to Confucianism is in conflict with that of one of the most influential molders of the Confucian tradition, Hsiin Tzu (Hsiin K'uang, fl. 298-238 B . C . ) , who insisted that morality results from the conscious application of rituals and laws. His contempt for bookish learning is diametrically opposed to the literalism of many Han Confucian scholars, notably Cheng Hsuan (K'ang-ch'eng, 127-200). Furthermore, in his perception of the basic Confucian intent he is at variance with the majority of Neo-Confucian thinkers who followed Chu Hsi's (Yuan-hui, 11301200) tradition. However, it can be argued that Yang-ming's spiritual orientation still represents a significant line of development

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within the broad context of Confucianism. Among Confucius' own disciples, the taciturn Yen Hui and the carefree Tseng Tien were repeatedly cited by Yang-ming as exemplary teachers of the sagely way. Mencius, whose idealist humanism had become the mainstream of Confucian thinking since the founding of the Sung dynasty (960-1279), was respected by Yang-ming as the true transmitter of the Confucian Tao. And two Neo-Confucian masters, Ch'eng Hao (Ming-tao, 1032-1085) and Lu Hsiang-shan (Chiuyuan, 1139-1193), were considered by him to be witnesses of the authentic Confucian heritage. It should be noted that, in saying this, I am actually indebted to Wang Yang-ming's own vision of what the true Confucian orientation should be. Methodologically, I am thus confronted with a logical circularity: it is inconceivable that I can presume to define what the basic Confucian intentionality is without having recourse to the great insights of one of its most original practitioners; simultaneously, in our encounter with Yang-ming's intellectual biography, I propose to examine his thought in terms of a few root issues in Confucianism. My approach, however, intends neither to impose a preconceived structure of meaning on Yang-ming's mode of thought nor to restrict it to only one kind of interpretation. The pattern of Yang-ming's life and teaching would seem to elude conventional categories of Confucian personality. By commonly accepted criteria of success in Ming society, Yang-ming did not fare very well. He suffered repeated failures in his efforts to obtain an advanced degree, malicious slandering in his official career, poor health throughout his life and the agony of waiting until he was fifty-four before being blessed with a son to continue the family line. Even the way he died was not greeted with approval by the court. The official verdict on Yang-ming's life history is succinctly presented in a memorial to the throne by Kuei O (d. 1531). The Minister of Personnel and Chancellor of the Hanlin Academy accused him of "leaving his post without permission, mishandling the rebels, disrespecting traditional doctrines, spreading false learning, and allowing his followers to be reckless."4 As a result, those who protested on his behalf were dismissed or banished. The "false learning" was severely proscribed. This suggests a number of questions, all of which have a bearing on the evolution of the precept of chih-hsing ho-i: What was the

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import of Yang-ming's teaching? Where did the strength of his life and teaching come from? How did he manage to integrate the available resources and create an inner identity of his own when his life seems to have been fragmented and his teaching condemned by a variety of social and political forces? If we feel dissatisfied with the conventional interpretations of Yang-ming as the Confucian teacher who also learned to play the game of military strategy well or as the committed Taoist who preferred to be called a Confucian in disguise, we must try to wrestle with the problem which seems to have preoccupied Yangming throughout his life: how does one become a genuine, sincere, and truthful person in the midst of dehumanizing forces such as the irrationality of despotic rule, the rigidity of the examination system, and the hypocrisy of conventional mores? If Yang-ming was consciously trying to manifest his teaching with his whole life, and if his seemingly diversified life experiences were focused on a concerted pedagogical effort, we would be doing him a serious injustice by forcing the pattern of his spiritual integration into a preconceived notion of Confucian or non-Confucian personality types. The task before us, then, is to search for Yang-ming's inner sensibility and to try to come to terms with his own perception of what his spiritual quest really pointed toward. Generally speaking, two areas in Ming society are most relevant to our study: the examination system and the intellectual legacy of Sung Confucianism. No elaboration is needed to stress the importance of the first area. The civil service examination system, through which the majority of government officials were selected, constituted the most predominant, if not the only, channel of upward sociopolitical mobility in Ming China. Sung Confucianism, on the other hand, dominated the intellectual and cultural scene in the fifteenth century. The founder of the Ming dynasty had sought to revitalize a Chinese consciousness among the literati, which had been weakened for several decades under the foreign rule of the Yüan dynasty. Under imperial patronage, the private thoughts of the Sung masters became required reading for every official aspirant. Since Chu Hsi's philosophical synthesis was the indisputable apex of Neo-Confucian thinking, his interpretations of the Confucian classics, which were declared official doctrines in 1313, became the basis of Ssu-shu ta-ch'üan (Great collections of

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commentaries on the Four Books) and Wu-ching ta-ch'uan (Great collections of commentaries on the Five Classics),5 which were compiled by imperial decree in 1415. The two collections were assigned as texts for the examination. As a result, Chu Hsi's version of Sung Confucianism formed an integral part of the examination system. Thus, the two areas became two dimensions of the same reality. Unfortunately, the result of this fusion "at best encouraged a concern with fragmentary and isolated details and with nonessentials, and at worst led to the habits of memorization and recitation instead of searching for meanings and values." When Chu Hsi's comprehensive moral metaphysics was transformed into a form of pure scholasticism, "critical spirit, creative thought, and moral purpose and vitality gradually disappeared." 6 T o be sure, Chu Hsi's original intention had nothing to do with this highly ritualized form of official recruitment. Yet as the process of routinization and standardization gathered momentum, his primordial insight into the project of m a n as a delicate balance between moral self-awareness and intellectual appropriation of ideas and values from outside was lost in a set of externalized doctrines of mastering the classics by rote. Book learning became a utilitarian tool of social advancement, and the pursuit of knowledge became a mechanical assimilation of the required prose and poetry forms. Parallel to the massive attempt of the government to recruit "talents" according to fixed interpretations of the classics was the phenomenon of what Professor de Bary calls "the democratization of learning" in Ming China. Although the scale involved was relatively small in terms of the total population, its impact on the spiritual orientation of the Confucian educated elite was tremendous: Printing and dissemination of books, which made education more widely available, rendered mastery more difficult. To pursue the "investigation of things" (ko-wu) and their principles in one thing or affair after another, in book after book, seemed an endless procedure. Indeed the Ming scholar was already confronted by the typical modern dilemma—how to keep up with the proliferation of literature, how to cope with more and more specialized branches of learning, and not lose the sense of human relevance. Was he not threatened with a loss of the intellectual and spiritual integration which had always been the aim of Confucian study?7

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Significantly, ko-wu, an innocuous concept in Chu Hsi's allembracing program of self-cultivation, was a major stumbling block for Yang-ming in his search for sagehood. Yang-ming's exposure to the challenges of the examination system and the legacy of Sung Confucianism in his formative years can best be symbolized by the image of his father, Wang Hua, and by that of Chu Hsi. They represented two of the most coveted achievements conceivable by the Confucian scholar-official in Ming China. Chu Hsi's domination over the intellectual scene has already been mentioned. Wang Hua belonged to a different order of eminence. His influence on Yang-ming certainly could not rival that of Chu Hsi on spiritual and intellectual grounds, but in the consciousness of his son, the impact of his attainment of the highest degree in the civil service examination, which was awarded only once in three years, must have been staggering. As I will try to show, Yang-ming's youthful rebelliousness was by no means unrelated to the great success of his father. I do not intend to exaggerate this particular phase of Yang-ming's personality development, but I will note many points long dismissed as irrelevant hagiography by the Text Kritiks of the Ch'ing scholars. In the course of my study I have inadvertently become indebted to the judgments of Yang-ming's Nien-p'u (Chronological biography or life chronology). To be sure, the renowned encyclopedist, Mao Ch'i-ling (1623-1716) and "those of a rationalist and critical bent" 8 had good reason to dismiss several accounts in the Nien-p'u as legendary. This does not rule out the possibility, however, that the real strength of the Nien-p'u lies in its symbolic suggestiveness. It seems to me that, since the Nien-p'u was compiled by Yangming's most trusted disciples, notably Ch'ien Te-hung (Hsu-shan, 1496-1574), the Nien-p'u is not only a thoughtful portrayal of Yang-ming's personality but also a reliable record of the basic historical events in Yang-ming's life. After all, to his students Yangming was far from a mysterious saint who had some privileged access to the divine. As a man who suffered from many severe frustrations in youth, Yang-ming's struggle to attain a high level of spiritual and intellectual integration was a human drama, situated in a body of verifiable historical events. Ideally, we should examine Yang-ming's entire life and correlate it with all the stages of his teaching. A project of such magnitude

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would involve years of painstaking scholarly research and imaginative reconstruction. By comparison, the present attempt is a modest one. My immediate concern is to study those processes in his formative years that culminated in his advocacy of the unity of knowing and acting. Fortunately, little justification is needed to establish the case that Yang-ming's advocacy of this concept did symbolize an important landmark in both his life and his teaching. And it makes sense to study Yang-ming's intellectual biography in terms of a few qualitatively different periods of development. This is not meant as a way to schematize Yang-ming's life chronology into a set of discrete entities, but it does recognize the distinctive pattern in Yang-ming's spiritual and intellectual maturation. Even before Huang Tsung-hsi's (1610-1695) monumental study of the Confucian masters in the Ming dynasty, Yang-ming's disciples had already attempted to periodize his life history.9 Of course, the challenge of imposing an idealized pattern on the available data could have been the motivation, but it is more likely that the unusual configuration of Yang-ming's spiritual development itself allowed or even lured them into undertaking such intellectual exercises.10 Yang-ming's life span of fifty-seven years is rather short compared with the longevity of some of his outstanding followers such as Ch'ien Te-hung and Wang Chi (Lung-hsi, 1498-1583). It is nevertheless so rich in fascinating anecdotes and extraordinary events that a wealth of sources is available for exploration. Without unduly stretching the imagination, Yang-ming's life and teaching can be meaningfully divided into three periods. With his "sudden enlightenment" at Lung-ch'ang11 and his unreserved promulgation of the precept of chih liang-chih (the extension of innate knowledge)18 as two pivotal points, the first period can be said to have begun in 1472 and ended in 1509 at the completion of his banishment where he first advocated the unity of knowing and acting.13 The second period began in 1510 when he was appointed the magistrate of Lu-ling, and ended in 1520, a year after he successfully crushed the rebellion of Prince Ning (Chu Ch'en-hao).14 The third period began in 1521, when his spiritual development was believed to have reached a high plateau, and ended with his death in 1529.15 In the third period, we see the consummation of his teaching. Aside from his precept of chih liang-chih, the complete version

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of the Instructions for Practical Living (Ch'uan-hsi lu) was first printed in 1524,16 his Collected Essays (Wen-lu) was printed in 1527,17 and his Inquiry on the Great Learning (Ta-hsiieh wen), the most succinct account of his philosophical vision, was recorded by Ch'ien Te-hung in the same year, 18 as was his famous "Foursentence teaching" (ssu-chii chiao).19 It is important to note that Yang-ming never felt satisfied with the articulated precepts of his teaching: his uneasiness over the possible misrepresentation of his inner experience was so intense that he rarely yielded to the requests of his followers to put his teaching in a systematically argued form. 10 On the other hand, his confidence in the authenticity of his new realization was so great that he believed that the simple precept of chih liang-chih really captured the essence of Confucianism. 81 Many crucial issues were raised in this period, and even though some of his key concepts immediately became controversial among his contemporaries and still demand clarification today, Yang-ming by the end of his days could have comfortably accepted acclaim as one of the most original minds in the Confucian tradition. In his second period, which may well be labeled as "a decade of trial," we have an excellent case for the study of Confucianism in action. Following his short-term appointment as magistrate of Lu-ling in 1510, he was promoted to the office of secretary in the Ministry of Justice in Nanking the same year. 22 Then in 1511 he was promoted to head a bureau in the Ministry of Personnel." Later he was transferred to be the Vice-Minister of the Court of the Imperial Stud.*4 In 1514 he was appointed Chief Minister of the Court of State Ceremonials. 25 All of the three posts were in Nanking. In 1516, on the recommendation of the Minister of War, he was elevated to the position of Left Assistant Censor-in-Chief and entrusted with the responsibility of pacifying southern Kiangsi and its adjacent areas. 26 During his sojourn he was involved in military campaigns, administrative reforms, and educational programs. 27 In successful execution of these official assignments, he proved himself not only a responsive educator and an innovative administrator but also a superb strategist. In 1519, when he captured the rebellious Prince Ning by an imaginative use of such techniques as counterintelligence and surprise attack, his talent in military maneuvers became a legend of his times. 28 It is in this connection that the official history of the Ming dynasty (Ming-shih) depicts

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him as one of the most prominent scholar-generals in China in a period of almost three centuries.29 Unfortunately, the first period of Yang-ming's life, the focus of the present study, cannot be easily subsumed under a simple label. It was a period of "serious searching and bitter experience," ,0 involving a great many spiritual and intellectual excursions. However, we must not be led by the diversity of his youthful involvements to believe that Yang-ming was a pragmatic philosopher whose various metamorphoses were simply situational responses to external demands. An interpretation of this kind only scratches the surface, for Yang-ming's pragmatism, so to speak, was deeply rooted in his ultimate concern. His ability to confront challenges of a diverse nature was not only a demonstration of his skill in getting things done but also a reflection of his inner striving for the attainment of sagehood. Thus, in this study of Yang-ming's formative years, we repeatedly encounter an interplay between his unpredictable thrusts into new frontiers of experience and his persistent returns to the problem of how to become a sage. Indeed, Yang-ming's youthful restlessness was an expression of self-transcendence, characterized by some moments of spiritual crisis. His formative years will therefore be examined in terms of a developmental process, highlighted by decisive leaps of inner experience.

Chapter I

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Ancestry and Birth

IT IS doubtful that the origin of Wang Yang-ming's family can be traced, as is attempted in his official genealogy, to Wang Chi, a chief censor in the Han dynasty (206 B.C.-220 A.D.). Similarly, lower down in the genealogical tree, we find Wang Lan, a grand secretary of the Chin dynasty. "He and his half-brother, Wang Hsiang, were mentioned in the Chin Annals as brilliant examples of brotherly love and filial piety."1 The most prominent member of this early family was, however, Wang Lan's grandson, Wang Hsi-chih (321379), one of the best-known calligraphers and literary figures in Chinese history.8 He was seen by later generations as a paradigm of the scholar-official ideal, and his writings have been greatly admired for both calligraphic style and literary qualities by art connoisseurs throughout Chinese history. Among his admirers was the T a n g Emperor T'ai-tsung (reign 627-650), who issued special edicts to collect his works for preservation in the imperial household.3 As the story goes, Hsi-chih was responsible for moving the ancestral home of the Wang family from Lang-ya in Shantung to Shan-yin in Chekiang. A few generations later it was moved farther to Yii-yao, the district where Yang-ming was born. Hsi-chih was said to have been Yang-ming's ancestor of the thirty-third generation.4 Whether or not Yang-ming really was the descendant of Wang Hsi-chih remains an open question. But the very fact that the family was believed to be linked with an outstanding ancestor could have upgraded its social status, both in the eyes of associates of the family and in the consciousness of family members. In a society where genealogy was not only a status symbol in the sociological sense but a family cult in the religious sense, the existence of a famous ancestor was particularly significant. 13

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It is with Yang-ming's ancestor of the sixth generation, Wang Kang, that the genealogical account becomes clear and specific. Wang Kang was noted for his literary and military talents. He led a secluded life, but because of his aged mother refused to become a hermit. When the Ming dynasty was founded in 1368 Wang Kang was already in his late sixties. At the age of seventy he was summoned to an imperial audience on the recommendation of the famous statesman Liu Chi (1311-1375). Emperor Hung-wu (reign 1368-1398) was so deeply impressed by his youthful demeanor and pertinent answers that he immediately appointed him bureau director of the Board of War. Soon thereafter a local disturbance occurred in Ch'ao-chou. Wang Kang was promoted to the post of assistant administration commissioner of Kwangtung and concurrently charged with the mission of overseeing military and financial affairs. He was said to have succeeded in pacifying the uprising single-handedly by the art of persuasion. Ironically, on his return he was overtaken by a group of Miao tribesmen. His efforts to win them over by negotiation failed and they had him executed. His sixteen-year-old son, Yen-ta, was with him on the expedition. The tribesmen allowed Yen-ta to take his father's corpse, which he sewed up in sheep skins and carried on his back. Almost two decades later, on the recommendation of a censor, the emperor ordered a temple to be erected in honor of Wang Kang at Tsengch'eng in Kwangtung, where Kang had met his death. 5 It should be mentioned that in late 1528, Yang-ming, who was to die in less than two months, managed to pay his first and last tribute to his beloved ancestor. The circumstances under which Yang-ming presented himself in Wang Kang's temple were, in a way, comparable to what had happened to Kang. Yang-ming had been very successful in his campaign against the revolt of the Kwangsi aborigines, but in the course of the expedition his health had considerably worsened. Fearing that death was near, he had started his homeward journey without waiting for imperial sanction to do so. The sixteen-line poem that he wrote on the wall of the temple to commemorate his visit was brief but sentimental. He was pleased that the deserted temple had been recently remodeled. He felt a sense of cathartic relief while he was inside it, but he apologized that his "sick body" could not allow him to linger long. The poem concluded with the following lines:

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In a hundred or even a thousand ages How many attuned ears would a lifetime find True communion leaves notable traces Wish they do not betray the original mind.e Little is known of Yang-ming's fifth-generation ancestor, Wang Yen-ta, beyond the impact of his father's tragic death. He was so overwhelmed by the experience that in spite of being summoned by the government he resolutely refused to accept any official appointment. Instead, he spent the rest of his life "ploughing the fields and attending his mother." As he grew old, he enjoined his son not to seek official position but merely to maintain a moderate standard of living.7 Yang-ming's great-great-grandfather, Wang Yu-chun (with the courtesy name of Kung-tu), took his father's instruction seriously and escaped to the mountains to avoid a government request for the services of hermits. After he had fallen from a rock and hurt his foot, he convinced the officers not to offer him an official position. Being grateful to the rock that had saved him from the dilemma of disobeying his father or defying the law, he was alleged to have styled himself "the old man in escape among the rocks" (Tun-shih weng). Although Wang Yu-chun led the life of a recluse, he exhibited a dynamic personality. Prior to the dramatic event of his escape, for example, he had studied the Book of Changes with a certain Master Chao of the Ssu-ming mountain and was said to have acquired the art of divination by reading a large number of secret books on the subject. 8 Upon returning home, Wang Yii-chun apparently held a reputation as a diviner with insight. Those who flocked to him to ask for guidance were not merely common people: the magistrate himself frequently sent his attendants to seek advice. Wang Yii-chun became so annoyed with the solicitation that he burned all his secret books in front of the magistrate's messenger, announced his determination to give up the whole enterprise, and escaped to the Ssu-ming mountain where he spent more than a year in a stone house (shih-shih). Later, Yang-ming was also very much fascinated by the Taoistic way of life and the art of divination. In fact, he spent an extensive period of time in the well-known Yang-ming Grotto; according to one account the Grotto was also located in the Ssu-ming mountain. 9

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Wang Chieh, Yang-ming's great-grandfather, tzu Shih-chieh and hao Huai-li, represented the first sign of a rise in the fortune of the Wang family. Wang Chieh was reported to have mastered the Four Books, the Five Classics, and the writings of the Sung masters by the age of fourteen. He was then appointed an acting student of the district academy through his father's connection; but when he was recommended for the triennial examination, he became so disgusted with the lightminded and shabby appearance of the contestants that he returned home without even trying. He was later given two opportunities for recommendation as a senior licentiate, but declined both for the sake of attending his aged mother. His mother, however, in her last words urged him to seek an official position lest the family should fall to ruin by poverty. He eventually accepted the appointment as a licentiate and entered the Southern Academy but, despite a strong recommendation by the master of the academy, was not promoted. After an abortive try for another recommendation, he died, leaving behind studies on The Book of Changes, The Spring and Autumn Annals and the Rituals of Chou, all important Confucian classics. He was remembered by his students as having made the remark, "If the student can appreciate the spirit of Tseng Tien, wherever he goes he will feel sprightly and self-possessed (tzu-te)." 10 As it happened, this emphasis on the spirit of Tseng Tien foreshadowed an important aspect of Yang-ming's own teaching. It should be pointed out that since the tragic experience of Wang Kang, the orientation of Wang's family had become passive: Yu-chun followed his father's instruction and refused to serve in any official post; both Yen-ta and Shih-chieh used the pretext of attending an aged mother to ward off any governmental appointment. As a result, the family enjoyed a long history of solidarity and harmony guided by the principle of noninvolvement, or to use a Chinese expression, ming-che pao-shen (clear wisdom and selfpreservation). But a lack of political involvement also meant the absence of a steady income to sustain the family fortune. Therefore, by necessity, the Wang family had to try to produce a scholarofficial. Wang Chieh did not quite achieve the Confucian ideal of a scholar-official, and Yang-ming's grandfather, Wang Lun {tzu T'ien-hsii), was a confirmed hermit. He was so fond of bamboo trees that he addressed anyone who made a bamboo house as "my

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upright, truthful, and informative friend. How can I survive even one day without such a friendship?" The first part of the quotation actually comes from the Confucian Analects, which states that an upright, truthful, or informative person is likely to become a salutary friend. 11 In the intellectual tradition of China, the bamboo has long been appreciated as a manifestation of either the spirit of detachment or as an object of artistic appreciation. By linking his predilection for the bamboo trees with his cultivation of beneficial friendship, Wang Lun ingeniously taught a lesson on Confucian morality in the terminology of the Taoist. According to his biography, it was precisely for this reason that his students called him "Master Bamboo Pavilion" (Chu-hsiian hsien-sheng.) 12 It is interesting to note that Yang-ming later also became fascinated by bamboo trees. The account of his meditating on bamboo trees for seven days is probably the most famous anecdote in this connection. Intellectually more significant is his allegorical essay on what he calls the "virtues" of the bamboo, in which the bamboo is anthropomorphized as the paradigmatic example of a profound person. 13 Wang Lun was also a virtuoso lute player. He often played on moonlit nights with incense burning, surrounded by students. He also enjoyed singing ancient poetry. His love for poetry led him to form a poetry club with some of his old friends. People who appreciated his lightheadedness often compared him with T'ao Yuan-ming (376-427), the archetypal hermit-poet. However, in line with a long family tradition he was also versed in classical learning, though his favorites, The Book of Rites, The Tso Commentary to the Spring and Autumn Annals, and the Record of History by Ssu-ma Ch'ien (145-86 b.c.), marked a departure from the more conventional interests of his ancestors. Wang Lun maintained a moderate livelihood by tutoring students. He knew only too well that the family tradition of scholarship might be terminated if his descendants failed to work hard. He was said to have burst into tears whenever he opened the few trunks of historical books that he inherited from his forefathers. That was the only family property left. 14 Of his forefathers, Yang-ming seems to resemble his grandfather most in temperament. There is no record of his playing any musical instrument, but more than once we find vivid accounts in his chronological biography of how he loved to sing in chorus with his

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students. For example, in 1513, when Yang-ming was holding an official post in the scenic Ch'u-chou area, he frequently sang with several hundred followers and disciples around a certain "Dragon Lake" (Lung-t'an).15 Like his grandfather, Yang-ming was also a poetry lover. In fact, at least one of his grandfather's poet friends later became a member of his own poetry club.16 With the birth of Yang-ming's father, Wang Hua, the second son of Wang Lun, the long-promised rise of family fortune seemed to have arrived at last. Shortly after he had learned to speak, we are told, Wang Hua was able to recite poems taught verbally by his father. When he grew older, he could remember what he had read only once. By the time Wang Hua was eleven, his teacher felt that there was nothing else that he could offer his brilliant pupil after he had taught him the arts of formulating parallel couplets, composing poems, and writing essays.17 At thirteen, Wang Hua, together with a few relatives and friends, studied in a temple on the Lung-ch'iian mountain. Despite the monks' repeated warnings about fearful demons, alleged to have frightened his companions out of their wits, Wang Hua studied alone in the temple day and night. His sincerity deeply touched the monks and they ceased to play tricks on him. In commemoration of this precocious deed, Wang Hua was frequently referred to as "Master Lung-shan," which means, literally, "dragon mountain."18 By the time he was twenty, Wang Hua had won a considerable reputation as a superb essayist and upright scholar. Yang-ming was born on the thirtieth of the ninth month in the eighth year of the Ch'eng-hua reign in the Ming dynasty (October 31, 1472).19 Little is known as historical fact about his birth, except that he was given the name Yiin (cloud) by his grandfather. The story behind the choice of such a name is, however, rich in symbolic significance. The ritual of naming a newly-born child, especially if he was counted upon to continue the genealogical line of the family, was a solemn practice in the literatus society of traditional China. The name, which customarily constituted only a single Chinese character, was supposed to have a profound spiritual as well as psychological impact on the future development of the person so named. This partly accounts for the proliferation of names among Ming literati. It was not unusual that a new name would be chosen by oneself, bestowed by students and friends, or

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requested from an admired colleague, when a crucial event occurred in one's life. As the first son and grandson born to a literatus family, or what the Chinese would call "a house of Odes and Rites" {shih-li chih chia), Yang-ming must have received many kinds of "good wishes"; his birth was certainly a long-expected one. 20 According to the Nien-p'u, at the moment when Yang-ming was born, his grandmother, Ts'en, allegedly "in a dream saw a spiritman clothed in purple silk, decorated with jade and accompanied by music in the clouds, as he brought the child to her in the form of a heavenly gift." Accordingly his grandfather named him Yiin, and as the story spread around, the villagers called his birthplace "Auspicious Cloud Loft" (Jui-yiin lou). 21 While it is a common practice in Chinese historiography to begin the narration of a great personality with the myth of an auspicious sign, frequently lacking any discernible relevance to the life history of the person involved, such a birth-myth may point to a symbolic structure that is useful in a critical analysis of the personality in question. By naming the eldest grandson Yiin, what the grandfather probably attempted to show was no more than the wish that the new arrival in the family would eventually be capable of continuing, if not enlarging, the fortune of the Wang clan. It was only natural for the grandparents to wish that the native endowments of their grandson would turn out to be as brilliant as those of their son. Indeed, in Chinese folklore, clouds are supposed to come with the dragon (yiin ts'ung lung). Moreover, Wang Hua's birth myth was very similar to Yang-ming's. His grandmother, Chao, had a nearly identical dream the night before Wang Hua was born, and he was accordingly named Hua, which means "flower," "splendor," or "prosperity." Lo Hung-hsien (1504-1564) was a prominent member of the so-called Kiang-yu tradition of the Wang Yang-ming school; his elaboration on the symbolic meaning of cloud is suggestive of Yang-ming's life as a whole. He remarked that cloud first suggested the notion of change: in his youth, Yang-ming engaged in a variety of intellectual pursuits and sociopolitical activities. Then, as he attained maturity, he ended his restlessness and fully devoted himself to the study of the sages. As "the auspicious clouds roll in brilliance," so his philosophical teaching became the center of attention for a whole generation of Confucian scholars. Yet, being

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committed to an infinite process of self-realization, he was never complacent. To him, all he had attained was no more than a bank of passing clouds." Lo's interpretation captures the spirit of his master by an imaginative use of the cloud-symbol, but it gives a misleading picture of the intention behind the naming. The idea of "a bank of passing clouds" was certainly absent in the mind of the grandfather when he chose the word to symbolize a "heavenly gift." To him, cloud, as one of the most auspicious symbols, was associated not so much with change as with sky, dragon, and good fortune. Implicit in the cloud-symbol was a great deal of confidence that the child would have a soaring future. Unfortunately the "cloud-child" did not even learn to speak until he was six years old.23 Since competence in verbal expression has always been regarded in China as a promising sign of a child's brilliance, Yang-ming's inability in this regard must have generated uneasiness and, no doubt, embarrassment in his family. Yangming's grandfather, in a desperate attempt to cope with the situation, decided to have his name changed. The story about a shenseng, presumably a Buddhist monk, who recommended that such a step be taken is probably legendary, but it gives us a glimpse of a possible reason behind the change. According to the story, while Yang-ming was playing with a group of children a monk happened to pass by. Impressed by the six-year-old mute, he remarked, "What a wonderful boyl A pity that 'it was divulged \tao-p'o\.'" Taking the hint seriously, Yang-ming's grandfather decided to change his name from Yün to Shou-jen.*4 "That which was divulged" is a Taoist expression, referring to the verbalization of a heavenly secret (t'ien-chi). The Taoists believe that if a child is endowed with some extraordinary potential, he should be given a chance to preserve it, cultivate it, and eventually bring it to fruition. If his inner truth is prematurely revealed, the child may suffer from inexplicable calamity. Thus, the monk implicitly blamed Yang-ming's muteness on the choice of the name "cloud." According to the story, once the name was changed, Yang-ming began to speak. Shou-jen, which literally means "holding on to humanity," is certainly less assuming than Yün. Yün, especially with reference to the auspicious cloud-symbol, stated the family wish in a direct and somewhat ostentatious manner; whereas Shou-jen, which seems

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more like an encouragement, imparted the family expectation in a circuitous way. The character shou means to maintain that which one has already had, and suggests preservation and cultivation. According to the Mencian line of Confucianism, jen (humanity) is inherent in the mind of each human being. Theoretically, since jen is a defining characteristic of man, it can never be totally lost. However, if one completely neglects to nurture it, its real function can be diminished. "Shou-jen" appears to be based on a quotation from the Analects, in which the Master said, "A man's intelligence may be sufficient to attain, but if his humanity \jeri\ is not sufficient to enable him to hold [s/iou], whatever he may have gained, he will lose again. "*s To hold on to humanity is, therefore, a necessary condition for preserving one's intellectual attainments, and a primary task of Confucian self-cultivation. Underlying the statement is the belief that native intelligence, without the support of inner self-cultivation, is not enough to attain human brilliance. Thus, even if one lacks endowments, self-illumination can be attained by persistent efforts of disciplined learning; if the "cloudchild" happened to be less intelligent than the auspicious dream promised, he could at least "hold on to humanity." On the surface this may appear to be a reversal of the original optimism. The subtlety, however, lies in the fact that human effort rather than natural endowments is frequently thought to be the real basis of significant attainment in Chinese folklore as well as in Confucian and Taoist teachings. The change of emphasis from native intelligence in Yun to human endeavor in Shou-jen was reflected in the family's approach to Yang-ming's education. His grandfather managed to teach him some of the basic literature of the classical tradition, giving rise, perhaps, to the legend that shortly after Yang-ming had overcome his speech difficulty, he was able to recite several passages from the Confucian classics. In response to his startled grandfather, he is supposed to have said, "When I heard you read them aloud, I tacitly had them borne in mind."2® Indeed, once the silence was broken, the transition from Yun, the "cloud-child" who failed to learn to speak, to Shou-jen, the late starter who showed an amazing progress in linguistic proficiency, began. In 1481, Shou-jen's father passed the metropolitan examination with the highest honor.*7 In the following year, after he had been

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appointed compiler in the highly prestigious Hanlin Academy, Wang Hua decided to invite his father to share his official life in Peking. They took Shou-jen along. By then Shou-jen had already shown extraordinary competence in handling rhythmical language, and through the social contacts of his father and grandfather he won quite a reputation as a precocious poet among the scholarofficials in the capital.

2.

Talented Poet and Concerned hiteratus

It is not unusual to find cases of mastering the poetic language at an early age among prominent Ming personalities. This ability was not confined to literary figures, and was in fact expected in the development of any precocious youth who might later become a scholar, a philosopher, a statesman, or even a general. The knack of composing well-metered poems was an important part of the socialization process. To become a fully participating member of the culture, it was necessary to gain proficiency in the art of poetry. Shou-jen's extraordinary competence in handling poetic language in youth must be appreciated in the cultural context of Ming society. Yet his remarkable ability to compose poems instantaneously implies something more than the gift of language. The available examples of his earliest works do suggest a profound intellectual vision. Even if we accept the possibility of some editorial changes at a later time, these poems still convey an unusual depth of self-awareness. His chronological biography reports that on one occasion when his grandfather, having caroused with a friend in the Golden Mountain Temple (Chin-shan ssu) in Peking, was moved to produce a poem but unable to start with a proper line, the ten-year-old Shou-jen, standing beside them, effortlessly turned out an inspiring verse: The Gold Mountain, from here About the size of a fist, Shatters the sky afloat On the waters of Wei-yang. I lean tipsy toward the moon Over the terrace of the "Marvelous Height" As music from a jade flute drops down Clear to the cave-dragon in his sleep.88

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To be sure, the poem contains a few highly stylized phrases. Shou-jen might have had them memorized specifically for demonstrative purposes of this kind. The result was nevertheless an ingenious construction of poetic images. The friend who shared this exciting experience with Shou-jen's grandfather was apparently an old hand in such matters. As if to test the real strength of the boy's poetic skill, he asked Shou-jen to create another verse, and this time he personally assigned a definite topic: "moon-shading mountain house" (pi-yueh shan-fang), which probably referred to the house where they gathered. Shou-jen responded extemporaneously to the challenge by producing a delightful piece of poetry: Because this mountain makes the moon small We think it bigger than the moon, But if someone had an eye wide as heaven He'd see a small mountain and a big moon.29 This poem, until recently memorized by schoolboys in China, reflects a good sense of perspective and an unusual technique of putting unconventional vision into colloquial language. If the first poem is burdened with some artificial concepts, the second one is certainly free from any unnaturalness. It unfolds an artistic idea in such a smooth flow of simple words that its completion seems totally effortless. Shou-jen's ingenuity in mastering the literary language seems, on the surface, to indicate a qualitative change from his previous inability to speak. But to equate poetic insight with verbal competence is misleading; his ability to produce verses extemporaneously might have coexisted with an inability to carry out a fluent conversation. His gift for silent appreciation was reflected in his ability to catch a glimpse of natural beauty or a moment of personal excitation and express it succinctly in the form of allusions, metaphors, or similes. This ability was cultivated through immersion in a reservoir of highly refined and stylized literary expressions. To acquire such a knowledge, engaging in daily conversation was much less important than reading rhyme books, studying great poems, or occasionally picking up effective phrases by listening attentively to accomplished poets. This kind of learning by example has many far-reaching implications. In some ways, it is a total submission to authority. Following the adult poet signifies a basic trust in his manner of

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creating poetry without first analyzing it in detail. By observing the adult poet and emulating his efforts in the presence of his example, the student unconsciously picks up the rules of the art, including those which are not explicitly known to the master himself. And these hidden rules can be assimilated only by a person who willingly surrenders himself to the imitation of another. To the novice, the fund of poetic knowledge is a given tradition; he must submit to it uncritically so that he can become a beneficiary of it. However, since this kind of knowledge is unspecifiable, there is little possibility of reaching the ideal of a precise formulation of the poetic art. To be sure, the works of some of the great T'ang poets like Li Po (699-762) and Tu Fu (712-770) were regarded as models, but to write in the style of Li or Tu in the fifteenth century was to stay within the level of "form-likeness." Indeed, the poetic heritage contains so much ambiguity that the possibility of introducing fresh insights is immense. To become a carrier of such a tradition depends as much on an ability to exercise imagination in rigidly restricted forms as on rote learning. The early poems of Shou-jen suggest that, by the age of eleven, he possessed such an ability. His precocity in manipulating a necessarily limited vocabulary in a poetically fruitful way gives us a glimpse of his resourcefulness. It is also important to note that, to a student of Ming thought, these poems exhibit a concern for something much more profound than the art of composing poems. This concern is expressed in the conclusion of the anecdote cited above: after the completion of Shou-jen's second verse, the amazed friend congratulated Shou-jen's grandfather and predicted that the young talent would someday make a wide reputation for himself, only to be surprised again by Shou-jen's remark that literary achievement was frivolous.30 It should be noted that the Ming literati attached tremendous importance to the attainment of literary skills mainly because success in the examination system—the normal if not the only channel of entering officialdom—depended largely on proficiency in these skills. Since the role of a scholar-official had long been established as the most prestigious status symbol in Chinese society, the need to pass the triennial examinations was recognized by every ambitious youth. Since the grading of the examination papers was based primarily on the form and style of the composition, it tended to favor those with highly cultivated literary skill. Thus, to remark

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that someone had the knack of using the poetic language was tantamount to saying that he had a good chance of becoming a scholar-official. Ironically, the spread of Shou-jen's fame as a literary genius did not bring about a successful entrance into officialdom. Although he passed the provincial examination in 1492 at the age of twenty-one, he failed the metropolitan examination twice, in 1493 and again in 1496. 31 Without the chin-shih degree, there was little chance of receiving any official appointment. T h e most his chu-jen degree could do was to offer some power and influence in his own village. Shou-jen is alleged to have consoled his classmates after they had all failed in the examination, saying: "People are ashamed of the failure to get any degree, but I think we should feel ashamed of allowing that failure to perturb us."3* Nevertheless, the social pressure on him must have been tremendous. Even if he could explain away the importance of it to himself, it was difficult to face his family, especially people like his grandmother, who could understand Shou-jen's career only in simple terms. The extraordinary achievement of his father in this regard must have been a painful reminder. Moreover, he had to deal with his father's friends and those who thought very highly of his literary talents. It was said that after he had failed the first time, a large number of officials and notables flocked to his, house to offer their condolences. This partly accounts for Shou-jen's strong need to prove that his less than satisfactory performance in the examination was not due to any serious deficiency in his literary skill. T h e following anecdote gives us some idea of the complex situation with which Shou-jen must have been confronted: Li Hsi-yai, the grand secretary said in jest: "You may fail to pass the examination this time, but you will surely be the chuang-yiian in the next. Now try to compose a poem \fu] under the theme: 'The chuang-yiian of the coming examination.'" Shou-jen took up his brush and completed the piece extemporaneously. All the elderly men present were amazed and exclaimed: "A geniusl A genius!" Upon retiring, some of those who were envious of his attainment said, "If this young man should become a chuang-yiian, he would certainly look down upon us." ,s

T h e anecdote concludes with the remark that when Shou-jen took part in the examination for the second time three years later, he

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was purposely kept down by those who had witnessed this marvelous demonstration. At issue here, however, is not what actually denied him an easy access to officialdom but why, despite his failure, he was still taken seriously by some of the reputable scholar-officials. The presence of Li Hsi-yai (1447-1516) is a case in point. Better known by his given name Tung-yang, Li not only held one of the three most prominent official positions in the Ming bureaucracy at that time but had also established himself as the leading literatus in the court. His exalted status was frequently compared with that of Yang Shih-ch'i (1365-1444), who had previously dominated both the official and literary circles in the capital for more than a decade. 44 Shou-jen's ability to attract the attention of a man of Li Tung-yang's eminence was probably due to the influence of his father, but his own reputation as a rising star among men of letters must have also played an important role. To be sure, Shou-jen missed the chance of becoming a young official, but he had at least shown that his mastery of the poetic language was of such a quality that it meant a great deal to those who really appreciated the art of poetry. We have already suggested that the importance of literary skill in Ming society was explainable mainly in terms of the examination system. However, it would be misleading to conclude that the hope of passing the examination was the sole inducement for the Ming literati to refine their art. In fact, poetry as a form of literary expression was so much cherished by the educated elite that such accomplishments were frequently appreciated as public events. Ming literati wrote poems not only to set forth their inner feelings but also to record memorable events and to convey personal messages. Although for an accomplished literatus it was not unusual that during his lifetime some of his poems would have been printed by his admirers for wider circulation, his work as a whole was generally not intended for publication at all. The bulk of it was likely to have been composed for friends, as gifts either in response to their requests or in exchange for their works. In the latter case, it was customary to use the same metrical structure and to deal with a comparable subject. A new poem that had struck the fancy of a friend could be alternately "rhymed" (ho) many times and thus bring about a continued dialogue between "likeminded" persons. To the Ming literatus, poetry was one of the most subtle forms of human communication and a highly regarded vehicle for nurturing friendship.

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Having failed the second time to pass the metropolitan examination, Shou-jen returned to Yu-yao. He was then twenty-four years old. Partly as a pastime and partly as a way of self-discipline, he organized a poetry club at the temple on Mount Lung-ch'tian. The temple, Lung-shan ssu, had rich and intimate associations with Shou-jen's father, who was frequently referred to as Lung-shan hsien-sheng or Master Lung-shan. And the senior member of the club, Wei Han, a retired provincial finance commissioner and the biographer of Shou-jen's grandfather, maintained a "friendship beyond generations" with the Wang family. On one occasion, Shou-jen accompanied the local celebrity on a hiking trip. They ascended Mount Lung-ch'iian and decided to compose a long poem together while playing go; each was to contribute a verse by rotation. It turned out that most of the superb lines were from Shou-jen's brush. Thereupon the old master, who had been highly celebrated for his powerful style, acknowledged that Shou-jen's quality as a poet was superior.3* Shou-jen's literary skill continued to be refined, even after he had secured passage to officialdom by obtaining the chin-shih degree in his third attempt in 1499. Actually, his commitment to literature broadened as his bureaucratic work became more routinized. Having served in a few official posts in the capital and some assignments in the provinces, Shou-jen returned to the court in 1502 to report on a commission. His official responsibilities then mainly consisted of reading and composing standardized government documents. 36 During his tenure as a junior member of the bureaucracy he again engaged in a systematic effort to improve his literary proficiency. In addition to his continuous involvement in the study of mid-T'ang poetry, he now began to analyze the literary styles of the Five Classics and to emulate the masterpieces of the pre-Ch'in and Han dynasties. According to one account, his zeal for self-improvement greatly worried his father, who for the sake of Shou-jen's health ordered the servants not to light lamps in the house late in the evening. However, as soon as the head of the family had gone to sleep, Shou-jen resumed his studies.37 It should be noted that at this time Shou-jen was thirty years old. On the surface, his vigorous effort to improve his already celebrated literary skill does not seem to have any direct bearing on his career in the bureaucracy. Indeed, his preoccupation with literature may have been a reflection of his frustration as a governmental functionary. The poems he composed at the time frequently

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complained about the limited freedom of action he had in his role as an official. And his admiration for the carefree Taoist and the detached Buddhist, as evidenced in his poems, was not unconnected with his own "allotment" in a highly structured society. However, although we have no reason to believe that Shou-jen's cultivation of his literary skill was in any way directly connected with his hopes for official advancement, it does seem to have been closely related to his strong need for a particular kind of social recognition, best understood in the context of the literary background of the time. As we noted earlier, ever since the establishment of the examination system in the seventh century, the ability to compose stylized essays was not only a prerequisite for entering officialdom but also an integral part of the bureaucratic process. Changes in literary practices were thus full of political implications. The ku-wen movement under the leadership of Ou-yang Hsiu (10071072) in Northern Sung was an outstanding example of this interplay between the advent of a new literary style and the rise of a new political consciousness.88 The situation in the fifteenth century was no more than a variation on a recurring theme: since literary skill had become an indispensable criterion for the determination of political competence, a significant change in literary style inevitably led to a different standard for official recruitment. Shou-jen in 1502 was actively involved in a literary movement. Its political significance in the Ming was comparable in spirit if not in prominence to Ou-yang Hsiu's ku-wen revival. As one of the emerging leaders of the movement, Shou-jen was closely associated with the "Four Talents" of a literary coterie (a group later referred to by historians as the "Seven Masters of the Early Ming"): Li Meng-yang (Hsien-chi, 1475-1531), Ho Ching-ming (Ching-mei, 1483-1521), Hsü Chen-ch'ing (Ch'ang-kuo, 14791511), and Pien Kung (T'ing-shih, 1476-1532)." The group, composed mainly of junior officials in their twenties, advocated a significant change in the basic principles of composing and evaluating literary works. Their attempts do not appear to be at all revolutionary—they suggested a return to the pre-Ch'in and Han model of prosaic simplicity and the mid-T'ang style of poetic expressiveness—but underlying this apparent antiquarianism was a rather ingenious campaign against a literary trend that had been predominant among scholar-officials since the founding of the Ming dynasty.

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It is certainly beyond the scope of this work to trace the development of the so-called t'ai-ko tradition. It will suffice to note that for a period of more than eight decades (from 1403 to 1487), the literary scene in the capital was dominated by a form of court literature that exemplified the polished taste of the imperial setting. Richly ornamented with colorful phrases and extravagant allusions, the poems and prose of this tradition put much emphasis on elegant rhymes and refined diction. Etymologically, t'ai-ko means "towers and pavilions," and in fact the leaders of the t'ai-ko genre invariably came from the highest echelon of the bureaucracy. The chief architects of the genre, such as the aforementioned Yang Shih-ch'i, Yang Jung (1371-1440) and Yang Fu (1372-1446), commonly referred to in the history of Chinese literature as the "Three Yangs," all served as grand secretaries, working in the towers and pavilions within the imperial palace and viewing the world from their exalted perspective. 40 In advocating a return to the ancients, the young literati were actually proposing that the object of literary concerns be shifted from the inner court to the outside world. They demanded that literature be freed from the towers and pavilions of the palace in order to reflect the brute realities of war, suffering, and death. As a strategy to spread their message, they vehemently attacked the works of the eminent grand secretary, Li Tung-yang. Although Li's Ch'a-ling style departed somewhat from the t'ai-ko practices, they considered him the spokesman for the outdated school politically as well as intellectually. While it would be farfetched to suggest that SKou-jen and his comrades had developed a literary ideology aimed at the destruction of the established order, their fight against the time-honored conventions of phraseology came very close to being a political protest. And although this dissent originated from within the court, it represented the feelings of those who were actively engaged in the affairs of the state but who remained marginal to the center of power and influence. Their critique of Li's literary style foreshadowed an intensified attack on the grand secretary a few years later when they interpreted his conciliatory attitude toward the powerful eunuch Liu Chin as a betrayal of personal integrity. 41 Shou-jen's confrontation with Liu Chin will be discussed in some detail later; we note here, however, that his decision to make a frontal attack on Liu Chin also seems to have been influenced by social pressure from his peers. It is possible that a serious generation

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gap existed between the young literati and the scholar-officials of Li Tung-yang's age group. The method of protest that Shou-jen managed to employ was different from the compromising and self-effacing approach of his father, and it took the latter quite a while to appreciate what his son actually intended to do. It seems likely that by allying himself with the literary movement of the Seven Masters, Shou-jen's emotional ties to his father and to other senior statesmen in the court may have become strained. In the autumn of 1502 Shou-jen resigned from officialdom and returned to his birthplace. He was said to have suffered from the sickness of "spitting blood," a kind of pulmonary consumption. 42 His major biographer, Huang Wan, states that Shou-jen's concentrated effort to improve his literary skill was the major cause of his illness. The chronological biography, however, gives quite a different reason for his resignation, stating that he arrived at the decision to leave behind both his career as a bureaucrat and his vocation as a literatus because he was disenchanted with his friends in the capital. He was alleged to have said, "How can I waste my limited energy on writing such useless and spiritless compositions?"43 Such a statement seems in conflict with his active participation in the literary movement for at least two years. A closer examination of the politics within the movement, however, provides some clues. According to the history of Ming literature, there was a great deal of rivalry among the Seven Masters. Li Meng-yang's animosity toward Ho Ching-ming alone resulted in several notorious incidents of bitterness and jealousy.44 Shou-jen himself, as we know, also had a knack for literary competitiveness. His marvelous demonstration in the presence of Li Tung-yang and his unusual ability to outwit Wei Han by using words with telling effect in a poetic contest are two obvious examples. A strong urge to play a leading role in the movement might have motivated him to devote much of his time and energy to the cultivation of a superb literary style, yet he was said to have been greatly agonized by the strife for literary fame among his friends in the capital. For Shou-jen, literary skill was not intrinsically valuable, but something to be utilized to bring about broad social and political changes—a view basically in line with Han Yii's (786-824) instruction that literature is a vehicle for the transmission of the cultural tradition. 45 At that time, however, Shou-jen's basic concern was to be useful in a very concrete sense, especially in the realm of

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practical politics. Indeed, his involvement in the study of the "ancient-prose" was as much a political act as a form of selfdiscipline. It was quite understandable that he was disenchanted when he found that his friends were engaged in literary competition for its own sake. His disappointment was not at the emulation itself but at the intellectual framework in which it was carried out. From his practical perspective, the stormy protest of the Seven Masters was not significantly different from the conservatism of the t'ai-ko style, putting much emphasis on reading and memorization and devoting much energy to the choice of words, rhymes, and classical allusions. If the young literati could not justify their struggle on sociopolitical grounds, the most they would be able to achieve was a stylistic change in literary compositions. Despite its far-reaching implications in theory, the usefulness of such an accomplishment was difficult to perceive. It seems possible, then, that a desire for more concrete involvement in political affairs, rather than a need to withdraw from literary competition, prompted Shou-jen to sever his relationship with the literary movement. Leaving the literary movement did not necessitate leaving his official duty, however, and it seems likely that ill health was not his only reason for leaving the capital.

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Routine

When Shou-jen decided to impose a moratorium on his official career by requesting an extended leave of absence in 1502, he had served the state for less than three years. Despite his strong urge to be useful in the political arena, he apparently found the routinized work of a junior official unsatisfying. The conflict between his desire to put some of his idealistic visions into immediate practice and his unhappiness at being cornered in a highly ritualized structure of behavior must have produced a great deal of anxiety. An anecdote of Shou-jen's youth throws some light on his feelings in such a situation. When he was eleven, Shou-jen was instructed by his father to study for the examination with several of his relatives under the guidance of a tutor. Frequently Shou-jen would escape from the study group to enjoy his favorite sport. He made flags and emblems of various sizes and colors and distributed them among his playmates. Imagining himself the commander of a large army, he asked his lieutenants to follow his orders and line up their imaginary

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soldiers into all kinds of military formations. Once he was caught by his angry father, who forbade any further diversion from the family tradition of book reading. Shou-jen was said to have been severely punished for questioning the practical value of such a tradition.46 Although anti-military sentiments were probably not as strong in Ming society as in the Sung dynasty (960-1279), the popular saying that good iron will not be used to make nails and a good man will not serve as a soldier still reflected the public attitude toward military affairs. It is quite understandable that Shou-jen's father was upset by his son's predilection, even if manifested only in playful games. More importantly, this anecdote suggests that Shou-jen's father had some difficulty in persuading his son to stick to the prescribed program of learning. Indeed, Shou-jen was also alleged to have questioned the desirability of becoming the highest degree holder. His independence of mind was further shown in another anecdote found in his chronological biography. At the age of ten he asked his tutor, "What is the most important task in life?" When the tutor answered in a serious mood, "It is to study to attain an advanced degree," Shou-jen replied, "To attain an advanced degree is probably not the most important task in life. Perhaps it is to study to become a sage."47 There are several personal factors that might have led Shou-jen to make such a remark. No more than a year before this exchange was said to have taken place, for example, Shou-jen's father was awarded an exalted position in thè capital for his maximum performance in the metropolitan examination. He was named the chuang-yiian of 1481, an honor that was awarded only once in three years. When the tutor advised Shou-jen to study for an advanced degree, he was, in effect, instructing Shou-jen to follow in the footsteps of his father. For Shou-jen to cast doubt on the value of social advancement through the examination system was certainly a challenge to his father's authority, but it was probably done with the intention of achieving something even greater. Sagehood at the time simply meant something extraordinary. Shou-jen's preoccupation with a sense of achieving something sui generis was at variance with generally accepted educational goals. In Ming society, the appropriation of a classical education was the most widely accepted channel of upward social mobility for the common people; for the educated elite, the acquisition of

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a chin-shih degree was the necessary condition for an appointment to officialdom. Understandably, intellectual maturity was measured almost exclusively in terms of classical education, which was itself confined to the established requirements of the examination system. Since the value of this kind of approach to education was deeply inculcated in the minds of the students by society at large and by the family in particular, the possibility of deviation was relatively small. In fact, among the students themselves, peer group solidarity and competition were also centered around this basic concern. A student who wanted to digress from this pattern of learning would find little support among his classmates. To escape from school would not only be considered a lack of self-confidence but would frequently result in the student's being condemned as a moral degenerate. An obvious explanation for Shou-jen's course of action is a psychological one. Given his father's superb performance as a successful candidate and the societal values attached to that performance, the pressure exerted upon Shou-jen to emulate what his father had already accomplished must have been excruciating. As an old Chinese proverb has it, "the moment one ascends the Dragon Gate, the value of one's life has increased hundredfold." Shou-jen's father not only ascended the Dragon Gate, he was the best among those who had done so. When Shou-jen was instructed by the tutor to prepare himself for the great task, he knew only too well the barriers he would have to struggle across even to approach the reputation of a worthy son. Shou-jen's challenges to the instructions of both his tutor and his father may seem to us fairly mild, but in the eyes of the Ming literati, who would frown upon any indication of disrespect for the will of the father, they were unusually contentious. But a psychological interpretation of Shou-jen's attitude toward his father as a rebellion against the father-image must be approached cautiously. If psychoanalytical concepts are to be applied at all, Shoujen's rebelliousness may also be seen as an indication of his own ego-ideal. Viewed from this perspective, his remarks were not aimed at what his father had already achieved but at what his father would like to have attained. To take up the task of attaining sagehood was to aim beyond the social success of his father, just as playing the role of a general was to dream of outshining his father's political achievement. We cannot be sure that Shou-jen

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was consciously engaged in a competition with his father; such a competition, however, would have been fully appreciated by the educated elite of his society. As an old Chinese saying puts it, every father "wished that his son would become a dragon." Shou-jen's unconventional attitude on this account, if we can trust the chronological biography, made his father smile and remark, "You really want to become a sage!"48 Father-son competition was well accepted in traditional Chinese society and anecdotes about such competition were prevalent in Ming literature. Since the family fortune heavily depended upon the quality of the genealogical line, a son who could surpass his father in success brought honor to the family. The political situation in the Ming was inimical to the preservation of family fortunes; due to a variety of factors, it was extremely difficult for a prosperous family to ensure its influence even for two generations, particularly if it failed to produce a single scholar-official for several generations. For the sake of continuing the well-being of the family, it was of paramount importance that talented descendants be properly educated.*9 In addition to this practical consideration, a promising son would enhance the reputation of the family. To the Ming literatus, one of the proudest moments in his life was when he knew that his son would extend the fame of the family beyond what he himself had been able to attain. The nomenclature for such a son was k'ua-tsao, which literally means bestriding the fireplace. A well-known story in the popular literature of the Ming dynasty actually describes Shou-jen as a paradigmatic example of an excelling son. The story was written after Shou-jen's alleged "promise" had already become a reality, but it is interesting to note that even in the mind of the Ming author, a salient feature of Shou-jen's life history was his ability to outshine the brilliance of his father. According to the story, Shou-jen as a young boy of eleven once took a walk with his father in the streets of Peking. A mysterious monk looked at him attentively and bluntly remarked to his father, "This son is going to k'ua-tsao." Shou-jen's father then asked, "How can this be? I am already a chuang-yiian." The monk replied, "That's exactly why your son is so extraordinary."50 Although the fictitious nature of the account is obvious, it suggests that to the Ming literati, the most impressive aspect of Shou-jen's eventual triumph in eclipsing the glory of his father was the overwhelming odds he

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had to confront. Indeed, who could have imagined that within the span of two generations the Wang family would have produced not only a chuang-yuan but also a scholar-general whose attainments in both philosophical thinking and practical affairs were ranked first among the educated elite in the entire history of the Ming dynasty? It is to be expected that the relationship between Shou-jen and his father has become one of the most fascinating examples of father-son competition in traditional Chinese culture. Huang Wan might have had this in mind when he included in an official biography of Shou-jen's career an account of Shou-jen's ability to win his father's trust at an early age. When Shou-jen was only twelve years old, he is said to have accompanied his father when he reviewed the results of the metropolitan examination. Surely it was rare for the chief examiner to bring his son along on such a solemn occasion. The real message of the biographer, however, is that Shou-jen's comments on the strength and weakness of some of the papers were accepted by the official judges as fitting.51 In light of Shou-jen's precocity in literary skill, it is quite possible that the proud father wanted to avail himself of the opportunity to present his son to some of the most prominent scholar-officials in the capital. It is also possible that by then Shou-jen had already become so familiar a figure among his father's colleagues that his presence was no longer considered unusual. This anecdote seems to show that, despite his aggressiveness, Shou-jen was able to maintain an intimate, if somewhat ambivalent, relationship with his father. Shou-jen's mother died when he was twelve years old. His chronological biography reports that he wept for days, but virtually no other reference to her can be found. A curious story about a confrontation with his stepmother, who apparently did not treat him well, is available in Ming fiction.5* While the authenticity of such a story cannot be proven, the anecdote does serve to indicate a dimension of Shou-jen's personality hitherto ignored by serious students of Ming thought. According to the legend, Shou-jen purchased an eared owl one day and bribed a sorceress. Knowing well that a wild bird in the house was a bad omen by local custom, he put the owl under his stepmother's bedclothes. As soon as he found out that she had come upon and been terribly frightened by this unwelcome intruder, he introduced the sorceress to perform

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exorcism and pray for blessings on the house. Through his accomplice, who strongly recommended that his stepmother change her hostile attitude toward him, Shou-jen managed to receive much better treatment from then on. The story gives evidence of Shoujen's cunning, and may have been influenced by later stories of Shou-jen's cunning in battle. When Shou-jen was engaged in a military campaign against the powerful bandits in the bordering area of Kwangtung, Fukien, and Kiangsi in 1517 and 1518, he employed various surprise attacks and false retreats, which gained him a reputation as an unpredictable tactician. 58 His successful capture of the rebellious Prince Ning, mainly by an effective use of counterintelligence in 1519, further spread his fame as a cunning strategist. 54 A year after his mother's death, Shou-jen began to study archery, horsemanship, and military strategy. In the following year, 1486, when he was only fourteen, he decided to spend some time surveying the northern frontier of China. He managed to sojourn with a friend of his father's in the vicinity of Chii-yung Pass, north of Peking, for a whole month. He was said to have "entertained the thought that someday he would govern and administer the border affairs of the empire." 55 While he was in the land of the steppe people, he befriended some tribesmen and further refined his expertness in the martial arts. His biographer reports that "he became so proficient in archery and horsemanship that the tribal youth would not dare to test their skill against him." 56 In 1519, for example, when he was challenged by two eunuch-generals to participate in a match in archery, he smashed their scheme to humiliate him in front of the soldiers by making three consecutive hits at the bull's eye.57 In 1486, Shou-jen's cultural hero was the Eastern Han general, Ma Yuan (Fu-po, 14 B.C.-49 A.D.), who repelled the invading forces of the Ch'iang tribes in West China and reconquered the northern part of Vietnam for the Han empire. An outstanding feature of this highly educated general was his imaginative application of tactics to suit the particular conditions in which military operations were conducted. Undoubtedly, he was not a mere "warrior" (uru-fu). He was noted for his courage in giving up the comforts of life in the capital and volunteering for combat assignments in the border regions, but his approach to warfare was methodical. He was in fact a paradigmatic example of the scholar-general who combined the art of learning with that of war. 58

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Shou-jen's identification with Ma Yuan might have been a youthful fantasy at the time, but it was to play a significant role in shaping his self-image later when he was charged by the court with leading military campaigns in South Kiangsi and Kwangsi. His strong emotional attachment to the Han general is shown in a poem he wrote at the age of fourteen. He dreamed that he had made a pilgrimage to the shrine where Ma Yiian's statue was honored. Although the shrine was partially ruined by a thunderstorm, the six-character inscription, presumably identifying the general in his military attire, was still visible. The statue portrayed the triumphant return of the general who carried with him the armor that had been used in combats on the northern and southern frontiers of China. Shou-jen suggested that Ma Yiian's frosted temples might have resulted from his deep thinking on military tactics in those active years of war: Ma Fu-po packed his armor And came on home, The hair at his temples Grizzled early by his study of war. Bronze pillars that pierced the clouds Are thunderstruck now But you can still make out The six characters of the inscription.59

Shou-jen might have been fascinated by Ma Yiian's physical endurance. The mere fact that the general managed to subdue alien forces in both the semitropical South and the frozen Northwest must have deeply impressed the aspirant scholar-official who chronically suffered from poor health. But to Shou-jen, the most remarkable characteristic of the Han general was his systematic execution of his military strategy. Later, in his own career as a scholar-general, Shou-jen recommended Ma Yiian's method of combining military defense with farming to the court. He himself applied such a method in his pacification campaign in South Kiangsi. Shou-jen's emotional attachment to Ma Yuan continued to influence his course of action, especially in military affairs. Less than one month before his death, Shou-jen was traveling by boat back to his birthplace. When the boatman pointed out a temple dedicated to Ma Yuan as they were passing the Wu-man T'an (black barbarian rapids) in Kwangtung, Shou-jen insisted upon paying a visit to the temple, ignoring the fact that he had been

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bedridden for days. The poem that was written for that occasion began with two premonitory lines: "Forty years ago a poem was dedicated in the dream. This visit must be the decree of Heaven; how could it be the design of man?"60 One is easily struck by a strong religious quality in Shou-jen's identification with Ma Yuan. To him Ma Yuan was much more than a general. Indeed, his spirit of sacrifice and his sense of duty must have been as appealing to Shou-jen as his competence in military strategy. Actually, a strategist, especially in the great tradition of men like Chang Liang (d. 189 B.C.), is basically a thinker whose real strength lies in his cunningness in the application of creative thoughts to concrete situations.61 The Taoist image of a true man who is detached from worldly affairs and yet possesses a comprehensive vision of the world is not in conflict with the idea of a superb strategist who remains behind the scene and yet knows exactly how the battle is being fought. Ma Yvian's ability to combine intellectual capacity with physical strength must have been a great source of inspiration for Shou-jen. At the time of Shou-jen's journey to the North, the Ming court was greatly worried by banditry in the vicinity of the capital and by rebellions in the provinces. Shou-jen believed that he had a workable plan to bring peace to the troubled empire. Before he had formalized his strategy in a memorial to the throne, he was severely upbraided by his father, who ordered him to give up his "wild" {k'uang) ideas.64 Shou-jen must have been aware that submitting a memorial to the throne was a serious matter. It was much more than a recommendation, for the author of the memorial would be held responsible legally as well as morally if the recommended method irritated the emperor or failed to bring about the anticipated results. It was not infrequent that a Ming scholarofficial was punished, sometimes sentenced to death, because he had submitted an offensive memorial. Shou-jen might have had the confidence in the workability of his plan to risk his own life and possibly the career of his father, but the latter refused to take such a chance. It is suggestive that Shou-jen's father used the word k'uang to characterize the behavior of his son. A highly significant concept in the Confucian tradition, its meaning includes wild, mad, ardent, or simply ambitious. In the Analects we find that the Master said: "Since I cannot get men pursuing the course of the Mean, to whom I might transmit my teachings, I must settle for the

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k'uang and the chuan [judicious]. The k'uang will advance to lay hold of the Way, and the chuan will desist from impure practices."63 Accordingly, the man who is k'uang is one who brings a fearless and vigorous commitment to the task of his choice. Although he falls short of the sage ideal, his carefreeness and aggressiveness can be easily transformed into moral courage for the purpose of self-realization. When Shou-jen's father used the concept, it was meant to be a criticism. But it was used in a subtle way: his adventurous son definitely had the potential of becoming a "dragon." 64 What he needed was to stop wandering and engage himself in serious studies. For a few years following this incident, Shou-jen seems to have tried to live up to his father's expectations. He was married in 1488 at the age of sixteen. A year later he formally began his work on Confucianism, after he had paid a visit to the famed teacher, Lou Liang (1422-1491). He further devoted the three-year mourning period (1490-1492) after his grandfather's death to the study of the Confucian classics. When he successfully passed the provincial examination in 1492, it was widely expected that he would sail into the coveted officialdom and join his father as a colleague in the court in his early twenties. Unfortunately, he had failed the triennial metropolitan examination twice, and when he finally managed to obtain the chin-shih degree with some distinction in 1499, he was already approaching thirty. Shou-jen's painful experience in those years must have been further intensified by the success of his father, whose official career seemed brighter than ever. Wang Hua was not only given the honor of presenting moral instructions to the emperor but also charged with the responsibility of educating the heir apparent. In 1496 particularly, Wang Hua gained a wide reputation for courage and integrity by delivering a straightforward lecture on an aspect of court politics in the T'ang dynasty, which could easily have been interpreted as an indirect criticism on the personal conduct of the emperor himself. To the surprise of most high officials present, the emperor, impressed with his remarks, rewarded him with an imperial banquet. 65 While Wang Hua's official appointment began in the prestigious Hanlin Academy, noted for its intellectual power and political influence, Shou-jen received his first post from the Board of Works. In the autumn of 1499, by imperial order, he was charged with constructing the tomb of Wang Yiieh, Count Wei-ning (1423-

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1498).66 As one of the most richly decorated scholar-generals of the Ming dynasty, Wang Yiieh, like Ma Yuan, was highly successful in his imaginative and unpredictable application of military tactics. In 1480, his ingenious operation in the northwestern frontier had impelled the court to bestow on him the title of count. It was a rare honor for a scholar-general who had originally entered into officialdom through the civil examination channel. In fact, the court had to reclassify him as a member of the military to bypass the established rules prohibiting civil officials from receiving titles of nobility.67 In light of the recent excavation of Ming tombs and the archeological literature on the subject, it seems likely that the construction of Count Wei-ning's burial place must have involved hundreds of people. Availing himself of this great opportunity, Shou-jen put his own military ideas into practice. He first organized the laborers into groups of fives and tens. Then, according to a fully coordinated plan, he assigned them time for rest and meals. When the progress was ahead of schedule, he would drill them in a variety of military formations, especially the "Octonary Rampart Design" (pa-chen t'u).M This particular design, favored by the superb strategist and cultural hero of the Three Kingdoms' period, Chu-ko Liang (181-234), was known for its complexity in both theory and practice. To strengthen his own military preparedness, Shou-jen insisted upon riding on horseback for long-distance travel over tortuous roads. On one occasion he was thrown from his horse on a mountain path. Despite serious injuries, he refused to use an offered sedanchair to complete his journey. He also took advantage of his assignment to discuss military strategy with Wang Yiieh's descendants, who may have had privileged access to Yiieh's personal records of important campaigns. 69 By then Shou-jen had read extensively on military affairs. An entry in his chronological biography reports that in 1497, two years prior to his official appointment, he spent most of his time on "secret books" (mi-shu), written by ancient tacticians. And his favorite pastime in large gatherings was to use the stones of various fruits to display the art of military formations. 70 At the completion of the tomb construction, Shou-jen was offered gold and silk by Wang Yiieh's family as an expression of gratitude, but he refused to accept anything. It was only after they brought forth the sword which the late count used to wear during military campaigns that he finally relented, because it coincided with a

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dream of his in which the count personally presented him with the sword.71 Psychologically, this was very much in line with Shoujen's emotional identification with Ma Yuan, which had also been manifested in a dream. Symbolically, the sword was more than a gift to him. It was a call to duty. Shou-jen's sense of mission was so strong that it had to be expressed in a concrete form. Less than ten days after he returned to the capital to submit a report on his assignment, he presented a memorial on frontier affairs to the throne. Officially it was a response to the emperor's public request for recommendations concerning the urgent problems of the state because of an abnormal stellar manifestation and the impending danger of the Tartars. 72 Usually on such occasions the officials could express their thoughts more freely and the danger of facing severe punishment was lessened. To Shou-jen it was the fulfillment of a long-ungratified wish. In his memorial, Shou-jen outlined his polities for the frontier under eight points. They were presented in a succinct and wellbalanced style. He recommended (1) a fundamental change in the military examination so as to recruit competent strategists and qualified combatants for emergency use; (2) a policy of amnesty to make every possible use of talents familiar with the frontier; (3) a reduction of the imperial forces around the capital in order to revitalize the fighting spirit of the frontier troops; (4) encouragement of the practice of military farming to lessen the burden of logistics; (5) enforcement of martial law to put the military commanders on the alert; (6) giving substantial awards to improve the morale of the military; (7) allowing small setbacks to give the generals a free hand to focus on major victories; and (8) employing the tactics of prolonged resistance to avoid the risk of illprepared expeditions. 78 Although the explicit purpose of the memorial was to highlight points which had long been recognized by the sensitive minds of the empire, the position it argued for was basically different from the course of action taken by the throne at the time. Indeed its implications were so far-reaching that its implementation would have been too radical to be entertained by the court. For instance, the first point, by suggesting that the structure of the examination system be altered in a fundamental way, might have led to an undermining of the power of the civil bureaucracy. The second point asked the court to give preferential treatment to those elements of society which had long been considered threatening

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to the security of the dynasty. The third point requested the emperor to surrender part of the military forces under his direct control to the frontier generals, which was tantamount to recommending a measure of decentralization unprecedented in Ming history. If the last five points, which strongly reflected the influence of ancient strategists such as Ma Yuan and Chu-ko Liang, had been put into practice, the frontier areas could have been developed into semiautonomous military feudatories. It is understandable that the court was not at all responsive to his memorial. Despite complete silence from the court, Shou-jen's memorial was widely read by scholar-officials in the capital. It was well received not only for its bold ideas but also for its forceful style. Shou-jen's reputation as an eloquent critic and a superb essayist soared to a new height. In 1500, Shou-jen was promoted to Secretary of the Yunnan Bureau in the Board of Punishment. For the first time he experienced the life of a bureaucrat. His assignments at the time were mainly concerned with desk work, such as reading legal reports and writing recommendations. When he was sent to the Chiang-pei areas to conduct the inspection of criminal cases in the following year, he again became engaged in matters such as the examination of legal procedures, interpretation of established precedents, and investigation of closed files. Although he was said to have modified and reversed many charges, his freedom of action must have been strictly confined within a fixed bureaucratic structure. 74 After he returned to the capital in 1502, his work became even more routinized. According to one account, he spent most of his days reading official records and composing government documents. 75 The question raised toward the end of the last section can be answered in part in the light of the above. Shou-jen's health was not the only reason for his choosing to leave the capital. Surely, he preferred to conserve his "limited energy" for some really useful task. But to him such a task seemed to lie in military strategy rather than in bureaucratic routine.

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Taoist Master and Confucian Sage

A gift for poetic expression and a fascination with military strategy were certainly two of the most salient features of Shou-jen's intellectual life prior to his departure for home in 1502, but they

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represented only the more obvious manifestations of his personality in youth. A more subtle and, from a developmental point of view, more persistent aspect of Shou-jen's youthful character was his ethico-religious commitment. But to probe what may be called the "inner dimension" of Shou-jen's experience is no easy task. For one thing, the material involved is historically problematical. Information that seems crucial to a proper appreciation of Shou-jen's spiritual growth only appears below the surface of legendary accounts, all of which have been discarded by historians of a critical bent as unprovable hagiography. Admittedly, any attempt to interpret Shou-jen's inner concerns by using this type of material runs the risk of being subjective. However, if we make no effort in this connection, an important dimension of Shou-jen's youthful quest would be relegated to the background and the whole picture of his spiritual growth would lack a proper perspective. Actually, in traditional Chinese scholarship, the majority of historical accounts have characterized Shou-jen's youth as a period of spiritual quest. Students of Ming thought have taken it for granted that Shou-jen, "having great resolution in youth [shao yu ta-chih]," must have gone through a series of intellectual trials. Indeed, his best friend, Chan Jo-shui, in writing an epitaph for him, made a special effort to stress that Shou-jen had gone through "five falls" before he finally found the path to Confucianism: "His first fall was an absorbing interest in knightly ventures; his second was in the skills of horsemanship and archery. His third fall was an absorbing interest in letters; his fourth was in the art of pursuing immortality, and his fifth was Buddhism. Only in the year 1506, did he return to the correct teaching of the sages."76 However, it should be noted that Shou-jen's "falls" did not necessarily conform to a sequential pattern. Although some scholars have attempted to periodize Shou-jen's formative years in terms of his specific diversions, such attempts seem too schematic to approximate the complexity of his spiritual growth. In fact, even before his involvement in knightly ventures, Shou-jen had already been exposed to Taoism. His cultivation of the art of pursuing immortality seems also to have predated his absorbing interest in letters. More importantly, his fascination with the Taoist cult of longevity not only occurred early in his life but also remained powerful long after some of his other infatuations had disappeared. As an inner demand for something more lasting and profound,

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Shou-jen's Taoist "fall" was sustained at a level that was qualitatively different from his falls in the other categories. Of interest here is a highly suggestive story about his encounter with a physiognomist in the streets of Peking, which was alleged to have happened shortly before the famous remark that the greatest task in life was to become a sage. According to the story, when Shou-jen was eleven years old he had gotten into a fight with a bird-seller in the streets. Struck by Shou-jen's extraordinary appearance, a physiognomist who happened to pass by purchased the bird for him as a gift and offered him a free consultation, which is full of Taoist allusions: When the beard brushes the collar, you will enter The realm of sagehood. When the beard reaches the upper cinnabar field, You will form a sage-embryo. When the beard reaches the lower cinnabar field, You will bear the sagely fruit. Furthermore, the physiognomist advised Shou-jen to develop his inner control and to cherish his unusual endowment so that the great promise could be "verified" (ytng-yen). Shou-jen was said to have been so deeply impressed with this promising "allotment" (fen) that he occasionally buried himself in silent contemplation.78 In a systematic study of Taoist self-cultivation in Ming thought, Liu Ts'un-yan has forcefully argued that the Taoist influence in Shou-jen's mature philosophy is prevalent. According to Professor Liu's analysis, sagehood in the above context is definitely a Taoist term.79 Its connotations were readily understood by the Ming literati. The length of the beard presumably refers to the time required for the cultivation. If "the beard brushes the collar" indicates thirty years of age, the upper and lower cinnabar fields may suggest forty and fifty, respectively. Since to become an accomplished Taoist necessitates a long and unceasing process of self-discipline, the timetable so outlined involves no less than one's entire lifespan. This is of course with the understanding that once the whole process is completed one's lifespan can be greatly extended. Thus, entering the realm of sagehood prepares the ground for the formation of a sage-embryo, which can only be nurtured through the practice of the "vital breath" (ch'i). Such a practice, in the tradition of the "internal pill" (nei-tan), as differentiated

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from the alchemist school of the "external pill" (wai-tan), will eventually lead to the completion of the sage-fruit.80 All this suggests that, in the eyes of the physiognomist at least, Shou-jen had the endowments to become perfected in the Taoist art of longevity, if he persisted in such a pursuit. Very little proven historical evidence can be found to support the claim that Shou-jen was deeply involved in the cult of longevity in his adolescent period, but there is a valuable piece of information that supports the claim that he had acquired some knowledge of it. The chronological biography states that at sixteen Shou-jen went to Hung-tu, the present-day Nan-ch'ang in Kiangsi, to marry a daughter of the Chu family, whose father was an assistant administrative commissioner in the provincial government. On his wedding day he passed by a Taoist temple, where he saw a Taoist priest sitting cross-legged. "He greeted the latter and upon his solicitation, was initiated into the art of 'nourishing life.' Thereupon they sat opposite each other in profound 'meditation.'" 81 The account continues that Shou-jen forgot to go home and was fetched the next morning. This extraordinary performance seems to suggest that the Taoist cult of longevity had attracted Shou-jen's attention for some time. Actually, Shou-jen's inevitable exposure to popular Taoism was rooted in his family tradition. The predilections of his forefathers, especially the life orientation of his grandfather, created an atmosphere congenial with the spirit of Taoism. However, so far as the anecdote itself is concerned, it is difficult to explain why his interest in Taoist self-cultivation became particularly marked on his wedding day. Should we accept the traditional account that he came across the Taoist priest by chance and was invited into the art of nourishing life unexpectedly? Should we not question the interpretation that he simply forgot to go back to his newly-wed wife and had to be fetched by the servants of his father-in-law the next day? This unusual behavior demands some explanation. As was a common practice at the time, Shou-jen's marriage had been arranged between the two families long before he met his fiancée. In addition, he had to travel for hundreds of miles from Peking to this strange land in Kiangsi to perform the wedding ritual. This was not only his first visit to Hung-tu but also his first long journey away from his father, who had been in close

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contact with him for more than five years, since Shou-jen moved to the capital at the age of ten. In addition to his uneasiness in assuming his new role as the son-in-law of a prominent scholarofficial in a different province, his inexperience with the local customs and his inability to communicate fluently in the local dialect must have generated considerable anxiety. A sense of loneliness and uncertainty seems to have characterized his more than eighteen-month sojourn. There is almost no record concerning Shou-jen's married life, but the available historical sources give an important fact: despite their marriage of more than thirty-six years, his wife did not bear him a child.82 Although his extraordinary behavior on his wedding day could be interpreted as an escape either from intimacy with the opposite sex in general or from his bride in particular, for lack of historical evidence any suggestion of impotence in this particular connection seems farfetched. Traditional historians, on the other hand, have never entertained the idea of sexual inhibition as a possible explanation. They believe that Shou-jen's ability to take his marriage lightheartedly was in keeping with his father's public image as a paradigm of self-control, especially in matters of "sex" ( nil-she). All these considerations, in the last analysis, are not necessarily in conflict with the conventional interpretation that as a young man of sixteen, full of curiosity, Shou-jen's concentration on the immediate experience of communicating with the Taoist master was so intense that it transcended all other concerns, including those of his own wedding. In any case, it appears that a fundamental transformation of Shou-jen's spiritual life did take place in his stay in Hung-tu. There is sufficient evidence to note that his spiritual orientation at the time shifted from achievements in the external world, such as in the area of military strategy, to the subtle feelings and ineffable experiences of self-knowledge. An obvious indication of such a shift was his involvement in the daily practice of calligraphy, an art especially associated with his alleged ancestral forefather, Wang Hsi-chih. Shou-jen was said to have been absorbed in the ancient art for a period of sixteen months. Practicing calligraphy, like training in a difficult musical instrument, is extremely timeconsuming. It requires dedication, perseverance, and artistic vision. Techniques such as grinding the ink, holding the brush, wielding the nib, and arranging the paper can only be mastered after many years o/ painstaking drill. To be sure, copying and imitation are

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indispensable ways of learning the art of calligraphy. Once the methods are internalized, however, there are inexhaustible possibilities for creative adaptation and original expression. It is probably in this sense that many connoisseurs believe that one's calligraphy is the truest manifestation of one's personality. By the time Shou-jen left for home he was reported to have used u p several trunks of paper stored in his father-in-law's office. 83 Later Shou-jen remarked to his students, "When I first learned how to write characters, I slavishly imitated the copybooks of ancient masters. What I achieved was no more than formlikeness. Subsequently I would not lightly wield my brush on the paper. I would first collect my floating thoughts and silently cogitate on how to construct the character in my mind. After the lapse of quite some time I began to understand the method of calligraphy." 84 The great Sung Confucian master, Ch'eng Hao, once remarked, "I always write characters with a feeling of reverence. I do not intend to improve my calligraphy. It is simply my way of learning." Commenting on this statement, Shou-jen queried, "If he really did not intend to improve his calligraphy, what was he learning about?" Shou-jen's rhetorical question led to the famous instruction that learning is for the primary purpose of cultivating the mind. 85 T o be sure, when Shou-jen diligently practiced his calligraphy as a daily ritual in Hung-tu he was not yet aware of its profound spiritual implications. But even at that time it was more than a way of improving his calligraphic skill. To him the practice of calligraphy was also a method of self-discipline. Certainly the mental and physical processes involved, such as "quiet-sitting" (ching-tso), regulated breath, and total concentration, are compatible with the Taoist understanding of self-cultivation. To this day Shou-jen continues to be highly acclaimed for his cursive style, and samples of his writings are greatly treasured by connoisseurs in China and Japan. It is little known, however, that he became an accomplished calligrapher partly because he refused to accept calligraphic skill as an end in itself. We may even suggest that his deliberate attempt to use calligraphy to discipline himself enabled him to transcend professionalism and develop a distinctive style of his own. The transformation of Shou-jen's intellectual life reached an important stage in 1489 when he was seventeen years of age, with a visit to Lou Liang, certainly one of the most prominent Confucian

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scholars at the time. 86 This event took place when he was on his way back to his native place in Yii-yao with his wife. They stopped over in Kuang-hsin to visit the aging philosopher and Lou Liang discussed with him the ideas of the Sung masters, especially Chu Hsi's concept of ko-wu (investigation of things). 87 Shou-jen was deeply struck by his instruction that sagehood could definitely be attained through learning. Both the Nien-p'u and Hsing-chuang (career biography) regard this event as a landmark in Shou-jen's life; the Nien-p'u further considers the event to be the commencement of Shou-jen's pursuit of Confucian teachings. 88 The concept of sage, in this connection, had a definite Confucian meaning, and the road to sagehood was specifically marked by Chu Hsi's approach to learning. Lou Liang, a disciple of Wu Yii-pi (K'ang-chai, 1391-1469), who combined the life of a scholar with that of a farmer, was well-known for his teaching on self-cultivation. Like his teacher— who refused to serve in any official position so that he could participate more deeply in an ethico-religious realm independent of political power and influence—Lou Liang also led the life of a recluse, centering his attention on reading, writing, and teaching. His intellectual concerns were very much focused on the Four Books, the Five Classics, and the writings of the Sung masters. 89 Although Lou Liang was to die only two years after Shou-jen's visit, their association through Lou's family lasted for decades. In 1519, upon the suppression of the Prince Ning rebellion, Shou-jen performed a proper burial in commemoration of Ning's wife. It was certainly unusual to pay such a tribute to the rebel's spouse, but she was alleged to have repeatedly attempted to dissuade the Prince from rebellion. Furthermore, she was Master Lou's daughter. 90 In the following year, 1490, Shou-jen's grandfather died and his father returned home in mourning from the capital. The impact of Lou Liang's teaching on Shou-jen's intellectual life now became pronounced. Under the instruction of his father, he and his cousins and brother-in-law studied the Confucian classics. By day he learned his lessons with the others according to a fixed schedule; by night he studied philosophical and historical writings of the pre-Ch'in periods on his own, usually until midnight. His classmates were surprised by his progress. They later came to realize that Shou-jen was not really aiming at the examination. His concerns seemed to have gone beyond tangible accomplishments.

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Previously, he had been vivacious, gregarious, and fond of jesting. Now he became grave and reticent. At first his cousins and brotherin-law felt that he was merely putting on airs, but eventually they accepted his seriousness and became somewhat restrained themselves.91 Shou-jen's intellectual development was marked by another important leap in 1492, a year prior to his first abortive attempt to pass the metropolitan examination. At this time he continued to be fascinated by Chu Hsi's mode of thinking. Although he read extensively in the writings of the Sung masters, the greatest challenge to him was Chu Hsi's remark that the universal principle (li) is also embodied in a tree or a blade of grass. As we know, underlying such a simple statement is Chu Hsi's belief that the best way to attain sagehood is through a systematic program of learning, which involves the investigation of natural phenomena and the appropriation of objective truths. We can catch here a glimpse of the root issue from which Shou-jen's critique of Chu Hsi's concept of ko-wu later evolved.9* If the attainment of sagehood necessitates a process of learning from the outside, what is the status of the Confucian claim, upheld since the time of Mencius, that man's inner nature is sufficient for him to become what he ought to be? Of course at that time Shou-jen was not aware that he might eventually come into conflict with the great Sung Master. Not only did he fail to entertain that possibility, he patently blamed himself when his attempt to put Chu Hsi's instruction into practice became ineffectual. The drama Of this situation is illuminated by an anecdote in his chronological biography. Several years previously, we are told, in a desperate effort to comprehend Chu Hsi's teaching on ko-wu, Shou-jen and a friend assigned themselves the task of investigating a grove of bamboo in the courtyard of his father's office. First, his friend tried, but gave up the idea after spending three days of intensive study on the intended object. Feeling that his friend probably did not have enough strength to sustain such an investigation, Shou-jen then took up the task and continued for seven days. At the end he became totally exhausted and fell ill. It was a case of mental depression as well as physical fatigue. Indeed, he was so disappointed at his lack of an experiential understanding of Chu Hsi's ko-um that his childlike confidence in attaining sagehood was said to have been seriously shaken. He felt that he had never had the "allotment" to become a sage after all. He was

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simply too "weak" to emulate the personality ideal of Chu Hsi. According to the Nien-p'u, it was only after his profound frustration on this account that he began to indulge in the vogue of his time by focusing on the cultivation of a new literary style.98 Shou-jen's seven-day investigation in the bamboo grove has been cited by several modern scholars to show the naïveté of Shou-jen's approach to empirical science in general and the technique of observation in particular. They are quick to point out that Shou-jen failed to appreciate the method of induction. To accuse Shou-jen of lacking the spirit of experimentation, however, simply misses the root issue. Even in the original formulation of ko-wu in Chu Hsi, the intention was ethico-religious rather than epistemological. The problem of developing a theory of cognition or acquiring a body of knowledge never really occurred to Shou-jen, or for that matter to Chu Hsi, as an end in itself. All of them were quite aware of the usefulness of what they characterized as the "knowledge of hearing and seeing" (wen-chien chih-chih). But to them the road to sagehood could only be discovered by way of inner experience, which entails a process of internal spiritual transformation. Yet, according to Chu Hsi's instruction, to investigate a thing, be it a natural phenomenon or a human affair, is a prerequisite for inner self-illumination. Therefore, when Shou-jen took up the investigation of bamboos he was actually involved in a spiritual quest: how does one relate an objective understanding of a specific natural phenomenon to one's inner concern for self-realization? In other words, he was caught in the perennial philosophical predicament of resolving the tension between self-knowledge and external learning, or in the terminology of the Confucian tradition, the conflict between the "inner" (net) and the "outer" (wai). Theoretically, he could have adopted a number of other approaches, but given the overpowering influence of Chu Hsi's philosophical heritage, it was inconceivable that he could have presented a serious challenge to Chu Hsi's teaching. In fact, he did not contemplate even a minor departure from Chu Hsi's intellectual orientation. This partly explains why Shou-jen was so much disturbed by his failure to put ko-wu into practice. He sincerely believed that there was something basically inadequate in himself. The chronological biography reports that in 1498, at the age of twenty-six, Shou-jen suffered another spiritual crisis. According to

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its account, Shou-jen was sorely perplexed by his involvement in the cultivation of a literary style. But after he had made the decision to give up this useless task, he felt at a loss to start a new adventure. He desperately sought after meaningful friendships among his peer group, but he simply could not resonate to their moral dogmas. He longed for spiritual guidance but was unable to find an inspiring teacher. Again, he was under a strong compulsion to come to terms with Chu Hsi's writings. One day he read Chu Hsi's memorial to Emperor Kuang-tsung (reign 1190-1194), in which Chu Hsi states, "To dwell in reverence and to maintain the power of the will is the basis of learning; to follow a regular sequence and to pursue refinement by a gradual process is the method of learning."94 Shou-jen was deeply struck by these remarks. He regretted that while he had engaged in rigorous and extensive inquiries, he had completely failed to follow a wellbalanced program of learning. Nor had he ever tried to attain refinement through a regular and gradual process of internal self-transformation. He also felt that his strong passion for learning had actually led to fickle-mindedness. Without a real understanding of Chu Hsi's precept of ko-xvu he had had no way of entering the realm of sagehood.95 Consequently, when Shou-jen once again resolved to internalize Chu Hsi's instruction, he adopted the strategy of "gradual refinement" by concentrating on a limited number of issues at one time. He believed that "by systematically dipping deep into the object under investigation, he could absorb it more comprehensively in his mind." 96 Presumably, he would not stubbornly force himself to understand the inner structure of a thing as if his life depended on it. Rather, he would let the thing gradually sink into his mind so that he could appreciate its vicissitudes from a multidimensional point of view. Formerly he had believed that by an experiential understanding of the It inherent in the bamboo he could arrive at a better knowledge of himself. Now he believed that a systematic rather than an inspirational approach wouldjead to the intended result. Unfortunately the root issue—how to arrive at internal self-realization through external investigation—was far from being resolved. The crucial question of "bridging the gap between hsin (heart-mind) and It," in Shou-jen's words, remained unanswered. Chu Hsi's promise that, through a persistent study of the It of various natural phenomena and human affairs, the barrier between

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the internal and the external would be overcome, was perhaps too much of an ideal. As we have noted, Shou-jen was not in a position to question the validity of Chu Hsi's approach. After he had repeatedly failed to understand it in terms of his own experience, it was also difficult for him to accept it wholeheartedly. In fact, underlying his puzzlement over Chu Hsi's instruction on ko-iou was his inability to make peace with himself. The seriousness of his spiritual quest forced him to drill deeply into his own inner experience. If he had known that it was impossible for him to "embody" ko-wu at that level, he might have tried new methods and adapted to new situations. As he did not realize that Chu Hsi's teaching on this account could be incongruous with what the actual process of self-cultivation required, it seemed that he had only himself to blame. As a result, his self-image was tarnished, and it became continually more difficult for him to attain peace of mind. According to the Nten-p'u, after having been prey to melancholy for some time, Shou-jen again fell ill. He was more strongly convinced that he had not been given the "allotment" of becoming a sage. His frustrating experience with Chu Hsi's teaching on ko-xvu prompted him to search for internal tranquility in the Taoist cult of longevity.97 The available sources concerning Shou-jen's encounter with Taoism include two anecdotes which, while they cannot be readily accepted as factually true, seem to reflect the quality of Shou-jen's inner feelings at the time. The anecdotes concern events which are said to have occurred in 1501, after Shou-jen had passed his metropolitan examination and served in the capacity of a civil bureaucrat for almost two years. They echo his uneasiness as a government functionary and his continual quest for spiritual fulfillment. During his official assignment in Chiang-pei, Shou-jen made a special trip to Mount Chiu-hua, an ideal hermitage famed for its marvelous scenery. He is alleged to have met a Taoist master there by the name of Ts'ai P'eng-t'ou, or Dishevel-pated Ts'ai, who had a wide reputation for his practice of the art of longevity. According Ts'ai due respect, he inquired about the subject; Ts'ai replied, "Not yet." After a while, Shou-jen dismissed his attendants and led Ts'ai to a pavilion at the back of the premises, where he again addressed to him the same question. Ts'ai replied, "Not yet." When Shou-jen asked

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him for the third time, Ts'ai said, "You certainly treated me with high respect, in the back hall and the back pavilion, but you nevertheless did not forget to put on "the air of an official." Then laughingly he took his leave.9"

To Shou-jen the phrase 'the air of an official" (kuan-hsiang) must have been disturbing, if not insulting. At a time when he was inevitably caught up in bureaucratic routines, the accusation must have been particularly poignant. Apparently, for Shou-jen, the conflict between externalized official work and inner spiritual cultivation was a deeply felt reality. How to accept political responsibility without assuming the unwholesome air of an official later became one of his favorite topics. In Taoist terms, it was the problem of preserving the purity of one's "childlikeness" in spite of worldly entanglements. Shou-jen was therefore confronted with a real existential choice: if he decided to keep his post as a government functionary, he would have to rid himself of the air of an official. Although his role as a bureaucrat was not necessarily in conflict with his inner quest, it certainly made his spiritual progress more difficult." Of course one can interpret Shou-jen's eagerness to communicate with the Taoist master as a manifestation of the classical dichotomy: Confucianist in office and Taoist in retirement, or in this particular case, Taoist dilettante at leisure. But to do so is to ignore the seriousness of Shou-jen's spiritual quest, as the second anecdote makes clear: Shou-jen was informed that in Ti-tsang Tung (Grotto of Kshitigarbha), there lived an extraordinary man who sat and slept on pine needles and ate uncooked food. Shou-jen mounted steep cliffs and braved perilous ridges in order to visit him. Upon his arrival, the man was fast asleep. Shou-jen sat by his side and gently shook his feet. After a while the man woke up and being surprised at seeing Shou-jen inquired: "How could you get here through all those dangerous passages?" Then they proceeded to discuss the highest order of truth. The man said, "Chou Lien-Hsi [Tun-i, 1012-1073] and Ch'eng Ming-tao [Ch'eng Hao] were two good scholars of the Confucian school." When Shou-jen went there again, the man had already moved away. Thus he regretted much that so inaccessible was a man after his own heart.100

A possible source for this anecdote was, of course, Shou-jen himself. It was probably recorded by his students as Shou-jen's own reflection on his spiritual quest.

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As we know, Chou Lien-hsi and Ch'eng Ming-tao were two of the most brilliant Neo-Confucian thinkers of the Sung dynasty. Especially noteworthy was their creative adaptation of Taoist and, to a lesser extent, Ch'an Buddhist ideas to enrich the heritage of Confucianism. Their intellectual efforts in many ways anticipated Shou-jen's spiritual orientation later in his life. (It should also be pointed out that many intellectual historians have argued that Shou-jen was actually in the Ch'eng Ming-tao tradition, whereas Chu Hsi was the true heir to Ch'eng I [I-ch'uan, 1033-1107]). To have singled out Chou Lien-hsi and Ch'eng Ming-tao for special recognition in the Confucian tradition was more than a casual remark. It was a deliberate attempt to undermine the importance of Chu Hsi. Indeed, according to a different version of the same anecdote, Chu Hsi was actually characterized as a lecturer (chiangshih) in Confucianism. 101 Implicit in the statement is a rather serious critique of the great Sung master. A lecturer may be eloquent in words but since the quality of his inner experience still falls short of the Confucian ideal of an exemplary teacher, he cannot yet teach with his whole body and mind. It would be impossible to determine with certainty whether Shou-jen was actually thinking in such terms prior to his leave of absence in 1502, or whether the story represents a backward projection from a later day when his philosophical position had already been firmly established. Of course his reflections on Chu Hsi may not yet have been so explicit, but in the light of his experiential encounters with the issue of ko-xuu, it seems safe to suggest that by then Shou-jen had already been deeply involved in problems of this kind.

Chapter II

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Existential Choice at Yang-ming Grotto

IN THE period between the summer of 1502 and the summer of 1504, Shou-jen asked for sick leave, left the capital, returned to Yu-yao, and spent about two years in retreat. 1 His health had deteriorated in 1499 when he was charged with the duty of constructing the tomb of Wang Yiieh. His riding accident, mentioned earlier, had apparently caused a serious injury. But his immediate reason for going home had presumably been exhaustion from overwork. As we have seen, his vigorous schedule had greatly worried his father, whose attempt to dissuade him from excessive study had been unsuccessful. 2 But Shou-jen's alleged enervation seems to have been more than physical exhaustion; it was also an indication of psychological depression. In fact, prior to his self-imposed moratorium, he had experienced at least two spiritual crises. The first resulted from his intensive but abortive attempt to internalize Chu Hsi's concept of ko-wu in 1492.3 The second recorded crisis took place six years later, and had been occasioned by his repeated failures to understand Chu Hsi's teachings on the concepts of hsin and

11* Shou-jen's spiritual crisis in the summer of 1502 is said to have been prompted by disenchantment with his old acquaintances in the capital and dissatisfaction with his political career. And, while his involvement with the literary movement, as such, had a very little value to Shou-jen, the bureaucratic routine was unbearable. Although Shou-jen's judgments, particularly in the Chiang-pei assignments, frequently departed from the precedents used by local authorities, his satisfaction in exercising some measure of imagination in bureaucratic procedure could not have equaled the delight he had found in his encounters with the two mysterious Taoists. He was convinced that he must try to rinse away "the air of an official." 5 55

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Underlying his frustration with literary attainment and bureaucratic competence was a much deeper issue, an issue he continued to wrestle with throughout his life. The issue here, as in his two previous spiritual crises, seems essentially to have been a concern for sagehood. His attempt to internalize Chu Hsi's concept of ko-wu had been closely associated with Lou Liang's teaching that sagehood is attainable through learning. 6 His failure to understand Chu Hsi's concepts of hsin and It had seemed to him, in the words of the Nien-p'u, like a denial of his promised "allotment" to become a sage.7 Similarly, he now refused to settle for the role of a reputable writer and a competent bureaucrat because it fell short of his long cherished personality ideal. We may go on to suggest that since his professed ideal was in a practical sense extremely difficult to realize, his search became long and strenuous. Indeed, by calling him k'uang when he was only fifteen, his father had already caught the essence of Shou-jen's restlessness.8 It is important to note that Shou-jen's decision to give up an official career came during one of his father's most auspicious years as a high official in the capital. According to both Yang I-ch'ing and Lu Shen, in 1502 Wang Hua was promoted to chancellor {hsueh-shih) of the Hanlin Academy and given the responsibility of teaching the Hanlin bachelors (shu-chi-shih).9 In the following year, after having completed an assignment as a compiler of the Ta-ming hui-tien, he became one of the junior supervisors of instruction (shao chan-shih); while still keeping his chancellorship he, along with two other officials, was now responsible for the education of the heir apparent. A few months later, after having participated in the compilation of T'ung-chien tsuanyao, he was promoted to the position of vice minister (tso-shih-lang) in the Ministry of Rites (It-pu). Thus, in about a year he rose from the fifth to the third rank (p'in),10 a remarkable accomplishment for a civil official. In contrast, judging from the thirty-five poems written in this period of retreat, 11 Shou-jen not only refused to participate in officialdom but gave very little credit to those who did. His negative attitude was certainly at odds with that of his father, who probably thought that political life was not only necessary but desirable. We are not sure how he actually reacted to his father's success as a scholar-official, but the fact that his determination to rinse away "the air of an official" was made at a time when his

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father was given ample reason to assume such an air seems very suggestive. Of course Shou-jen knew that his father was not an ordinary man. As one of the most respected personalities of his times, Wang Hua was considered by many to be the paradigmatic example of a Confucian scholar-official. We indicated earlier that the task that Shou-jen had set for himself went beyond what his father had already attained. Thus, despite the fact that the modes of his search were frequently affected by his father's life situations, the correlation must not be oversimplified. Among the thirty-five poems mentioned above, at least fourteen were either composed in Buddhist temples or took them as subjects. The rest were composed mostly at scenic spots with Taoist associations. The Buddhist and Taoist allusions are so rich that the poems can easily be mistaken for works of a hermit or a Ch'an poet. There is extensive use of such symbols as monks, immortals, Buddhist temples, Taoist caves, dragons, tigers, evening chanting, and cinnabar books. We learn that Shou-jen enjoyed sitting on a rock in a stream with naked arms, and occasionally expressed his emotion in a "long whistle" (ch'ang-hstao), a practice with strong Taoist overtones.1* He felt blessed to be away from official duties; and in a casual way he remarked that the great historical rivalry of Liu Pang and Hsiang Yii was not as fascinating as a go, or wei-ch't, match between four old men in the mountains. 13 While he was wandering about the steep hills he felt that the immortals were waving to him above the clouds.14 He pictured his official life as an aimless drifting in the turbid current. 15 What he really wanted was to lead a new way of life. Since he knew only too well that on his way back to town he would have to suffer from "wind, dust, and saddle," 16 his heart was with the secluded monk who alone savored the view of "ten thousand layers of cloud below the cliff and a thousand peach trees in front of the cave." 17 Such is the general atmosphere Shou-jen evokes in his poems. His artistic sensitivity is manifested in his perceptive choice of words to capture the nuance of colors and the subtlety of sounds. His ability to select familiar religious symbols and to make them seamlessly interweave with nature is a remarkable demonstration of his poetic creativity. It would be misleading, however, to suggest that his absorption in aesthetic appreciation was a departure from, rather than a continuation of, his search for sagehood. In fact, he believed that an internal self-transformation is a prerequisite for

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any deep experiential encounter with beautiful scenery. On one occasion, he was so much impressed with the verdant Mount Chiu-hua when "the floating clouds gave rise to morning chill" that he sighed, "the sacred beauty of the mountain should be secretly cherished so that a layman (su-jen) would not be allowed to see."18 Implicit in this seemingly casual remark was his awareness that unless he underwent some qualitative change in his personality, he would never be able to understand the deep meaning of nature. In addition to rinsing away the air of an official, he now wanted to eliminate the vulgarity (su) of a layman. For many years Shou-jen had been engaged in a spiritual quest. The specific methods kept changing and the symbols used to justify it also went through many metamorphoses, but the central concern remained the same. Shortly after Shou-jen returned to Yii-yao he built his retreat in the Yang-ming Grotto. There he seriously took up Taoist practice. Gradually he became steeped in the cult of longevity. His involvement led him to try to sift the matter to the bottom by a kind of total participation. Specifically, he practiced the art of tao-yin (breathing technique, dietary control, and other forms of yoga-like exercises).19 After a time he was able to experience the movement of his yang-sheng (primordial spirit) and as a result was said to have acquired the Taoist power of "prescience" (hsien-chih).t0 The following story gives us some clue as to what this meant: One day, Shou-jen's friends, Wang Ssu-yu and three others, went to pay him a visit. Scarcely had they passed through the city gate, Wu-yiin men, when Shou-jen sent his servant to meet them and told him what route they would follow. The servant met them on their way and upon inquiry found that the course they pursued completely agreed with the description furnished by Shou-jen. They were all amazed and convinced that Shou-jen had already acquired the Tao [of the immortals].41

This might have been a coincidence, but Shou-jen's fame as a man who knew the secret passage to immortality spread widely. Personally, however, Shou-jen was far from satisfied with what he had accomplished. He considered his mastery of the art of tao-yin as no more than a dallying with psychical energy, a minor concern even in Taoistic cultivation. And since his aim was to understand its true meaning, he desperately longed for a complete realization. He was even prepared to leave the world of cares altogether, in order to bring himself fully in line with the life of a hermit.

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Theoretically, some qualitative jump was indeed required if he really wished to attain the highest order of Taoist cultivation, which demanded that the purity of the mind be free from vulgar thoughts such as fame, social recognition, or even familial attachments. He pondered seriously upon this issue and felt ready to give up almost everything, but the one obstacle that troubled him constantly was his continued caring for his grandmother and father. For days he wrestled with this problem. Having long been accustomed to tranquillity, it seemed natural for him to depart from the world and roam about the wilderness, but his familial ties prevented him from taking the crucial step. On the surface, the issue seems rather vague. One wonders why Shou-jen could not have led the life of a hermit and simultaneously entertained feelings for his grandmother and father and so have struck a balance between Taoistic cultivation of longevity and Confucian filial piety. Unfortunately for Shou-jen, the basic choice was of a different kind. It was between a truly meaningful life and an ordinary existence. In theory, he could have argued that if he had been able to cut off all his worldly ties he would have found his identity in the life of a recluse. Practically, however, since he could not bear the thought of forsaking his closest kin, complete retreat was out of the question. Consequently, he had to justify his inability to become a confirmed Taoist by taking on a new set of values. He could not settle for a compromise. The either-or choice was by no means imposed upon him from outside; his own inner demand impelled him to confront the situation as an absolute choice. His chronological biography reports that after a long struggle with himself, he came to the realization that the feeling for one's parents is so deeply rooted in man's nature that to expunge it is to deny the very foundation of humanity." This assumption is one of the most basic in Confucian teaching; indeed, it is the rationale underlying the practice of filial piety.84 Shou-jen had been earnestly trying to find some ultimate way of life to which he could wholeheartedly surrender himself. He might have seriously speculated on the possibility of becoming a general like Ma Yuan, or a Taoist immortal, but the real question was not what kind of role in society was most appropriate to him but how to realize himself fully despite the particular social role he happened to assume at a given moment. His frustration had been caused not only by a failure to achieve what he believed to be valuable intellectually but

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also by his inability to know why he was driven to take such a restless course of search. Shou-jen might have reflected upon his inner decisions as conscious responses to external situations; he might have found justifications for the different courses he had decided to pursue; what he actually had done, however, was to withdraw gradually from the world. Now, at a time when he could have made the final decision to sever his ties with the world completely, he profoundly experienced the weight of his primordial attachment. Suggestively, Shou-jen's conscious attempts to bring himself in line with the Confucian master, Chu Hsi, through ko-wu, had repeatedly met with frustration. His unanticipated inner experience now not only helped him to appreciate an important dimension of Confucian teachings but also provided him with tremendous intellectual strength to cope with the challenges of both Taoism and Buddhism. A year after Shou-jen's inner decision to recognize his feelings for his father and grandmother as an irreducible reality of human nature, he moved to the scenic spot, West Lake, to recuperate, and began to entertain the idea of serving the world again. 25 At this time, he repeatedly visited several Buddhist monasteries, including Nan-p'ing and Hu-p'ao. 86 He was said to have met many extraordinary personalities, and to have engaged in serious dialogues with some of them. 87 On one occasion he confronted a Ch'an monk who had been "sitting in quietude" (tso-kuan) for three years without uttering a word or looking at anything. In a loud voice Shou-jen shouted to him, "This monk with his lips moving, talks all the time. What does he say? With his eyes open, he looks at things all the time. What does he see?" The monk was startled. Thereupon he opened his eyes and entered into conversation with Shou-jen, who inquired about his family. The monk said, "My mother is still alive." "Are you ever homesick for her?" asked Shoujen. The monk replied, "It is impossible to eliminate these thoughts." Shou-jen then pointed out the true meaning of filial love. The monk was said to have been moved to tears, and expressed his gratitude. The next day, when Shou-jen asked for him again, he had already left.*8 The historical authenticity of this story may never be established, but the message seems apparent. The fact that the Ch'an monk could not free himself from maternal ties indicated more than that familial attachments are tenacious. What it suggested, Shou-jen

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argued, was that the intimate feeling for one's mother is so intrinsically rooted in human nature that to suppress it is more than difficult, it is both undesirable and unnatural. This is an awareness that self-realization should accept basic human feelings as its point of departure. If one does violence to one's basic human feelings, the very foundation of selfhood will be shaken and the road to self-realization will become tortuous, if not entirely blocked. At this juncture, it is difficult to take into consideration all the important implications of Shou-jen's new vision, but we have no doubt that his decision at the Yang-ming Grotto symbolized a turning point in his life history. On the surface, his return to Yu-yao had been a forced withdrawal due to the condition of his health. Yet even in the quietude of the Yang-ming Grotto, Shou-jen demonstrated the dynamism of his inner strength. Since he could not settle for social recognition as an accomplished Taoist practitioner, he craved a deeper meaning in Taoist retreat. But a seemingly passive act of retreat became an uncompromising struggle for a meaningful existence. Now, for the first time, he came to the realization that his basic human feelings were the true foundation of his own self-realization. This was indeed the commencement of a new life. His personal experience opened a gate for him to appreciate the value of his selfhood and the weight of his innermost feeling. Psychologically, it is understandable that the strength of his parental attachment was instrumental in keeping him from forsaking all of his worldly involvements. One may find it convenient to explain the outcome of his choice in terms of his strong relationship to his father. The social milieu in which he grew up certainly sanctioned, indeed encouraged, such a choice. Nevertheless, the question remains—how was Shou-jen able to translate his inner experience into an active intellectual force that not only directed his own spiritual development but also profoundly affected the lives of his students? In the Nien-p'u, Shou-jen's disciples recorded that, through his experience in the Yang-ming Grotto, Shou-jen began to realize the weakness of both Taoism and Buddhism. 29 This by no means suggests that Shou-jen suddenly freed himself from their influence. But it does indicate that in 1502, as a result of the Yang-ming Grotto experience, Shou-jen began a new phase in his spiritual development. It would take him a long time to integrate this new experience with his whole personality, but the first step

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was essential. In this connection, it seems only natural that later Shou-jen was more frequently referred to as Yang-ming than either by his hao Shou-jen or by his tzu Po-an. Shou-jen's disciples and admirers actually referred to him as Yang-ming hsien-sheng, or Master Yang-ming. Later, in 1525, when he was fifty-four, they built an academy in Yu-yao to honor him. The academy was also named Yang-ming,*0 as was the temple to which the academy was finally converted in 1537 by Shou-jen's disciple, Chou Ju-yuan. 31 Yang-ming was not just an honorific title; it was greatly favored by Shou-jen himself. He used both Yangming tzu,32 or Yang-ming the philosopher, and Yang-ming shanjen, 33 or Yang-ming the mountain man, as his signature. Moreover, owing to Shou-jen's influence, his father became quite attached to the Yang-ming Grotto, as is mentioned in his own biography. 34 The symbolic meaning of the Yang-ming Grotto in the life of Shou-jen is best shown in his last letter to his disciples, written about a month before he died. Aware that death was approaching, he stated: "Even though I probably cannot fulfill my wish to enjoy retirement in the fields, I definitely should be able to return to Yang-ming Grotto and bid you farewell there." 86 Although it turned out that Shou-jen closed his eyes hundreds of miles away from the Yang-ming Grotto, he started his homeward journey even at the risk of defying an imperial order. Ironically, Mao Ch'i-ling, in his otherwise well-documented Wang Wen-ch'eng chuan-pen (Basic materials for the biography of Wang Yang-ming), denied the very existence of the Yang-ming Grotto, saying that he had personally visited the K'uai-chi mountain and found not a single grotto there. 36 But it seems very likely that on this occasion Mao misused his critical method. Judging from the sources at our disposal, the Grotto should be located in the much more celebrated Ssu-ming mountain in the vicinity of Yang-ming's native place. According to one source, the name Yang-ming was based on the fact that the Grotto was situated in the southern part, or the yang side, of the Ssu-ming mountain. 37 Even if we were to accept Mao's contention, the symbolic Yangming Grotto would still represent an important landmark in Shoujen's spiritual development. Beyond being a physical environment where he received visitors, presented lectures, entertained friends, and engaged in self-cultivation, it was the symbol of his commitment to Confucianism after a series of spiritual crises. We are aware

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that Shou-jen's best friend, Chan Jo-shui, as well as many of his disciples, stated that the year 1506 marked his commitment to Confucianism. 38 But Shou-jen's qualitative change of spiritual orientation in the Grotto must not be taken as an isolated phenomenon. It is true that he did not formally declare his commitment to Confucianism until 1506, when he openly entered into a covenant with Chan to spread the Confucian Tao. We could contend, however, that this commitment to Confucianism derived largely from his existential choice at Yang-ming Grotto in 1502. And, to acknowledge the symbolic meaning of this "Grotto," Shou-jen will henceforth be referred to as Yang-ming (literally, sunlight or sun-like brilliance).

2.

Ch 'an Buddhism and Familial A ttachment

What do we mean when we claim that Yang-ming for the first time came to realize the weakness of both Ch'an Buddhism and Taoism? Does it suggest that Yang-ming had discovered some deplorable implications in Ch'an Buddhistic and Taoistic teachings, and so tried his best to disassociate himself from them? If so, Yang-ming's conscious effort to guard against the influence of Ch'an Buddhism or Taoism might well have been undermined by an unconscious inclination to use their languages and concepts. Scholars like Kusumoto Bun'yu and Nukariya Kaiten, for example, can easily point out similarities between the philosophical ideas of Yang-ming and those of Ch'an Buddhism. 39 And Professor Liu Ts'un-yan can also convincingly present a case that Yang-ming borrowed many key terms and phrases from Taoistic cultivation. 40 It seems possible, however, to argue that since Yang-ming had found the true meaning of his new identity in Confucianism through a series of inner experiences, he no longer had to protect himself against any other value commitment, and so could absorb inspirations from Ch'an Buddhism and Taoism without facing the danger of losing his spiritual direction. This is perhaps an overly ideal formulation. In practice, how does one select freely or boldly from other value systems so that one's own value commitment will be revitalized and enriched but not be affected and eventually transformed? It is a difficult intellectual problem of personality development. The degree to which one can hold on to one's own value commitment undoubtedly depends on the intensity of one's

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willingness to face external challenges and to respond flexibly to new situations. In this connection, both determination and understanding are required. Without determination, intellectual understanding, no matter how convincing theoretically, only scratches the surface of one's existence. Therefore, when a new kind of understanding is called for, the shift becomes a painless and meaningless one. Without understanding, a strong psychological determination becomes pointless tenacity. When a new situation arises, it becomes virtually impossible to make the required change. In the case of Yang-ming, changing position was an extremely difficult task; each of his decisions to alter a previous spiritual direction was almost invariably connected with intense psychological conflict and physical exhaustion. Yet, it was never impossible for Yang-ming to make fundamental changes; he was flexible enough to move from one area to another. Some scholars have even been led to believe that he was simply following convention in experimenting with various ways of life,41 but such a view fails to take into account the dynamics of Yang-ming's inner life. Certainly, in discussing Yang-ming's relationship to Ch'an Buddhism and to Taoism, we cannot afford to ignore either the psychological or the intellectual dimension. Yang-ming's relationship to Ch'an Buddhism has been a favorite topic among students of Chinese thought in general and specialists on Ming Confucianism in particular. It is also an appealing topic to scholars of Zen in Japan. Kusumoto Bun'yu's Study on Wang Yang-ming's Ch'an Thought** and Nukariya Kaiten's Bodhidharma and Yang-ming48 are two notable examples. Among students of Confucianism in China, criticisms and attacks on Yang-ming's Ch'an Buddhistic tendency have almost become standard practice. Some outstanding historians have even suggested that Yang-ming's teaching represents an excellent case of synthesis between Confucianism and Ch'an Buddhism. As early as the seventeenth century, Liu Tsung-chou (1578-1645) commented: "Alas! Confucius and Mencius represented the Confucianists in ancient times. Later Chu Hsi and Ch'eng I became their representatives. Now it is Yang-ming, the philosopher. Some people argued that he resembled Ch'an Buddhism. In truth, similarly Shakyamuni represented the Buddhists in ancient times. Later, Ch'an of the 'Five Houses' became their representative. Now it is Yang-ming Ch'an." 44

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Liu Tsung-chou's statement might be somewhat exaggerated, but it seems undeniable that Yang-ming does occupy an important position in the development of Ch'an Buddhism in China. Students who are primarily concerned with Buddhist monks like Bodhidharma and Hui-neng also find Yang-ming a fascinating personality; Professor Wing-tsit Chan has thrown much light on the subject in his article, "How Buddhistic is Wang-Yang-ming?"45 Our task, however, is to examine how Yang-ming himself confronted this dilemma and to clarify his position in regard to Ch'an Buddhism. Historically, Yang-ming's contacts with Buddhism have been well documented by Professor Kusumoto. As many as fifty visits to more than forty Buddhist temples spread over seven modern provinces are identified in the Nien-p'u and in his collected works.46 Furthermore, as Kusumoto points out, among Yang-ming's roughly 550 poems, no less than eighty of them make reference either to Buddhistic ideas or temples.47 Kusumoto's remarkable effort to establish Yang-ming's true relationship with the Japanese Ch'an (or Zen) master Keigo (Kuei-wu), is also very instructive, although his two basic points—that Yang-ming visited the Japanese Zen master at least once during his sojourn in China, and that he also wrote a preface to the valedictory volume in honor of the master's homeward journey—are perhaps debatable. 48 Underlying all these historical accounts is the basic problem of interpretation. Certainly, external evidence suggests that Yangming did make pilgrimages to various Buddhist temples. Many of his poems definitely reflect his "Ch'an-like subtlety and sharpness," or chi-feng. Some of his pedagogical methods were inspired by Ch'an teachings, and although he does not seem to have studied Ch'an scriptures in any systematic or formal way, he was certainly more than a dabbler in Ch'an Buddhism. Ch'en Chien probably points to an important aspect of Yang-ming's philosophy when he confidently states in his Hsiieh-pu t'ung-pien (General critique of obscurations of learning) that, "throughout Yang-ming's life, his teachings were based on Bodhidharma and Hui-neng." 49 Indeed, the link between some of Yang-ming's philosophical ideas and parallel teachings in Ch'an seems extremely close. He must also have mastered a number of Buddhist texts, such as Liu-tsu ta-shih fa-pao t'an-ching (Sutra spoken by the Sixth Patriarch, Teacher

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of the Buddha-Truth), Ching-te ch'uan-teng lu (Record of the transmission of the lamp), Prajnapdramitd, Saddharmapun4arika, Lankdvatara and Surangama. It is thus understandable that Professor Wing-tsit Chan can locate as many as "forty or more Buddhist expressions and stories" in the Ch'uan-hsi lu (Instructions for practical living).50 Accordingly, the central issue is not how much Yang-ming had actually been exposed to Buddhism, but how his close contacts with Ch'an ideas, monks, and temples helped to shape his intellectual orientation in a fundamental way. Indeed, through what kind of internal transformation was he able to bring the spiritual resources of Ch'an to bear upon his own quest for self-realization? He did use many items of Ch'an terminology to convey his thoughts. He also effectively applied some Ch'an pedagogy. But he never really identified himself with the religious persuasion of Ch'an. His ability to dwell on Ch'an Buddhistic issues without making a definite commitment to Ch'an teaching can be partly explained by the lack of truly great thinkers in the Ch'an tradition among his contemporaries. His fascination with the demeanor of the Japanese monk, if Kusumoto's account can be substantiated, may also be understood in this context. Historically, the period between the death of Hui-neng in 713 and Emperor Wu-tsung's persecution of Buddhism in 845 is generally accepted as the golden age of Ch'an in China. 51 Although among the major schools of Buddhism in the T'ang dynasty (618907) only Ch'an and Pure Land schools survived the persecution, during the Five Dynasties (907-960) in the southern part of China, Ch'an tradition itself split into a variety of schools, including the so-called "Five Houses." 54 Only two of these schools, Ts'ao-tung and Lin-chi, continued to flourish. Even though they might in principle have offered spiritual alternatives to the scholar-officials of the Sung dynasty (960-1279), in fact their religious persuasiveness had considerably declined, 53 and the most creative minds of the age were attracted to the revival of Confucianism. The trend was not interrupted by the Mongol invasion and it gathered momentum in the Ming dynasty when the government as a matter of policy tried to use Confucian symbols to reestablish a new kind of ethnic and cultural consciousness. Nonetheless, Ch'an practice was still a viable form of selfcultivation among the literati in the sixteenth century. An impressive list of Neo-Confucian masters who were deeply influenced

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by Ch'an practice can be compiled for both Sung and Ming dynasties; and it is undeniable that Ch'an practice played a prominent role in the development of Neo-Confucianism. 54 The very fact that many great Neo-Confucian thinkers, despite their vehement denial of charges that they were "perverted by Buddhism," were nevertheless involved in Ch'an-like practices such as quietsitting, is a case in point. In this connection, it may be justified for Liu Tsung-chou to point out that Yang-ming actually revitalized the Ch'an tradition. Indeed, Yang-ming was probably the only major Neo-Confucian thinker who publicly acknowledged his admiration for some of the great Ch'an patriarchs such as Bodhidharma and Hui-neng. Returning for a moment to the anecdote cited earlier in which Yang-ming confronted a Ch'an monk who was sitting in quietude, we can see that the method Yang-ming used to awaken the monk was itself Ch'an Buddhistic. It was, in fact, comparable to the famous Ch'an pedagogical technique of "tapping-on-the-head shout" (tang-t'ou-pang ho). Although we cannot be sure what kind of "shouting" (ho or katsu) Yang-ming actually used, his ability to apply such a method is suggestive. But Yang-ming used a technique evolved from the Ch'an tradition to undermine the philosophical as well as psychological justification of Ch'an teaching. If human-relatedness, especially as it is manifested in the primordial tie between mother and son, is irreducible, a rigorous effort to transcend it can result in inhumanity. Of course this is a simplistic interpretation of the Ch'an position, and the monk who was involved in the task of eliminating his primordial attachment was not necessarily a creative exemplar of the Ch'an persuasion. In fact, through personal experience, Yang-ming himself came to a better appreciation of Ch'an later in his life. At this particular juncture of Yang-ming's spiritual development, however, he felt that the irreducibility of his inner feeling for his grandmother and father was enough ground for launching an attack on Ch'an. The drift of Yang-ming's thought in the early stage of his retreat in the Grotto is reminiscent of many classical examples of the spiritual development of Ch'an masters. But Yang-ming's decision against severing worldly attachments was directly in conflict with the spirit of Ch'an. It should be noted that severing all of one's familial ties is such a painful task that in the history of Ch'an only those with the strongest will, could eventually succeed. For

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example, Yang-shan, the disciple of Wei-shan who founded the earliest of the "Five Houses," had to chop off two of his fingers to persuade his parents of his serious intention to enter the monastery.55 Indeed, "he who kills his father and kills his mother confesses before the Buddha." 56 According to Ch'an contention, if one cannot free himself from all forms of human bondage, one will never attain the highest order of enlightenment. Yang-ming's initial inclination to leave the world of attachments altogether was due to his dissatisfaction with the art of tao-yin, or in his own words "a kind of dallying with psychic energy."57 Such an attitude would have been approved by Ch'an masters. To be initiated into the world of Ch'an, or for that matter the world of the Tao, the authentic approach is not to acquire an external technique but to undergo a fundamental change from within. Indeed, unless one can sever all of one's primordial attachments one cannot even begin to cultivate a sense of selflessness, let alone eliminate the ego completely. Therefore, from either the Ch'an or the Taoist viewpoint, to confront the human situation in its totality and to deny entirely all of one's worldly relations is a necessary step toward a higher level of spiritual perfection. The experience of the "great death" in Ch'an and that of "sitting in forgetfulness" (tso-wang)58 in Taoism both point to this dimension of qualitative change. Without such a change one can neither see one's true Buddha nature nor dwell in the nothingness of the Tao. Can we thereby conclude that Yang-ming's existential choice of recognizing his attachment to his father and grandmother was in fact an indication of his inability to make the qualitative change and thus a sign of human frailty? From a strictly Ch'an or Taoist viewpoint, this may very well be the case. Yet it was through Yangming's inner experience that he felt the weight of his familial tie and the depth of its meaning to him. The very fact that he was able to justify his own filial attachment as intrinsically valuable indicates that the intellectual ethos in which he found his inner experience meaningful was basically of a Confucian character, one that recognized the irreducibility of human-relatedness. He was thus impelled to accept a new way of life by an experiential choice that for the first time enabled him to see a basic value in Confucianism, not as a philosophical abstraction, but as a lived concreteness. Only then could he really affirm the Confucian teaching of filial love with his whole body and mind. At this crucial moment, his personal concerns converged with

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both the wishes of his family and the predominant values of his society. But since the convergence was in essence brought about by an internal transformation rather than a submission to external restrictions, Yang-ming was eventually able to challenge the established views of Confucianism and creatively employ symbols in Ch'an Buddhism and Taoism to revitalize and enrich the Confucian heritage. To be sure, this was not accomplished without several more agonizing trials. One of them, commonly referred to as Yangming's "sudden enlightenment," will be studied in some detail in the next chapter, and the relevance of Ch'an Buddhism and Taoism will also be apparent there. It may be helpful here to examine a few concrete examples centering around the issue of attachment in order to bring our discussion into focus. Students of Ch'an Buddhism may take delight in the following discussion between Yang-ming and his disciple: Q, A. Q. A.

"Why is the Principle of Nature called equilibrium?" "Because it is balanced and unpartial." "What is the condition of that?" "It is like a bright mirror. It is entirely clear, without a speck of dust attached to it." Q. "To be partial is to be attached. When one is attached to the love of sex, wealth, fame, and so forth, it is clear that he is unbalanced. However, before the feelings are aroused, the mind is not yet attached to the love of sex, wealth, fame, and so forth. How can we know that it is unbalanced?" A. "Although there is not yet any attachment, nevertheless in one's everyday life one's mind is not entirely free from such love. Since the mind is not free from it, it means that it is present in the mind. This being so, it cannot be said that the mind is not partial. Take a person sick with intermittent fever. Although at times the illness does not appear, so long as the root of the disease has not been eliminated, the person cannot be said to be free from the disease. Only when all such selfish desires as the love of sex, wealth, fame, and so forth in one's daily life are completely wiped out and cleaned up, so that not the least bit is retained, and the mind becomes broad in its total substance and becomes completely identified with the Principle of Nature, can it be said to have attained the equilibrium before the feelings are aroused and to have acquired the great foundation of virtue."M Yang-ming's strong emphasis on the elimination of worldly attachments in order to retain the purity of the mind definitely seems Ch'an Buddhistic, but to interpret it out of context is mis-

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leading. Indeed, Yang-ming's main concern was not the elimination of worldly attachments entirely but rather the fulfillment of the most meaningful ones at a higher level. T h e following anecdote makes the point: The Teacher once said, "Buddhism claims to be free from attachment to phenomenal things, but actually the opposite is the case. We Confucians seem to be attached to phenomenal things but in reality the opposite is true." I asked him for an explanation. He said, "The Buddhists are afraid of the burden in the relationship between father and son and therefore escape from it. They are afraid of the burden in the relationship between ruler and minister and therefore escape from it. They are afraid of the burden in the relationship between husband and wife and therefore escape from it. In all cases, because the relationships between ruler and minister, father and son, and husband and wife involve attachment to phenomena, they have to escape from them. We Confucians accept the relationship between father and son and fulfill it with the humanity it deserves. We accept the relationship between husband and wife and fulfill it with the attention to their separate functions that it deserves. When have we been attached to these relations?"60 T h e true issue here is the problem of familial ties. From the Confucian point of view, although familial ties stem from the reality of social existence, their function should not be viewed as limiting the freedom of individual expression. It is because "one is bound to one's kinsmen not merely out of personal affection, practical necessity, common interest, or incurred obligation, but at least in part by virtue of some unaccountable, absolute importance attributed to the very tie itself' that "primordial attachments seem to flow more from a sense of natural—some would say spiritual— affinity than from social interaction." 61 As a result, in Confucian symbolism, individual freedom is not attained by cutting off one's given bonds nor through inner salvation, despite the limiting force of given bonds. Instead, one finds one's selfhood in the network of these bonds. Indeed, familial ties are not conceived of as "bonds" in the strict sense. Such ties provide a chart by which the individual can properly locate himself and a framework within which the individual can justly identify himself. Consistent with this line of thinking, Yang-ming attacked Ch'an Buddhism precisely from the point of view of primordial attachment. He admitted that the quest for self-realization through a

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process of internal transformation was similarly important in both Confucianism and Ch'an Buddhism but that the spiritual directions were different. Confucianism was oriented to this world: selfcontrol, or self-cultivation, was practiced in a specific social context, and its purpose was public service. Ch'an Buddhism, as differentiated from Hinayana Buddhism, also claimed to be oriented to this world. In the last analysis, however, the process was rather roundabout. Ch'an Buddhists did not accept familial ties as intrinsically valuable. They might go through the motions and accept filial piety, for example, as a useful crutch, but their ultimate concern was salvation through detachment rather than proper degree of "attachment." On what ground, then, can the Buddhists be accused of committing the fallacy of attachment? On this issue, Yang-ming confronted Buddhism in terms of its own teaching. Attachment means being fixated in a particular phenomenon; to be free from attachment is to be liberated from phenomenal fixation. Yang-ming suggested that the Confucian way of recognizing the phenomenon of familial ties as irreducible and thus assigning a positive value to each of them is a superior means of being liberated from them. But the Buddhist attempt to undermine the givenness of familial ties actually increases their burden upon the mind, as the three-year effort of the monk testifies. Of course Yang-ming's observation is from the Confucian perspective. A more devoted monk may choose to eliminate the residue of his familial ties by a more rigorous discipline, which may very well bring about intended results. After all, the true spirit of detachment can only be fully manifested by a very small number of Ch'an masters. It is true that Yang-ming also treasured a form of detached wisdom; he discredited being "attached to phenomena" as an expression of selfishness. When it came to the problem of basic human relations, however, his choice became transparent, as the following anecdote illustrates: On one occasion when Yang-ming was sent by imperial order to suppress the bandits in South China, upon receiving the news that his father was gravely ill he decided to desert his official post and hurry home. He would have faced court martial had he not been notified in time by a second message that his father had recoveredl Afterwards, Yang-ming asked his disciples why no one seemed to have approved of his intention

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to flee back. His student Chou Chung remarked, "Your homeward thought seemed like an attachment to phenomena." After a long pause, Yang-ming said, "How can one fail to be attached to this phenomenonl" 62 Primordial attachments, accordingly, assumed a u n i q u e position in the p h e n o m e n a l world. Y a n g - m i n g , nevertheless, did not m e a n that they should take precedence in all situations. A g a i n , a specific case is necessary. L u C h ' e n g , one of Y a n g - m i n g ' s first disciples, recorded: While I was living temporarily in the bureau of state ceremonials I unexpectedly received a letter saying that my son was seriously ill. My sorrow was unbearable. The Teacher said, "This is the time for you to exert effort. If you allow this occasion to go by, what is the use of studying when nothing is happening? People should train and polish themselves at just such a time as this. A father's love for his son is of course the noblest feeling. Nevertheless, in the operation of the Principle of Nature there is the proper degree of equilibrium and harmony. T o be excessive means to give rein to selfish thoughts. . . . Take the case of the death of parents. Is it not true that the son desires to mourn until death before he feels satisfied? Nevertheless it is said, 'The self-inflicted suffering should not be carried out to such an extent as to destroy life.' It is not that the Sage tries to restrict or suppress it. It is because the original substance of the Principle of Nature has its proper limits, which should not be exceeded. " 6S A period of traumatic experience provided the best c h a n c e to test the profoundness of one's familial ties. B u t the f a c t that the choice involved a search for the m e a n i n g of life through continuing h u m a n contacts a n d not b y way of self-imposed isolation indicates that Y a n g - m i n g r e g a r d e d primordial attachments as ever-present challenges a n d constant emotions rather t h a n as peripheral entanglements. T h e real issue was not just to accept one's familial ties as important facts of h u m a n life b u t to b r i n g a b o u t one's self-fulfillment through such ties. T h r o u g h his inner experience in the Grotto, Y a n g - m i n g arrived at an important decision: the true m e a n i n g of h u m a n existence should b e sought in the context of h u m a n relations. T o search f o r individual f r e e d o m elsewhere m e a n t not only escapism but inhumanity.

3.

Taoism and the Spirit of Tseng

Tien

If Y a n g - m i n g ' s link with C h ' a n B u d d h i s m was a close one, his relation to T a o i s m seems even more intimate. His involvement in

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Taoistic cultivation is attested to by the Nien-p'u,64 suggested in the bulk of his poems,65 and unequivocally stated by himself.66 Although Liu Ts'un-yan's statement that "for three decades he had been occupied in studying Taoist texts"67 may seem exaggerated, Yang-ming in his later years regretted that he had wasted too much time on the cult of immortality. The intensity of his inner struggle was probably sensed by his students as well. Thus, shortly after his death, they were unsure whether or not to include in his collected works all of his early writings, for some of them are definitely Taoistic.68 It is in this connection that Professor Liu Ts'un-yan's recent attempt to highlight the relevance of Taoism to Wang Yangming's ideas is most instructive. Professor Liu points out that "in [Yang-ming's] Ch'uan-hsi lu there are passim not only Taoist terms but also some passages quite incomprehensible except to readers familiar with Taoist thought and terminology."69 Indeed, it is not difficult to find in Yang-ming's writings discussions of Taoist issues at a very high level of intellectual sophistication, notably in some of his dialogues with Lu Ch'eng. His willingness to confront Taoist issues raised by Lu was certainly a departure from the practice of the great Sung Confucian masters. As Professor Liu further contends, the very fact that Yang-ming condescended to talk about anything so "unconfucian" as "the place where the vital spirit (yiian-shen), the vital ch'i (yiian-ch'i), and the vital sperm (yuan-ching) are stored" would have surprised even Lu Hsiang-shan.70 Although it is beyond the present studyx to examine the relation between the basic issues of Taoist cultivation and Yang-ming's own concept of liang-chih (innate knowledge), the following passage, cited by Liu from one of the above mentioned discussions with Lu Ch'eng, clearly shows the depth of Yang-ming's involvement in Taoist literature. Innate knowledge is one. Its active function is called the "spirit" (shen), its pervasion the "vital force" (ch'i), and its condensation the "essence" [sperm] (ching). How could these things be taught in concrete form? The essence of the true yin is the mother of the vital force of the true yang; the vital force of the true yang is the father of the essence of the true yin. The yin is rooted in the yang, and vice versa; they are not two different things. If you are clear about my theory of innate knowledge, then questions of this kind will be solved without further explanation. Otherwise, there will still be a lot of things such as the "Three Passes"

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(san-kuan), the "Seven Rounds" (ch'i-fan), and the "Nine Turns" (chiuhuan) mentioned in your letter which remain undefined and uncertain.71 It is undeniable that, by assembling sources of this kind, Professor Liu has worked out a very convincing case that Yang-ming was more than a dabbler in Taoism. But must Yang-ming's "Taoism" be taken as evidence that he could not have been a genuine Confucian? In his study of Wang Yang-ming, Professor Shimada Kenji has put much emphasis on the concept of k'uang,1% an issue we briefly analyzed in Chapter I. Professor Julia Ching of Yale, in her inspiring essay on Wang Yang-ming's personality, 73 translates k'uang as "mad ardour." By focusing on this dimension of Yang-ming's life and thought, both Shimada and Ching attempt to show the unconventionality of his approach to Confucianism. Such an approach is reminiscent of what may be called "the spirit of Tseng Tien," a classical example of Taoistic carefreeness accepted by Confucius himself in the Analects as an authentic expression of self-cultivation. Implicit in this example is the idea that the road to sagehood is basically a process of internal transformation; adherence to established regulations and ideas is meaningful only in reference to such a transformation. The Taoist cult of longevity may have been fundamentally different from Confucian selfcultivation, but in its concern for the inner dimension of life it was much more to Yang-ming's taste than the various forms of conventionality in the name of Confucianism that he saw around him. Indeed, Taoist carefreeness had an indelible impact on Yangming, and was reflected in his attitude toward nature, his feeling for simplicity, and his fondness for quietude. And at times, departing from the common practice of Confucian pedagogy in mid-Ming society, he used it consciously in his teaching. However, Professor Liu agrees that, despite obvious Taoistic influences, Yang-ming was still a Confucian philosopher. 74 To understand how Yang-ming incorporated Taoistic ideas into his broadened view of Confucianism, one must begin with an examination of the "spirit of Tseng Tien." In the Confucian tradition, the authenticity of the story about Tseng Tien is beyond doubt. In the Analects, Confucius in a casual manner asked four of his disciples—Tzu-lu, Jan Ch'iu, Kung-hsi Hua, and Tseng Tien— to express their wishes. Three of them were politically oriented

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and stated their ambitions in a very serious manner. But when Confucius asked, "Tien, what about you?" The notes of the lute he was softly fingering died away; he put it down, rose and replied saying, "I fear my words will not be so well chosen as those of the other three." The Master said, "What harm is there in that? All that matters is that each should name his desire." Tseng Tien said, "At the end of spring, when the making of the spring clothes has been completed, to go with five times six newly-capped youths and six times seven uncapped boys, perform the lustration in the River I, take the air at the Rain Dance altars, and then go home singing." The Master heaved a deep sigh and said, "I am with Tien.75 At the beginning of the present study, a reference was made to Yang-ming's great grandfather, Wang Chieh, who was remembered by his students as having made the remark, "If the student can appreciate the spirit of Tseng Tien, wherever he goes he will feel sprightly and self-possessed. " , a It is difficult to ascertain to what extent Yang-ming was exposed to the writings or teachings of his forefathers, but he definitely put his great-grandfather's instruction into practice. To him, the spirit of Tseng Tien was more than a fascinating topic in intellectual discourse; it was a guiding principle for daily conduct. The issue was once raised by a student in the Ch'uan-hsi lu: When Confucius' disciples expressed their wishes, Tzu-lu and Jan Ch'iu chose governmental positions and Kung-hsi Hua chose ceremonies and music. How practical they were! But when Tseng Tien expressed his wishes they seemed to be frivolous. And yet Confucius approved of him. What does it mean? Yang-ming answered: "The three other disciples were opinionated and dogmatic. When one is opinionated and dogmatic, one inevitably becomes onesided. He may be able to do one thing but not the other. The attitude of Tseng Tien shows that he was neither opinionated nor dogmatic. It means that he does what is proper to his position and does not want to go beyond it. If he is in the midst of barbarous tribes, he does what is proper in the midst of barbarous tribes. In a position of difficulty and danger, he does what is proper in a position of difficulty and danger. He can find himself in no situation in which he is not at ease with himself. The other three disciples may be described as utensils, that is specific and therefore limited in their usefulness. Tseng Tien's indication was that he was not such a utensil."77 The allusion to utensil (ch'i) can also be found in the Analects, where Confucius remarked, "The gentleman (chiin-tzu) is not a

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utensil." 78 Although this line has been interpreted as indicating anti-professionalism, it was really meant to be an attack, from an ethico-religious point of view, against narrow-mindedness. Yangming caught this spirit when, on a different occasion, probably after the lapse of many years, he again discussed Tseng Tien with two of his students. Huang Mien-chih recorded: Wang Ju-chung [Wang Chi] and I were in attendance. The Teacher held a fan and commanded us, saying, "You use it." I rose and replied, "I dare not." The Teacher said, "The teachings of the Sage are not so restrictive or difficult to endure, and do not mean that people should assume the appearance of a rigid, strict schoolman." Ju-chung commented, "This can be seen somewhat in the chapter about Confucius and Tseng Tien telling their wishes." The Teacher said, "Right. From this chapter we can see how broad, great, and all-embracing the disposition of the Sage was. Furthermore, when the Master asked his pupils about their wishes, the other three answered seriously. Tseng Tien, however, was quite carefree, ignored the other three, and went so far as to play the lutel What an unrestrained attitudel When it came to telling his wishes, Tseng Tien did not answer the Master's particular question. What he said were words of unrestraint. I-ch'uan [Ch'eng I] would have scolded Tseng Tien. But instead the Sage praised him. What a disposition!"79 The story of Tseng Tien was more than a good example of Confucius'lpedagogy. What Yang-ming drew from it became a central tenet of his own teaching; in fact, he was so much impressed with Tseng Tien that four years before his death, in 1524, he produced a poem in which both Cheng Hsiian and Chu Hsi were attacked, whereas Tseng Tien, a minor figure in the Analects, was highly praised. The occasion was the mid-autumn festival and Yang-ming was entertaining more than a hundred of his students at a moonlight party beside a fountain near the famous Heavenly Spring Bridge (T'ien-ch'iian ch'iao). 80 As the students were drinking, singing, playing, and boating, Yang-ming retired to compose poems, one of which can be rendered roughly as follows: Mid-autumn and the moon's brightness Is over everything But where will you find anywhere else Another gathering so gifted?

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You must treasure the old wisdom Come by a thousand generations, And you can't waste the life of a man. Now I doubt Chu Hsi's words — So much shadow and echo, And I'd be ashamed to sound Like Cheng Hsiian—split and scattered. But there was that Tien Who set his lute down Still vibrating from the wind— O, he was wild, but makes my heart glad.11 Thus Yang-ming praised Tseng Tien for his ability to free himself from dogmatism and stubbornness. He admired Confucius' attitude toward Tseng Tien as a true manifestation of the Sage's "broad, great, and all-embracing disposition." And he shared with Tseng Tien the spirit of unrestraint. We may thus interpret Yang-ming's admiration for Tseng Tien as an indication of his own approach to Confucianism. Actually, since Yang-ming never lost his childlike sensitivity and never failed to appreciate the excitement of unrestraint, Tseng Tien represented more than an approach; indeed, he stood for an important dimension of Yang-ming's personality as well. It may also be suggested that Yang-ming's identification with Tseng Tien was very much in line with his family tradition. We need only recall some of the anecdotes about his forefathers: Wang Yen-ta's "ploughing the fields and attending his mother," 82 Wang Yü-chun's escape to the Ssu-ming mountain, 83 and Wang Chieh's refusal to participate in the examination, 84 and Wang Lun's fondness for bamboo trees. 88 In addition, Wang Chieh was best remembered for his favorable remark on Tseng Tien 86 and Wang Lun was known as a lute virtuoso.87 In fact, it was not until the time of Yang-ming's father that the spiritual orientation of the Wang family fundamentally altered its course. Figuratively, "the air of an official" replaced the atmosphere of unrestraint. Contrary to Yang-ming's involvement with the Taoist cult of longevity, his father led a strictly Confucian way of life. Both Yang I-ch'ing and Lu Shen in their biographies of Wang Hua report with pride how the incorruptible scholar-official refused to have any association with Taoism. 88 Once he was approached by a friend

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who tried to persuade him to take up the Taoist cult of immortality. He firmly rejected the idea and argued that the greatest happiness in life is to be found in the network of human relations; to forsake the world and dwell in the mountains in complete isolation equals the choice of death.89 Wang Hua's scrupulous adherence to Confucian rituals rendered any diversion into Taoism virtually unthinkable, although he gracefully accepted his mother's faith in Buddhism.90 The moment of his own death is especially revealing on this account. When he was gravely ill, an imperial envoy arrived to confer on him the title of Count Hsin-chien. He insisted that his family receive the envoy with the complete ceremony. He died as soon as he was told that all the proper rituals had been performed.91 By contrast, even after Yang-ming had established himself as the most influential Confucian master of his time, he still refused to follow the practice of some basic Confucian rituals. His behavior occasionally offended even his best friend, Chan Jo-shui.9* To interpret Yang-ming's predilection for Taoism simply as a reaction to his father's determination to maintain Confucian purity would be farfetched, but to brush aside the role of Wang Hua as irrelevant is equally inadvisable. We should also note that Yang-ming's emphasis on the spirit of Tseng Tien had an instrumental value too. As many scholars have pointed out, he might have used a Confucian justification for some of his Taoist-like practices. Since Yang-ming was repeatedly confronted with the problem of clarifying his claim to be a student of Confucian teachings, he might have felt the necessity of using a classical example to justify some of his unconventional attitudes. In a deep sense, however, the spirit of Tseng Tien was more than a mere indication of Yang-ming's approach and a devious way of claiming approval for his seemingly unconfucian activities. It was an integral part of his personality, his manifestation of how to be a Confucian: not by submitting oneself to a set of well-established social norms but by experiencing the real self in the network of human-relatedness. Yang-ming came to appreciate the intrinsic value of familial ties not because of a sense of duty externally inculcated in his mind but because he became aware of his true feelings. It was only then that he was able to develop a sense of responsibility, an awareness of ethical problems, and a willingness to comply with certain social norms. Yet he felt that commitment to social values might easily

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lead to some form of rigidity; if, for example, the relationships of father and son became highly ritualized, the natural feelings between them might be diverted and the original meaning of such a ritualization would be lost. Thus Yang-ming found in the spirit of Tseng Tien not so much a passivity toward social responsibility as an ability to be free from pertinacity. Yang-ming might have argued that the self-righteous scholar-official could learn a great deal from the seemingly carefree Taoists in order to become a better Confucian. Indeed, the art of selflessness, which was an important theme in Taoism, caught the spirit of Tseng Tien best. Through Taoistic cultivation, consequently, Yang-ming added a new dimension to Confucian teaching. And it was only natural for him to stress the spirit of Tseng Tien as a point of contact between what he had learned in Taoism and what had been sanctioned by Confucius himself. Therefore, in a real sense this new dimension in Confucianism was not something added on, but rather something skillfully pointed out by Yang-ming. Paradoxically, through personal engagement in Taoistic cultivation, Yang-ming rediscovered an important aspect of Confucian teaching that was quite opposed to the kind of stagnant atmosphere created by the Confucian literati, Confucian scholars, and Confucian officials of his time. 4.

Confucianism

and the Trip to

Shantung

In 1504, two years after the Grotto experience and one year after his confrontation with the Ch'an monk, Yang-ming went back to Peking. During his self-imposed moratorium he had been confronted with a fundamental issue of spiritual direction. Physically it had been a period of recuperation, but psychologically and intellectually it had been a period of considerable dynamism. On the surface, his return seems merely a response to an official call for duty, but the real significance to him probably lay in his new decision to accept the role of a bureaucrat again. In the autumn of 1504, when Yang-ming was delegated by the governor of Shantung, Lu Ch'eng, to supervise the provincial examination,93 he did not take it merely as an official assignment. Rather, he accepted it as a great opportunity to visit the province of Shantung, the birthplace of Confucius, Mencius, and many of their immediate followers, and to ascend the venerated Mount T'ai.

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In commemoration of this special occasion he composed six poems.94 He was so overwhelmed by the historical significance of the province and by the majesty of the sacred mountain that he found a spiritual quality in its natural beauty. Again, there are many Taoistic allusions in these poems, but they seem to be utilized only to set the stage for the great master, Confucius, to appear. Yang-ming does say in the poems that he is expecting the ancient immortal Kuang-ch'eng Tzu to roam with him about the great void (t'at-hsu);iS that he will run away from this muddy world which can never be made clean;96 that riding on a white deer to visit the "Island of the Immortals" excels riches and honors;97 and that he will sweep away his vulgarity and engage himself in the cultivation of the "golden sand" (chin-sha). 98 But what seems to have really concerned him at the time was his lofty ambition to achieve something significant in the world. It was probably true that he could "sit alone on the summit of Mount T'ai above the peaks of the ten thousand mountains and completely forget about what was going on below,"99 but he had to explain: The tranquillity of my mind is not utterly visionary And my untrammelled character means no trifling enmity When people hear what I say If they do not laugh aloud, they will surely feel odd I am reluctant to force an opinion And I can always return them with a smile It is beyond my scope to become the Old Man of Lu [Confucius] I may at least entertain myself in these sentiments.100

Shantung, comprising the ancient states of Ch'i, Lu, Sung, and Wei, is referred to as "the country of our Master."101 In his preface to the provincial examination, Yang-ming greets his assignment to the sacred place of Confucianism as the fulfillment of an old wish. He quotes Confucius to stress the uniqueness of this province. And he repeatedly compares the candidates who participate in the examination with the students who followed Confucius. He goes so far as to say that the more than three thousand participants in the preliminary examination resemble the three thousand followers of Confucius, and the seventy-five successful candidates resemble the seventy-odd disciples of Confucius. He then apologizes because he has perhaps failed to recruit all of the best candidates from the community. He also urges, however, that

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those who have passed the examination should bear the moral responsibility of matching the Confucian standard of excellence.108 He asks them to follow Yen Hui, the best disciple of Confucius, who once boldly remarked, "What kind of man was Shun (one of the three sage-kings)? What kind of man am I? He who exerts himself will also become such as he was."103 It was probably a simple rhetorical device for Yang-ming to have addressed the successful candidates as Confucius' fellow provincials who, by implication, were entrusted with the responsibility of spreading the Confucian Tao. Undoubtedly, however, he fastened many of his hopes on them. After all, it was his first appointment as a provincial examiner. For a young man pf thirty-three and a junior secretary in the Board of Punishment, it was a very prestigious honor,104 especially at a time when he had begun to take a renewed interest in Confucian teachings. (It should be mentioned in passing that under Yang-ming's supervision and selection, the Shantung examination did produce a number of outstanding officials, which enabled Huang Wan to report more than two decades later that those who had been chosen by Yang-ming in Shantung were still regarded with high esteem throughout the country.)105 In one of the six poems written at this time, Yang-ming effectively anthropomorphizes the sacred Mount T'ai. The loftiness of Mount T'ai, he says, is beyond the comparison of even Mount Lu, the famous scenic spot in Kiangsi, for the height of Mount Lu is measurable, whereas that of Mount T'ai is beyond any sense perception (although in reality Lu is higher). Then after a long description of the auspicious mountain—its stupendous size, its mysterious atmosphere, chimerical beauty, and unrivaled history— Yang-ming focuses his attention on the personality of Confucius. Suddenly it becomes clear that the charms of Mount T'ai are used to symbolize the various achievements of the ancient Master. Water springing from rocks is thus a sobbing for the eternal departure of the great teacher; mountain peaks are forever bowing with folding hands to bid him farewell. Millennia do not seem to have diluted the intensity of Confucius' impact. Yang-ming feels his presence so intimately that to him mountains high and low still share the glory of the ancient sage. Since the loftiness of Confucius matches that of heaven and defies one's attempt to follow him, Yang-ming humbly admits that he is only wandering

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outside the Confucian palace and would feel content if he could be allowed to line up with the least worthy of the three thousand disciples.106 Yang-ming's admiration for Confucius at this point reminds us of Yen Hui, who also put his thoughts in metaphorical language: "The more I strain my gaze up toward it, the higher it soars. The deeper I bore down into it, the harder it becomes. I see it in front; but suddenly it is behind. Step by step the Master skillfully lures me on." 107 While Yang-ming's poems cannot be used as a basis for judging his intellectual commitment, it is difficult to deny the genuine esteem for Confucius he shows in them. Fortunately, his sample essays, written for the Shantung examination and regarded by his students as among his most important writings, have been preserved.108 Although little personal feeling is revealed, his views on the basic issues of his time are reflected in this official document. The examination is divided into four parts: comments on thirteen lines selected from the Confucian classics, a short essay, a memorial drawn up for the T'ang minister (Chang Chiu-ling), and comments on five current problems. With the exception of the memorial, which is designed to test the students' ability to compose in a highly stylized literary form, the examination questions, together with their sample answers, present a comprehensive picture of Yangming's intellectual concerns at the time. Three of the thirteen lines from the classics are taken from the Four Books, and two each from the Book of Changes, the Book of History, the Book of Odes, the Spring and Autumn Annals, and the Book of Rites. They involve a variety of issues, including self-cultivation, moral persuasion, political responsibility, social ethics, public sentiments, military defense, historical judgments, and religious heresies (i-tuan). Each issue represents an important problem area in Confucian teachings. For example, the very first line from the Great Learning, one of the Four Books, deals with the relationship between emperor and minister. Yang-ming argues that it is the political responsibility of the minister to play the role of an adviser and a critic. He should remonstrate with the emperor against misconduct in the name of the Confucian Tao and should never submit to imperial orders without discrimination. In case of discrepancy, he should always follow the standards set up by the ancient sages even at the cost of giving up his official post. 109 In his discussion of another line, Yang-ming further suggests that the choice between active participation in affairs of state and

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passive retreat to the cultivation of personal morality is not an absolute one. In fact, both the political activism of Yii and Chi and the moral asceticism of Yen Hui were regarded with equal respect by Mencius. And in the same spirit, both the act of finding every justification for seeking an official position and the act of maintaining one's purity by escaping from worldly involvements have always been deprecated by Confucian masters. 110 Yang-ming accordingly introduces a number of standards to evaluate a man's worth. Political attainment is but one of them. The value of friendship is emphasized. The position of the teacher is especially to be honored. 111 The response of the people, or public sentiment, becomes an important yardstick with which to measure the acceptability of a regime, 112 and its ability to handle border affairs should be considered a test for internal stability.113 In the second part, the students are asked to write an essay on "the self-cultivation of the emperor." 114 Yang-ming's suggested response takes the form of a moral exhortation to the emperor. As an exemplary leader, the emperor is first warned against any personal misbehavior because it will eventually affect the affairs of the whole state. However, since every human being is vulnerable, it is conceded that it is extremely difficult for the emperor to engage in self-cultivation all by himself. The help of wise ministers is called for. Their role, however, is more than just to serve as a negative sanction. They are also to try to create a milieu in which the emperor will find no rationale for his lapses but every reason to initiate constructive programs. Yang-ming finally admits, nevertheless, that the real choice rests with the emperor. If he is obstinate enough not to take advice seriously, able ministers can do very little to stop him. Understandably, Yang-ming does not draw any drastic implications from his argument. In his concluding remarks, he says, "therefore, the emperor should especially cherish the value of self-cultivation." 115 While the aim of asking the students to compose a memorial is mainly to measure their literary skill, the questions on current problems are designed to test their awareness of some of the basic issues of the time. The problems cover a vast area in statecraft (ching-shih), such as institutional continuity, religious heresies, political commitment, public morale, and administrative reforms. Here again Yang-ming appears to use the examination as an occasion to announce some of his own political views. On the problem of institutional continuity, he argues that, although

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different circumstances require dissimilar institutions of rituals and music, the concern for "human feelings" (ch'ing) should always be given priority, lest elaborate ceremonies give rise to meaningless formality. Yang-ming is not so much criticizing the introduction of unprecedented ceremonials as arguing against unnecessary elaborations. He singles out the interpretation of imperial ancestral worship in the Lu-shih ch'un-ch'iu and the commentaries on heavenly sacrifice (chiao-miao) by Cheng Hsiian and Wang Su as examples of excessive pedantry. 116 On the problem of religious heresies, Yang-ming takes a different approach. He simply refuses to launch indiscriminate attacks on Taoism and Buddhism. The issue of religious positions is seen as less significant than the levels of sophistication within a religious system itself. He argues that the kind of Taoism or Buddhism that is under attack at the moment represents a form of superficiality that would have been severely denounced by Lao Tzu or Buddha. Similarly, the very fact that the Confucians have to fight against Taoism and Buddhism as two archrivals indicates that the Confucian Tao is far from being universally appreciated. Yang-ming cites the apocryphal account according to which Confucius once asked Lao Tzu about rituals to show that Confucius had considerable respect for a man like Lao Tzu. Yang-ming is quite aware of the possibility of tension between ideas within an intellectual tradition. Thus in Confucianism itself, he points out, we find a link between Tzu-hsia and Chuang Chou, the great Taoist thinker, through T'ien Tzu-fang, and between Tzu-kung and Li Ssu, the Legalist Minister of the State of Ch'in, through Hsiin K'uang. Historically, this line of argument is problematical, but as a protest against simplified notions of intellectual authenticity it is very forceful. Accordingly, in the issue of heresy, what really concerns him is not Confucianism versus Taoism or Buddhism, but ideal Confucians versus vulgarized Confucians. He vehemently criticizes those who use Confucian ethics as a pretext for avaricious and sycophantic practices in the government. Indeed, Yang-ming so dislikes the kind of Confucians he sees around him that he relegates them to a lower position than the Taoists and Buddhists who have also adulterated their religious beliefs. Yang-ming therefore prefers a revitalization within the Confucian school itself to pointless attacks on others. He seems to contend that to select a specific philosophical orientation among existing intellectual views is necessary, but to

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raise one's level of understanding within the one selected is more fundamental, and consequently that Confucians who fail to appreciate other religious beliefs might learn more if they turned their attention from attacking heresies to self-examination. 117 Next comes the problem of political commitment, the traditional Confucian issue of when and where one should serve the state. Two historical figures, I Yin and Yen Hui, are cited as examples. I Yin had experience with both the Hsia and Shang rulers, had attempted as many as five times to serve under the notorious Hsia ruler, Chieh, but rendered his service to T'ang, the sage-king, with tremendous reluctance. By contrast, Yen Hui never sought an official position and felt content as a poor student throughout his short life, yet Confucius repeatedly singled him out as his best disciple. Yang-ming agrees that political commitment is a necessity, but he feels somewhat hesitant to approve the attitude of I Yin. Although he does not question Mencius' explanation of I Yin's reluctance to respond to T'ang's invitation, he refuses to accept the view that I Yin's enthusiasm for serving under Chieh came from a sense of responsibility. The significance of Yen Hui's approach, however, was on a different plane. His emphasis was on self-cultivation within, rather than on political achievement without. On the surface, he achieved very little, but the intrinsic value of his self-realization ranked above even the wisdom of Tzu-kung. Han Yii, one of the precursors of the Confucian revival in late T'ang, said that Yen Hui's true happiness lay in his association with Confucius. Yang-ming contends that this Was only a superficial appreciation of what actually happened. Han Yii failed to grasp the core of the problem because the whole dimension of internal cultivation was not touched upon. Yen Hui's real strength derived from his inner decision to become a sage rather than from his association with a great personality and, in fact, his attachment to Confucius became meaningful only in reference to his ultimate commitment. 118 By analogy, a political decision must be preceded by an ethical choice. Since politics in this connection necessarily involves an ethico-religious dimension, the problem of public morale becomes a primary concern of political leadership. Yang-ming remarks in his sample answer to the fourth question that degeneration in public morale is the most portentous danger confronting the state. He uses the imagery of flood to illustrate his point: when trouble first starts it is rarely noticed, but at the end the mighty force of

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destruction is completely out of control. Similarly, the issue of public morale has escaped proper attention for some time. Its urgency, as a result, goes beyond that of military defense and financial affairs. Yang-ming states, however, that he is at a loss to describe the situation: "If you characterize it as cowardice (no), you find a tendency toward ruthlessness (han); if you characterize it a& radicalism (chi), you find a tendency toward conformism (t'ung); if you characterize it as emptiness (hsii), you find a tendency toward fragmentation (JO); and if you characterize it as extravagance (mi), you find a tendency toward vulgarity (pi)." 119 Indeed, he continues, there is substantial evidence demanding serious concern, but there is no way of conceptualizing the whole issue. He nevertheless offers Confucius' attack on the "hyper-honest villager" (hstangyiian) as a clue, and cites Mencius' interpretation of this passage as showing its relevance to the current picture. Yang-ming feels that Mencius was probably commenting on the Ming officials of the sixteenth century as well when he said: If you would blame them, you find nothing to allege. If you would criticize them, you have nothing to priticize. They agree with the current customs. They consent with an impure age. Their principles have a semblance of right-heartedness and truth. Their conduct has a semblance of disinterestedness and purity. All men are pleased with them, and they think themselves right, so that it is impossible to proceed with them to the principles of Yao and Shun. On this account they were called [by Confucius] "the thieves of virtue."180 Yang-ming's proposal to fight against "the thieves of virtue" is a variation on the classical Confucian theme of the "rectification of names" (cheng-ming). Since ethical terms such as loyalty, sincerity, uprightness, and propriety have all been adulterated, he suggests that an effort be made to differentiate various levels of virtue so as to establish some standard of evaluation. However, as a prerequisite, members of the highest echelon in the government should resolve to establish themselves as exemplary leaders. Obviously he believes with Confucius that "the virtue of the superior men is that of wind; the virtue of the commoners is that of grass. And when a wind passes over the grass, it cannot choose but bend." 181 Yang-ming notes that the beneficial influence of leaders like Po-i and Hui of Liu-hsia, less prominent than Confucius, to be sure, still lasted for more than a millennium. With a touch

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of sarcasm he concludes that the abortive attempts from within the court to uplift the moral standard of the people now probably indicates a lack of integrity on the part of the leadership. Finally, on the problem of administrative reforms, Yang-ming covers more than eight areas succinctly. Issues under discussion include supernumerary officials, taxation, feudal lords, military organization, natural calamities, banditry, powerful households, and foreign aggression.123 The whole presentation is reminiscent of his eight measures for coping with the frontier affairs, which Yang-ming had put in a memorial five years earlier. Since then he had gone through a number of official assignments and obtained information firsthand about the functioning of the bureaucracy in the capital. As a result, his points are more specific and his propositions more concrete, but the arguments in general have lost much of the vigor of the previous memorial. In his concluding remarks he even doubts whether valuable suggestions concerning such vital issues of the state can be made in a written examination. He does attack the bestowal of official titles as a means of dealing with situations of only transitory significance, seniority as a commonly accepted criterion for promotion, evaluation of local officials on a short-term basis, needless complexity in the tax structure, enfeoffment as a form of imperial grace, tolerance toward powerful households, and inability to cope with cases of emergency— especially those caused by locusts, drought, and negligence in border defense. Underlying these problems, Yang-ming argues, is the issue of "moral principles" (chi-kang). w By this he does not mean a set of objective standards of evaluation or a list of priorities, but a willingness of officials to accept the fundamental principles of bureaucratic practice as meaningful ways of handling administrative affairs, rather than as mere precedents that can be safely ignored. The whole issue is thus more at the level of attitude and conduct than in the realm of regulations and procedures. Yangming accepts administrative routine as a necessary condition for stability, but he contends that an institution should be able to maintain its dynamism so as to face up to the challenge of urgent situations; otherwise routinization will eventually lead to stagnation and even disintegration.185 This is of course merely reiterating a long-established Confucian argument. We are aware that, in understanding the drift of Yang-ming's intellectual concerns, a highly formalized document may have only limited value. It is thus surprising to find that even in such a docu-

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ment Yang-ming manages to present his ideas and beliefs in a vivid and forceful way. His well-cultivated literary gifts may in part account for this, but his commitment to his self-assigned role as an advocate for a new approach to Confucianism must be the primary reason. The arguments summarized above were only first signs of Yang-ming's adherence to the basic values of Confucianism. At that time he might not have had any definite conception of what he would do in the following years. It is our contention, however, that even in this early stage, as an outcome of his inner experience at the Grotto, the "incipient activation" (chi) of his total commitment is already visible. 5.

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At the conclusion of his Shantung assignment, Yang-ming was promoted to serve on the Board of War as a junior secretary in the Division of Military Appointment. 186 Although his official position was still of little prominence, he began to acquire a reputation in the capital as a man of bold ideas. He began to attract followers. In 1505, at the age of thirty-four, he formally accepted disciples.187 His approach to learning was so much at odds with the then-prevalent pedagogy that to most of his colleagues "he was resorting to strange doctrines in order to fish for fame." 188 Among the scholar-officials in the capital only Chan Jo-shui, already an honored academician in the Hanlin Academy and a most important disciple of the prominent Ming Confucian philosopher, Ch'en Hsien-chang (Po-sha, 1428-1500), acknowledged the significance of Yang-ming's new approach to Confucian teachings. 189 In 1506 they not only swore eternal friendship (ting-chiao) but also entered into a "covenant" to spread the true Confucian message together. 140 The "strange doctrine" that Yang-ming was teaching definitely conflicted with the commonly accepted view of learning as a pragmatic tool, either to improve one's literary style or to increase one's chances in the examination. Yang-ming taught that the true meaning of learning was not merely to acquire something externally but to transform one's way of life from within. Learning in this context was described as "the study of body and mind" (shen-hsin chih hsiieh). Its central concern was how to engage in selfcultivation by internalizing the words of the ancient sages, which was basically a process of creative adaptation rather than an act

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of passive submission. It involved a conscious effort to bring oneself in line with the instructions of the sages through a series of inner decisions. Accordingly, such learning was also called "the study of the sages" (sheng-hsueh); more appropriately, perhaps, the phrase should be rendered "the study of how to become a sage." In fact, Yang-ming unequivocally made known to his disciples that the decision to become a sage was the primary condition for taking up the study with him.1*1 Ironically, in the capital, where conformity to Confucian ethics was jealously guarded, Yang-ming not only had to face the public accusation of being "odd" but also the political pressure to comply with existing norms. To Yang-ming, therefore, the real difficulty in spreading the new Confucian message lay in the tension between two polar views of the Confucian tradition. At one pole was the view of the scholar-officials in general: to them, the Confucian tradition was required reading for the examinations, a necessary tool on the ladder of advancement and, as bureaucratic administrators, a most useful weapon for maintaining social stability. At the other pole was the view of an extremely small minority within the scholar-official group: to them, the Confucian tradition was the Tao, or the way and meaning of life. Yang-ming never questioned the political applicability of Confucian teachings; to be "useful" in the service of the state is a requirement in the social ethics of Confucianism. Nevertheless, he felt so uncomfortable in the political climate around him that he tended to seek his social function as a Confucian teacher rather than as an official. Yang-ming's cbmmitment to teaching was an effort to create a more meaningful world within a world of petty concerns rather than a withdrawal from political activism. In this sense, the commitment was very different from the retreat to the Yang-ming Grotto three years before—there he had then been engaged in self-imposed isolation whereas now he was reoriented toward the world of human relations.1S* In another way, however, the two incidents are closely linked, for it was through Yang-ming's experience in the Grotto that he came to realize the profound meaning of human relations and, consequently, to choose Confucianism over Taoism or Ch'an Buddhism. His trip to Shantung had further strengthened this conviction and, in addition, brought an awareness of the sharp conflict between what the Confucian message really was and what political vulgarization could do to it.

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Therefore, at the time when he publicly announced his resolution to transmit the Confucian Tao, he severely denounced the Confucians at hand, declaring that, although these people might use Confucian teachings in a variety of ways to justify their conduct, they were, in fact, merely time-servers to be condemned by the same value judgment that they themselves were using for their own ends. It seems only natural that Yang-ming's endeavor to upgrade the moral standard of his contemporaries was regarded with intense suspicion and even hatred. Inevitably, he found himself alienated from most of his colleagues because of his "lofty ideas." Underlying Yang-ming's "lofty ideas" was a profound transformation of his inner self. Although no other records are available to prove it, one of the poems written during this period provides us with some conclusive evidence. In general his private thoughts as reflected in his poems turn from the capital to his old acquaintances and familiar scenic spots.133 In one poem, however, he writes: Yang-po is no doubt Po-yang. Where indeed is Po-yang now? The great Tao is the human mind, Which has never been changed for ten thousand years. In search of Humanity (jen) is the way to longevity, And the Golden Pill (chin-tan) cannot be found outside. Alas, I have been absurd for thirty years; Only now do I begin to repent. 1 ' 4

In this poem, the nature of Yang-ming's new transformation— specifically his commitment to Confucianism—clearly comes to light. The identification of the great Tao with the human mind is reminiscent of Ch'eng Hao's "all-embracing humanity." The reference to the "pursuit of humanity" (ch'iu-jen) as the true way to longevity is indicative of a new commitment to the highest value in Confucianism. The highest Confucian symbol has finally replaced a Taoist concern for immortality. The rejection of the "golden pill" as something obtainable by an external process of physical control is a rejection of the Taoist cult as he had understood it before.135 In the last two lines, the profundity of Yangming's new transformation is manifested in his confession that he had been obsessed with the false concerns of a vulgarized Taoism for thirty years, virtually the entire span of his life at the time.

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Yang-ming had been searching for some ultimate way to which he could completely devote his body and mind. The search had manifested itself in a series of negative attitudes toward his role as a son, as an official, and as a member of society. Prior to his inner decision of 1502, he had even contemplated the possibility of forsaking the world altogether. His contempt for the normal channel of political advancement through the examination system had caused much concern in his family; his restlessness had seriously troubled his father. His distaste for assuming the air of an official must have also alienated many of his colleagues. The basic issue, however, had not been his inability to make peace with the world but his failure to apprehend fully the meaning of his inner search, a dynamic quest for self-realization. When Yangming asserted that "the great Tao is the human mind," he was in fact realizing that he should not have searched for something outside as the ultimate basis for his existence. Of course, at the time Yang-ming could not yet appreciate the profundity of his commitment. It would take him more than two years and the bitter experience of banishment to really understand what may be called the meaning of subjectivity. An obvious additional indication of the nature of Yang-ming's transformation is his covenant with Chan Jo-shui. Unfortunately, there is no surviving record of the content of the covenant in detail. Nevertheless, Chan in his epitaph of Yang-ming reports that both of them agreed to adhere to Ch'eng Hao's teaching: "The man of humanity forms one body with all things without differentiation." This reference to the first line of the elder Ch'eng brother's treatise on "Understanding Humanity" (Shih-jen) is most instructive. 136 Without delving into the technical aspects of the statement, we note that the brief reference to "humanity" symbolizes the emergence of a new mode of expression in which Yang-ming's spiritual quest is to be understood. Indeed, Yang-ming's and Chan's adherence to Ch'eng Hao's teaching signifies a commitment not only to Confucianism in general but to the Confucian School of Mind (hsinhsüeh) in particular. Since Chan's teacher, Ch'en Hsien-chang, had been the indisputable spokesman for this school in the Ming dynasty, his decision to follow Ch'eng Hao can readily be understood as a response to Ch'en's teaching. The case of Yang-ming is more complicated: we simply do not know how deeply he was influenced by Ch'en Hsien-chang. According to Chan Jo-shui,

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Yang-ming was still committed to Chu Hsi's precept of ko-wu.137 If so, he was intellectually caught in a very delicate situation. His inner experience had helped him to appreciate the all-encompassing quality of the human mind, a position eloquently presented by Ch'eng Hao. Simultaneously, as his thought drifted from the Taoist cult of longevity back to the teaching of Confucianism, he again seized on ko-wu as an authentic approach to Confucian sagehood. The conflict between Ch'eng Hao's teaching on jen and Chu Hsi's precept of ko-wu has been recognized by scholars of Chinese philosophy as a fundamental issue in Neo-Confucianism. The very fact that Yang-ming adhered to Ch'eng Hao's teaching and at the same time maintained his long and agonizing loyalty to Chu Hsi's precept indicated a profound tension in his commitment, which would not be resolved until his "sudden enlightenment" of 1508. We do not know whether Yang-ming was fully aware of the tension implicit in his commitment to Confucianism. We do know that he became engaged in serious and continued dialogue with Chan on a variety of issues pertaining to Confucian self-cultivation. Certainly, Yang-ming's covenant with Chan Jo-shui represented a new phase in his spiritual development and added a new dimension to his intellectual commitment. In theory, when Yang-ming had made up his mind to spread the true Confucian Tao as he understood it, the significance of social approval should have become only peripheral. In practice, however, «some form of public recognition was far from being irrelevant. Although Yang-ming did try to detach himself from various kinds of social groups in Peking, he was at the same time desperately seeking friends and "true believers." Therefore, when Chan Jo-shui expressed his willingness to join him in the struggle for a common cause after only one meeting, Yang-ming was overwhelmed with joy. He felt that from then on he would never have to bear the burden of reviving the true spirit of Confucianism alone. He would always be able to count on moral support from a man whose uniqueness as a transmitter of the Confucian Tao was already well established. "In my association with officialdom over the last thirty years," Yang-ming later remarked, "he is the only true person I have encountered." 138 It is in this connection that Yang-ming said, "After I had made acquaintance with Master Chan, my resolution [in spreading the Confucian Tao] became so

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much strengthened that nothing seemed powerful enough to stop it."" 9 Within the Confucian tradition friendship is honored as one of the five most constant human relations. To be sure, it may not be as intimate as the husband-wife relationship, as imperative as the father-son relationship, as demanding as the brother-brother relationship, or as obligatory as the emperor-minister relationship. To the Confucian, however, friendship is an integral part of man's lifelong mission to cultivate his own personality. In the Analects Tseng Tzu said, "The gentleman on grounds of culture meets with his friend, and by their friendship helps his virtue."140 Thus to search for men with the same concerns (t'ung-chih) or men after one's own heart (chih-chi) is more than a social responsibility; it is in a large measure a form of self-fulfillment. Chan's friendship therefore meant to Yang-ming more than social recognition. It was a vote of confidence, both in what he believed to be the true way to Confucian sagehood and in the communicability of what he cherished as highly meaningful inner experience. The rapprochement between them was thus established essentially on the basis of a common dedication to the Confucian Tao and a sense of mutual responsibility to deliver the Confucian message. If the friendship of Chan Jo-shui sustained Yang-ming's determination to assume the role of a Confucian teacher, it was his relationship with his disciples, albeit limited in number, that began to contribute directly to its formation. It is commonly believed that Yang-ming's brother-in-law, Hsii Ai (1487-1517), who performed the proper ritual of accepting Yang-ming as his master in 1507, became his first disciple.141 But though Hsii Ai might have been his most beloved and respected disciple, it is certain that his career as a teacher who formally accepted students began earlier, in 1505. Since the teacher-disciple relationship was to become such an important theme in Yang-ming's life history, his first encounter with potential followers was recorded by the Nten-p'u as a landmark in his biography.142 Discipleship at the time was a highly ritualized institution. It was a lifelong commitment which affected not only one's intellectual life in the educational sphere but every dimension of one's existence. It is perhaps not surprising that in Peking most such relationships were organized around the specific goal of political

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advancement. Yang-ming's educational task, however, was to initiate students into the true tradition of Confucian learning so that energy now spent on composing "timely essays" (shih-weri) would be rechanneled in the direction of a fundamental transformation of the body and mind. Diverting the students from the tedious practices of imitative writing was not very difficult; the real task was to articulate a new realm of meaning to which they would be willing to commit themselves even at the expense of the honor and profit of obtaining an advanced degree. Understandably, when Yang-ming put aside concern for political advancement and presented himself as a Confucian teacher dedicated to the Tao of the sages, he was treated with considerable suspicion. The very fact that he could still attract a few interested young men must have been very encouraging to him. In the Nten-p'u there is only one brief reference to Yang-ming's pedagogical method. He insisted that his student make an inner decision to become a sage.143 When Yang-ming, in his youth, had remarked that the greatest task in life is to learn to become a sage, he understood sagehood basically in terms of Taoist symbols. Now, however, sagehood was clearly related to the Confucian concept of li-chth (to establish one's will, to make up one's mind, or to make an existential decision). Yang-ming's emphasis on this specific dimension of Confucianism grew out of his own experience and reflected a belief that the only way to appreciate the sagely teaching as an integral part of one's personality is by a process of internal self-transformation. The very basis of such a transformation is a realization that to become a sage is not an abstract ideal but the fulfillment of the true nature of one's body and mind. Consequently, to manifest his teaching by personal example rather than by words, Yang-ming himself had to live up to the ideal of his own teaching. Yet the official life in Peking was not congenial to such a task, and after the Grotto experience Yang-ming could hardly justify forsaking his sociopolitical role altogether. As we shall see, Yang-ming's ultimate commitment in Peking made it difficult for him to be reconciled with the external forces around him.

Chapter III

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ENLIGHTENMENT

The Fight Against Liu Chin

THE most traumatic experience of Yang-ming's life took place in late 1506, when he was imprisoned for about two months,1 flogged forty strokes in the audience chamber, probably in the presence of high-ranking officials, and banished to a remote area called Lung-ch'ang in Kweichow province.* Although this form of humiliation was not unusual in the Ming dynasty,3 it was Yang-ming's first and most dramatic encounter with the terror of despotism. The cause of all this punishment was a memorial that Yang-ming presented to the throne in which he criticized the imprisonment of two officials, Tai Hsien and Po Yen-hui, who had offended the emperor by asking him to dismiss the powerful eunuch Liu Chin. 4 Yang-ming argued that if the emperor was benevolent, ministers would present their ideas without reservation; it was the duty of the two officials to make public what they thought was right. The emperor could evaluate the validity of their argument, accept what was true and tolerate what was in error, so as to encourage straightforward expression of ideas. If the emperor imprisoned those who spoke up, he would be at a loss for suggestions concerning the safety of the state in an emergency.5 However, underlying this seemingly innocuous act was an abortive struggle of a group of Confucian statesmen against Liu Chin. 6 The year 1506 was the first year of the Cheng-te reign, the beginning of Emperor Wu-tsung's era. The fourteen-year-old emperor, extremely fond of amusement, was easily influenced by the sycophantic eunuchs. As a result, Liu Chin, whose successful campaign against a rival eunuch had made him the most powerful person in the palace, became the invisible hand behind many important imperial decisions.7 This went beyond the forbearance of some Confucian officials. Through a series of memorials they demanded 95

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"dismissal of the powerful eunuch, rectification of the principal laws of the state, retention of the emperor's guardians and protectors, and imperial trust in the ministers so as to stabilize the state."8 Unfortunately, these attempts were met with corporal punishment and imprisonment. Tai and Po's memorial resulted in a massive arrest of more than thirty high officials in Nanking. This was a clear indication that it was dangerous to attack Liu Chin directly. Yet Yang-ming took up the challenge and alone submitted a new memorial, which was, on the surface, a modest request for the safety of the arrested officials. If Yang-ming had addressed himself only to the issue of Tai and Po's safety, he might have escaped Liu Chin's merciless revenge, but this would have lessened the force of his argument. It seems clear that Yang-ming's main purpose was not so much to plead for the lives of the two officials as to express his indignation over the general tendency of the political climate. Although it is difficult to ascertain whether Yang-ming actually intended to infuriate the powerful eunuch, his action was easily interpreted as an attack on Liu Chin, who was reported to have said in anger, "He dared to say that I endangered the safety of the state!"9 Yang-ming paid a high price for his protest; he was flogged in public, denied contact with his friends and students in the capital, and cut off from the opportunity to demonstrate his social concern by actively engaging in governmental service. Why did Yang-ming take up this challenge in the first place? Obviously Yang-ming was highly sympathetic with the movement to oust the eunuch, but it seems unlikely that he himself played any notable part in it. He was certainly not obligated in any personal sense to the protesters. And since he had had no previous contact of any significance with either Tai Hsien or Po Yen-hui, his willingness to stand up for them must have indicated something other than an emotional attachment to the group. Officially, as a junior secretary, he faced great danger in overstepping his proper rank to express himself in such a way. Although he had formulated his political views by presenting a memorial to the court in response to an earlier imperial request, this can hardly be cited as a precedent. The case of Liu Chin was unique; Yang-ming's reaction to it accordingly demands further explanation. Recently, many serious attempts have been made to transcend the oversimplified interpretation of good officials versus bad

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eunuchs in Ming China. As a result, several theses have been advanced to replace the traditional account of Liu Chin, which is thought to be overly moralistic. It is certainly beyond the present discussion to examine all of the relevant issues concerning the conflict betweeii Liu Chin and his adversaries. But even if we were to accept the suggestion, for example, that it was basically a conflict between two political interest groups, we should still take into consideration what may be called the issue of moral responsibility. For such an issue arises not only in historical judgment; it was an integral part of the political reality Yang-ming was confronted with. In his eyes and those of the scholar-officials in general, the corrupting influence of the eunuchs upon the private life of the emperor threatened both the efficiency of the central bureaucracy and the credibility of the imperial symbol. Impairment of bureaucratic efficiency might cripple the normal function of the government and loss of credibility might even destroy the ethicoreligious structure of the whole empire. To fight against Liu Chin was thus to attack not only his personality per se but also his personification of a long and strong tradition of unworthy persons assuming political authority by gaining personal favors from the emperor. Such a practice undermined the foundation of the governmental process, confused the proper roles of the officials, and seriously impaired the prestige of the censors. Moreover, Liu Chin, as an influential eunuch, represented a wide-ranging network of intrigue and secret maneuvers in the court. The detrimental effect on the morale of the high officials must have been tremendous. One serious result of Liu Chin's rise to power was the polarization of the high officials into two groups: those who tacitly accepted his authority, even if they did not obsequiously follow, his orders, and those who bitterly opposed him, even if only in words and gestures.10 Consequently, attacking Liu Chin became not only a political obligation for the Confucian but also a moral cause. To keep aloof on such an obvious issue evidenced more than a lack of courage: it was a betrayal of personal integrity. Indeed, how could a dignified Confucian official bear with even the presence of an influential eunuch in the highly ritualized affairs of the court? No matter how subtle the arrangements may have been, the very notion that Liu Chin was in control must have tortured the conscience of many concerned literati. Against this background, Yang-ming,

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as a newly committed Confucian idealist, simply could not tolerate silence. In addition to the political background in general, another more delicate issue should be mentioned—the role of Yang-ming's father. According to Wang Hua's biography, his classical learning and his upright personality had won him a reputation as a model scholar-official in the court. Among his admirers was the former emperor himself, who respected Hua as a senior statesman. The new sovereign, however, did not appreciate his qualifications. Although he was sent to offer sacrifice to the gods in the Yangtze and Huai rivers shortly after the young emperor had ascended the throne, Wang Hua felt that his golden days had gone and, on the pretext of attending his aged mother, asked to resign. His request was turned down. 11 In 1505, when the reign title officially changed and Liu Chin was conspicuously wielding power behind the emperor, Wang Hua's position worsened considerably. Since most officials turned away from direct protest and sought personal safety by conciliatory measures, opposition to Liu Chin was voiced by a small minority. Under such circumstances, even an act of passive resistance required unusual courage, for there was no limit to Liu Chin's jealous demand for personal loyalty. By employing secret agents, he quickly sorted out his political enemies. Those who were fearful of his retaliatory methods went so far as to pledge their allegiance to him in person. While many prominent scholar-officials, including the senior statesman Li Tung-yang, complied with Liu's ruthless demands, Wang Hua refused to pay him a visit. Moreover, he set Liu Chin at defiance even after the latter had extended a cordial invitation to him. 12 Wang Hua's tacit protest against Liu Chin, despite insinuations of impending punishment, is reminiscent of a comparable case in early Ming history. The brief but significant confrontation on a special occasion in the court between the Confucian master, Hsüeh Hsüan (Ching-hsüan, 1392-1464), and the powerful eunuch, Wang Chen, was dramatized by later chroniclers as a great demonstration of the master's steadfastness. What Hsüeh did was simply to show his contempt for the eunuch by refusing to recognize his presence. At a time when most high officials physically trembled with fear in front of Wang Chen, it was a pointed act of defiance for Hsüeh Hsüan to keep standing erect, after the

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eunuch had himself first bowed to make a polite gesture. 13 Wang Hua never had the opportunity to humiliate Liu Chin to his face. However, he maintained his rectitude by declining to accept Liu Chin's serious attempts to win him over. This unpretentious attitude caused him much hardship, and may have cost him his entire career. Wang Hua was later highly praised by his biographers for his incorruptibility. One wonders why in both cases the eunuchs in control went out of their way to seek the support of powerless and yet uncompromising Confucian scholars. One obvious reason was a desire to extend the scope of their political influence. By obtaining the active support, or at least the tacit consent, of some of the most respected scholars in the state, the eunuchs could function more smoothly among the literati even without any legitimate claim to authority. Although some of the powerful eunuchs of the Ming dynasty were not aware of the importance of legitimizing their power, Liu Chin, who was far from being illiterate, recognized the important role of a scholar-official like Wang Hua in formulating public opinion. Chronologically, Wang Hua's relegation to political limbo came after Yang-ming had been banished. 14 Yang-ming's attack on Liu Chin does not seem to have been a direct response to his father's dismissal, although it is likely that Yang-ming was prompted to take some positive action because of the example of Wang Hua. Indeed, Yang-ming's decision to strike out might have surprised even his father. 15 His courage in confronting Liu Chin head-on was evidently at odds with his father's insistence on self-control. His audacious act therefore somewhat embarrassed the senior officials in his department and his father's colleagues, who preferred a policy of tolerance and gradual improvement. It must be pointed out, however, that even though what Yang-ming actually did was much more straightforward than what his father himself might have done, it was not necessarily contrary to what his father would have wished. In any case, a fight against Liu Chin by a young man in the midst of obsequious officials was a highly praiseworthy act. It was because of this that Yang-ming was admired instead of mocked by his father's associates. In their eyes his attempt was that of a young martyr, not that of an unnecessary victim. In an objective sense, Yang-ming's endeavor does not seem to have made much difference in altering the political trend, but to a small minority, including his students, it was more than a

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lonely cry in the wilderness. By his personal sacrifice, he proved himself more than a teacher of words. Yang-ming's attempt to teach by personal example certainly brought him hardships. He was forced back into isolation shortly after he had returned from a self-imposed moratorium determined to achieve something significant through friendship and discipleship. It is true that he had earned the confidence of his students and even a reputation as a good Confucian official, but everything was still in the initial stage. A sense of frustration — a feeling that he might never get a chance to do anything significant—became the major theme of the fourteen poems he wrote during his stay in prison. Through his poems we learn that he suffered seriously from insomnia and homesickness.16 He had an intense fear that he might never survive the misery of that small and dark prison cell. He complained about the bitterness of the cold weather in the winter, which produced fantasies,17 and the rats that frequently shared his bed at night.18 The moonlight shining upon him through a crack of the roof only enhanced the atmosphere of endless suffering.19 In his first poem in jail, he states that since his heart is not made of stone he is deeply moved by the sound of the rushing wind through the woods like mighty waves splashing ashore,i0 but in his. tenth poem, written after having been in prison for several weeks, he confesses that sitting steadfastly for so long has turned him into wood and stone.*1 He pictures himself as a deserted wife whose husband has gone away for a whole year without any promise of return.28 It seems almost a cliché in Chinese literature for a frustrated scholar-official to use such imagery, but Yang-ming shifts the emphasis somewhat, and the trite analogy captures his state of mind at the time very well. Thus the poor lady is made to lament for the loss of her natural right to bear the offspring of her ancestors. Similarly, Yang-ming also feels that he is spending his best days in a meaningless confinement. As he turns his thoughts to his forefathers, he feels equally ashamed that his most productive years are being wasted.23 He says that if he had a choice again, he would take quite a different course. Perhaps he felt that any alternative would be more rewarding than sitting in jail. Although Yang-ming's sense of despair may have been extremely intense, as some of his poems suggest, he seems to have cherished the hope of an early release. He may complain of poor treatment

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in the notorious "Chin-i yii" (prison of the embroidered uniform guard), 24 but when he is absorbed in the study of the Book of Changes, he feels that he has purified his mind and penetrated deeply into the mystery of the universe." Everything else between heaven and earth may seem pointlessly perplexing, but the meaning of Yen Hui's ability to attain inner happiness in the midst of extreme poverty and of his own effort to search for internal peace in the Yang-ming Grotto gives him a sense of tranquillity. 26 In a different poem, he argues that although he can never alter what has already been done, he can still hope for what may come in the future. 2 7 This combination of severe frustration and persistent optimism is best shown in his farewell poem to his acquaintances in jail. From it we learn that he had engaged in some study and discussion (chiang-sung), presumably on Confucian teaching, with his "two or three" prison mates. As he is about to leave, he urges them to take advantage of the leisure time and continue with the plan of group learning. He is not sure what his own fate may be, but he encourages his friends to follow the footsteps of the ancient sages and warns them against any "cunning and obsequious" shortcut. 28 A close analysis of one of his poems, not translatable into English, reveals a great deal about his spiritual orientation at the time. The poem is the second in a series of three verses on "Reading the Book of Changes" ("Tu I"). In a rather subtle way, Yang-ming tells of his deep feelings and of the course of action he hopes to take in the immediate future. Through "meditative thinking" and "selfpurification" during his stay in the prison, he believed that he attained an experiential understanding of the Book of Changes. To him, each line of each hexagram, a total of 384 lines in 64 hexagrams, contains an ultimate teaching. 29 By an ingenious use of the six names of six carefully selected hexagrams, Yang-ming subtly expresses his inner thoughts in a six-line poem consisting of only thirty characters. Furthermore, the reference to each of the six hexagrams in his poem is so precise that it is possible to identify the specific line within that particular hexagram. Although the meaning is no longer readily comprehensible to us and the immediacy with which any reference to the Changes would be understood by a Ming scholar is forever lost, we can still learn a great deal by probing the various allusions in the poem. The six hexagrams are as follows: Meng (youthful folly, no. 4), Ta-ch'u

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(the taming power of the great, no. 26), Chien (obstruction, no. 39), Chen (thunder, no. 51), Tun (retreat, ho. 33), and Ku (decay, no. 18). In the hexagram Meng ( ), we are reminded of the "youthful folly" of one whose inexperience has made him "stop in perplexity on the brink of a dangerous abyss." ,0 Yang-ming suggests that attention be focused on the yang line, symbolizing the male principle, in the second place from the bottom, which means: "To bear with fools in kindliness brings good fortune." However, he alerts us to the import of the yang line at the top, which means: "Although it furthers one to prevent transgression, it does not further one to commit transgression."®1 Implicitly Yang-ming seems to argue that despite unjustified excess in his punishment, the better course of action is to endure the hardship rather than to make a drastic attempt to fight against it. Yang-ming's decision to remain steadfast as a way of "bearing with fools" is clearly reflected in the hexagram Ta-ch'u ( r = = ). As Richard Wilhelm has pointed out, this hexagram has a threefold meaning, expressing different layers of "holding firm." First, it suggests holding firm in the sense of holding together or keeping still. The trigram of the mountain (Ken, = = ) on top symbolizes the act of taming the creativity of heaven (Ch'ien, ). Thus, secondly, holding firm gives the meaning of holding back. Finally, it also conveys the idea of caring for or nourishing." In other words, to hold firm is not only a defensive posture; it may be a way of cultivating one's vital force and nurturing one's inner strength for a courageous move in the future. Yang-ming puts his emphasis on the yin line, or the female principle, in the fourth place from the bottom. Originally this line symbolized the headboard of a young bull: "Before a bull's horns grow out, a headboard is fastened to its forehead, so that later when the horns appear they cannot do harm." This particular line therefore suggests that "a good way to restrain wild force is to forestall it." 33 We are not sure whether by this Yang-ming means that he must be cautious in his way of dealing with the irrationality of the political situation. But it seems clear that he is resolved to strive toward his goals by perseverance. Yang-ming's perception of his predicament and his strong belief that it could be overcome are vividly portrayed in the hexagram

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Chien ( : 1 ) which symbolizes: "A dangerous abyss lying before us and a steep, inaccessible mountain rising behind us. We are surrounded by obstacles; at the same time, since the mountain has the attribute of keeping still, there is implicit a hint as to how we can extricate ourselves. The hexagram represents obstructions that appear in the course of time but can and should be overcome."34 Yang-ming focuses his attention on the yin line in the second place, which means that although the king's servant (the scholar-official) is beset by obstruction upon obstruction, it is not his fault. Motivated by a strong sense of mission, he is duty bound to confront danger in the service of a noble cause. Since what he does is in keeping with his moral commitment, he does it without regret. And the dangerous situation in which he is placed will in the end be transformed into good fortune.35 Yang-ming believes that although he is threatened with the gravest calamity, if he remains steadfast, he will eventually be freed. In the hexagram Chen ( ^ 5 = = ), Yang-ming's traumatic experience of arrest and imprisonment is symbolized by the idea of "thunder." According to the Book of Changes, "thunder repeated: the image of shock. Thus in fear and trembling the superior man sets his life in order and examines himself."36 Yang-ming is confident that, by the instruction of the first yang line from the bottom, his course of action is not in conflict with the Confucian Way. The teaching of this specific line is as follows: "The fear and trembling engendered by shock come to an individual at first in such a way that he sees himself placed at a disadvantage as against others. But this is only transitory. When the ordeal is over, he experiences relief, and thus the very terror he had to endure at the outset brings good fortune in the long run." 37 It should be pointed out that, conventionally, the hexagram represents "the eldest son, who seizes rule with energy and power." The first yang line below the two yin lines symbolizes an ascending movement that presses upward so forcibly that it engenders strong vibrations. This was probably how Yang-ming actually felt about his political protest and the reaction it had brought about. However, what lies in the future is qualitatively different. The hexagram chosen to characterize it is Tun ( ' ) which in general symbolizes retreat: "The power of the dark is ascending. The light retreats to security, so that the dark cannot

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encroach upon it. This retreat is a matter not of man's will but of natural law. Therefore in this case withdrawal is proper; it is the correct way to behave in order not to exhaust one's forces." 48 Yang-ming makes it explicit that the yang line in the fourth place from the bottom really touches his heart: "Voluntary retreat brings good fortune to the superior man." 49 Later, on his journey to exile in Lung-ch'ang, he vanished from the scene for a considerable period of time. It is difficult to unravel the mystery of his disappearance, but we are relatively sure that it was a voluntary act. His choice of the hexagram Tun to designate his inner feelings seems in accord with what actually happened when he was on his way into exile. The hexagram Ku ( = = : = ) further tells us how Yang-ming feels about his own fate at that time. The character ku signifies a bowl in whose contents worms, especially poisonous ones, are breeding. This signifies a movement from decay and stagnation to a new form of dynamism. However, that which is breeding may be extremely dangerous. Any wrong move at this stage is likely to bring about serious misfortune. Indeed, Yang-ming remarks that, under the circumstances, self-preservation is a difficult task. Although he does not reveal his intended course of action, he attaches his sentiments to the yang line at the top which means: "He does not serve kings and princes, for he elevates himself to nobler concerns." 40 This remarkable statement actually foreshadows his later instruction that to enter officialdom through the examination is not as meaningful as to spread Confucianism by exemplary teaching. 41 Underlying the allusions to the six hexagrams is an unequivocal message: Yang-ming strongly believed that what he had done was a righteous act and, since he had not yet come to trial, he cherished the hope that the injustice that had been inflicted upon him would soon be corrected. He was fully aware of the dangers involved, but a sense of optimism lurked behind the gloom of his life in prison. However, he was so much disenchanted by the corruption of court life that political involvement in the sense of assuming the role of an official had become repulsive to him. Of course this does not mean that he would not change his views on politics later. After all, if he was serious about the Way of the sage, he would have to maintain his relationship with affairs of state in some way. But at that particular moment, as reflected in his poems, he yearned for

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the inner composure of Yen Hui who, despite his broad social vision, led a simple and secluded life as the most beloved and respected disciple of Confucius, and he dreamed of the peacefulness of the scenery around the Yang-ming Grotto. There, he remarked, was the ideal place to be "unmindful of one's old age."48 In the end, after two months of waiting in prison, Yang-ming was not given a fair trial, and far from any sort of humane rebuke, he was forced to experience one of the most enervating and humiliating forms of corporal punishment inflicted on Chinese officials. The t'ing-chang system might have been commonplace in the Mingdynasty, but this in no way diminished its devastating effect. Having been flogged at least thirty strokes, Yang-ming lost consciousness. He eventually regained consciousness, but his health was seriously damaged. Psychologically, the impact was even greater. Since humiliation was an institutionalized aspect of such a punishment, it is likely that along with the flogging he was exposed to mockery, insult, and even curses. To be sure, he could tell himself that such attacks were meaningless attacks, but psychologically, after a confrontation with these mechanisms of shame, it must have been difficult not to feel resentment and self-pity. Although Yang-ming had physically survived the humiliating flogging, he was banished to Lung-ch'ang in modern Kweichou to become an insignificant officer in charge of a small dispatch station. Lung-ch'ang was then inhabited by Miao tribesmen who were thought to be extremely hostile to people from the central part of China. In addition, the journey to Kweichou was itself a serious challenge to Yang-ming's health. The sentence must have seemed to him like a condemnation to endless hardship. With this in mind, we will attempt an explanation of Yang-ming's mysterious disappearance on his way to Lung-ch'ang. 2.

The Road to

Lung-ch'ang

Yang-ming embarked on his long and dangerous way to exile in the spring of 1507, probably after a short period of recuperation. He first bade farewell to his friends in the capital, especially Chan Jo-shui, who sent him nine poems to commemorate this unfortunate departure. 48 Then he paid a visit to his father, who at the time was Minister of the Board of Civil Officials in Nanking. 44 Finally, in the winter of 1507, he proceeded to his destination by way of the

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Ch'ien-t'ang River. 45 This, of course, is only a simplified account of the whole event. Historically, it is extremely difficult to determine what actually happened during the journey. The traditional interpretation gives us an incredible road map. According to the Nien-p'u, for example, Yang-ming reached the Ch'ien-t'ang River in the summer of 1507. In order to elude Liu Chin's trackers, who had been sent to assassinate him, he pretended to have drowned himself in the river. Later he successfully boarded a merchant vessel bound for the Chou-shan Islands off the Chekiang coast. The vessel encountered a typhoon and in less than two days was driven ashore near the border of Fukien. Then, via the Min River, across Mount Wu-i, and by way of Lake Po-yang, Yang-ming proceeded to Nanking. After a visit with his father he again returned to the Ch'ien-t'ang area. Thus, in the winter of 1507 Yang-ming took up his perplexing journey again from the same place where he had arrived more than half a year previously.46 This naturally leads to the question of what actually happened during that period. Was he really followed by two of Liu Chin's assassins? If so, did he really pretend to drown in the Ch'ien-t'ang River in order to evade them? He probably did try to escape, but should we accept the story that the merchant vessel that was supposed to carry him to the island of Chou-shan was caught in a typhoon and driven to Fukien? Indeed, how should we account for two extraordinary events that are so vividly and minutely recorded in the Nien-p'u? Yangming, we are told, had gone ashore from the merchant vessel and traveled a mountain path for several tens of li. By nightfall, he got to a Buddhist temple and knocked at its door for admission with the intention of spending the night there. The monks refused him admittance. He hastened away and reached a deserted temple where he slept by leaning against an incense-table, little suspecting that the temple was the lair of a tiger. After midnight, the tiger prowled around the veranda but did not venture into the temple hall. At daybreak, the monks thought that Yang-ming must have been devoured by the tiger and went out to gather his bag. Upon discovering that Yangming was still sound asleep, they were astonished and exclaimed: "You must be an extraordinary man! Otherwise how could you have escaped unscathed?"47

The second event took place as soon as the startled monks invited him to their temple, where he met the same Taoist priest he had encountered on his wedding day two decades before.

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They sat to discuss Yang-ming's plans for the future, and he revealed his intention of going into retirement in a distant land. The Taoist priest replied: "You have your parents still living. Should Liu Chin shift his anger onto your father, and cause him to be arrested under the false accusation that you had either gone north to the Tartars or south to Kwangtung or Kwangsi, what would you do?" He then undertook to dispel Yang-ming's perplexity by divination, which yielded an oracle favoring his return.48 It seems unlikely that Yang-ming actually stayed overnight in the habitat of a tiger that "at midnight prowled around roaring, but was afraid to enter"; and it seems inconceivable that he again met the very Taoist priest with whom he had first come into contact in the "Iron Pillar" temple.49 In this connection, Mao Ch'i-ling's critical remarks on these anecdotes seem to be well-grounded.50 However, to dismiss them entirely because of possible intentional falsification is unwise. Some useful conclusions can be drawn from these apparently legendary accounts. First, it is likely that Yangming did at one point seriously speculate on the possibility of escape. Though he probably never traveled to Fukien by the sea route, it is conceivable that he wandered about the area noted for its Ch'ien-t'ang tidal bore and made a few trips to some of the offshore islands. Presumably he never frightened a tiger, but he might have encountered hardships and dangers comparable to the situation designed by the monks to trap him. Similarly, while in all probability he could not have met the mysterious Taoist for the second time, he had seriously studied the Book of Changes in jail under severe distress, and it seems highly plausible that at this time of uncertainty he would have resorted to divination to determine what future course he should take.51 The Nien-p'u further suggests that it was on the basis of the divinatory result—"brightness obscured" (Ming-i)—that Yang-ming finally decided to resume his journey to exile. The symbolic meaning of the Ming-i hexagram ( = = ) seems consistent with what he had envisioned in the poem discussed earlier. The judgment of the hexagram reads: "Darkening of the light. In adversity it furthers one to be persevering."52 By synthesizing a variety of commentaries on these lines, Richard Wilhelm advances the following interpretation: One must not unresistingly let himself be swept along by unfavorable circumstances, nor permit his steadfastness to be shaken. He can avoid this by maintaining his inner light, while remaining outwardly yielding

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and tractable. With this attitude he can overcome even the greatest adversities. In some situations indeed a man must hide his light, in order to make his will prevail in spite of difficulties in his immediate environment. Perseverance must dwell in inmost consciousness and should not be discernible from without. Only thus is a man able to maintain his will in the face of difficulties.5' Judging from the existing sources, it appears that, in addition to the outcome of the divination, consideration for his father's safety and position was a determining factor in bringing Yang-ming back to the world of reality. 54 Both the Nien-p'u and the Hsingchuang take the same position. The Hsing-chuang further argues that Yang-ming's whole family would have been in danger had he been accused of escaping to a foreign country. 55 Theoretically, Yang-ming could entertain the thought of sequestering himself, but psychologically and morally it was almost impossible for him to run the risk of inflicting calamity on his family. In a sense, this was not a new realization but a reaffirmation of his Yang-ming Grotto decision. Although it is difficult to ascertain whether he had taken advantage of his Ch'ien-t'ang sojourn and spent some time at home with his grandmother, he definitely made special efforts to visit his father before he formally started the journey to Lungch'ang. 56 It was after he had called on his father in Nanking that he returned to Ch'ien-t'ang with a strong resolution to go through the entire ordeal. Another dimension of Yang-ming's psychological conflict was his strong commitment to his followers. A sense of responsibility to them played an important role in his final decision to accept banishment as a form of self-education. His formal acceptance of Hsu Ai, his brother-in-law, as a disciple prior to his departure was indicative of this commitment. According to the Nien-p'u, it was Hsu Ai's willingness to bear the burden of spreading the learning of the Confucian sages that really impressed Yang-ming. 57 The best summation of Yang-ming's thinking on these issues is found in his farewell advice to Ts'ai Tsung-tui, Chu Chieh, and Hsu Ai, three of his most outstanding followers, who were about to leave for Peking to take their chin-shih examinations. The work is dated 1507, shortly before Yang-ming started his own journey. In it, Yang-ming elaborates on the unique function

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of the master-disciple relationship in transmitting the truly Confucian message. He states that since the time of the great Sung Confucian masters, the real meaning of such a relationship has been lost; and the central teachings of the Six Classics have been fragmented by people who are exclusively engaged in textual analysis and neglected by people who are solely concerned with writing literary compositions and passing official examinations. Consequently, despite the struggle of individuals who have occasionally attempted to revive the great tradition, the' tide has not yet been turned. Therefore a collective effort through discipleship and friendship is called for. Yang-ming remarks that he had originally planned to retire from official duty so that, together with his disciples, he could follow the example of the Sung masters and search for the true happiness of Confucius and Yen Hui. Now, since parting is inevitable, the only alternative is to face up to the new challenge. Understandably, he makes no reference to his own fate. Instead, he describes the trip that his disciples would make to Peking as a cruel ordeal, and hopes that they can survive the trial by still maintaining their identity with the basic Confucian teachings. Then, at the very end of his farewell advice, he urges them to arrive in Peking so that his absence will not affect their program of learning.58 In a deeper sense, however, Yang-ming's decision to go through with the ordeal of banishment was not prompted merely by a sense of responsibility to his closest relatives, friends, and disciples. It was also the result of an inner struggle between fear, resentment, and self-pity, On the one hand, and self-respect on the other. Yang-ming's inner life at the time seems to have been pulled in three directions, as it were: by an intense fear that he might collapse on the road and an equally strong belief that he could survive the impending threat of death; by a burning indignation against the political reality of his time and an equally vivid conviction in his role as a messenger of the Confucian truth; and by a deep sense of alienation from all the existing circles of power and an equally profound feeling of attachment to his relatives, friends, and disciples.59 As he was aimlessly wandering over the Ch'ien-t'ang area he must have experienced the impact of many conflicting and contradictory forces. His decision to accept the trying task of banishment as meaningful was therefore symptomatic of a new

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state of realization that was to him more than a choice between two possibilities. It was victory over fear, resentment, and self-pity. Probably it was in the ecstasy of this triumphant joy that he wrote: Neither danger nor peace ever leaves Tracks on my bosom — Mere clouds drifting The immense reach of space. Thirty thousand li ripple Under the still night As a mendicant glides down From the heavenly wind.60 The poem strikes us as an articulation of a feeling of great release after a crucial decision. Since chronologically the poem immediately preceded Yang-ming's resumption of his journey southward, it could very well be an expression of his new state of mind. The "mendicant" may refer to the legendary Taoist who, according to the story discussed earlier, helped Yang-ming to face up to the painful choice. It may also symbolize Yang-ming's own decision to stop roaming about and come down to face the reality of life. Although we cannot fully substantiate all of the points raised above, an analysis of Yang-ming's poetic writing in this period provides some explanation. Altogether, fifty-five poems were composed by Yang-ming en route to Lung-ch'ang. 61 In addition, at least one piece of rhymed prose (fu) is available to us. 68 From these works we learn that he was for quite a while overtaken by sickness and bedridden in a Buddhist monastery; 63 that on the first full moon of the lunar year (yiian-hsi) the prefect of Kuang-hsin unexpectedly came to his boat and carried on a conversation with him there until late in the evening;64 that he paid special homage to the temple of Chou Lien-hsi;65 that he mourned the great tragic statesman-poet, Ch'ii Yuan, who drowned himself around 295 B.C. after having been banished; 66 that in Ch'ang-sha, despite a severe toothache, he discussed Confucian teachings with a certain Mr. Chou, whose sincerity deeply touched him; 67 that he was persuaded by his acquaintances to visit the scenic Yii-lu mountains; 68 and that he was confronted with heavy snowstorms,69 tortuous mountain paths, muddy roads, 70 and even the danger of shipwreck. 71 Underlying these physical difficulties, his poems also provide us with an interesting account of how his thoughts traveled, showing a proclivity toward introspective examination, feelings for his relatives

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and friends at home, faith in Confucian teachings, sensitivity to natural beauty, and puzzlement over his own fate. Despite the apparent diversity of subjects touched on, it is possible to identify some of Yang-ming's underlying concerns from these poems. The road to Lung-ch'ang was long and painfully challenging. To Yang-ming, the trip was not only a confrontation with the unknown but also a possible rendezvous with death. In fact, ah intense fear that he might never have a chance to come back can be discerned in one of his eight farewell verses dedicated to Chan Jo-shui. However, since he had made the decision to go through the ordeal, the issue at stake was not what inevitable dangers he would face on his journey but how to maintain an inner peace despite his awareness of them. Of course if this problem had remained purely at the psychological level, we could never be sure of the nature of Yang-ming's concern at this particular time. Fortunately, in his farewell verses to Chan, he presents us with a succinct account of his sense of mission at the time. Consistent with the fact that Yang-ming had entered into a covenant with Chan, the farewell verses reassure his "like-minded" friend that, despite the impending hardship, he will perseveringly adhere to his solemn promise. A strong sense of dedication amid realistic doubts of whether he can survive the lonely ordeal appears to be the theme in one of the verses: The Chu River and the Ssu Water a mere patch of dirt While the I and the Lo Thin to one stroke, And the three or four later Masters Gleam much less for their flaws, Nor can I say much for my self Limping along, desperate to cover So much ground, falling, rising, Sucking air, almost not rising again, But meeting someone thinking like me, So together we can reach what's right, Vowing to go after it no matter what, Fighting ahead from the first inch, Dreaming each can make ten thousand li, When, from nowhere, wind lifts And waves and we're torn apart. Just saying this Brings me a waste of tears.72

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As a standard convention, the waters of Chu and Ssu symbolize the thoughts of Confucius and Mencius, and the rivers of I and Lo those of the early Sung masters. It seems certain that Yangming means to include Chu Hsi among the "three or four later masters." His identification with the Confucian course is unequivocally stated, despite the fragile influence of both the classical Confucian tradition and the Neo-Confucian revival among his contemporaries. A close analysis of Chan Jo-shui's nine farewell verses dedicated to Yang-ming as well as Yang-ming's eight verses mentioned above reveals that the two friends have actually been engaged in a serious dialogue on some basic Confucian issues. A number of key terms that have been considered by most scholars to be later developments in Yang-ming's philosophy are already present in these poems—problems such as the relationship between mind (hsin) and principle (/¿),73 the inseparability of ultimate truth (Too) and concrete implementation (ch'i), 74 the balance between conscious effort {chu) and unmindful growth (awing),75 and the subtle difference between tranquil vacuity (c flinghsii) and empty quiescence (hsu-chi). 76 These are all touched on in the farewell poems. Although there is no elaboration on these philosophical ideas, their very presence, albeit in a highly condensed poetic form, indicates that Yang-ming had entered into a dialogue on these issues with Chan prior to his departure.77 References to concepts such as "pre-manifestation" (wei-fa), 7 * "exhaustive search" (ch'iung-so), 79 and "centrality" (chung) 8 0 in Yang-ming's poems further suggest that they may have been deeply involved with Chu Hsi's philosophical system in their discussions. It would, perhaps, be an exaggeration to maintain that Yangming had by now worked out an original philosophy of his own. Even if he had developed such an intellectual system, the existing sources are too sparse to reveal the substance of it. However, it is important to point out that many of the fundamental issues that would constitute the bulk of his philosophy more than a decade later had already taken root in his thinking. He had not only seriously discussed such issues with Chan but also presented them in the form of basic precepts. He had advocated the pervasiveness of the mind, which he considered identical with the ordering principle. He had insisted upon the inseparability of the Way and the means by which the Way is realized. He had further remarked

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that such an inseparability characterizes true human nature. In a different context, he had argued that the main task of selfcultivation is to pursue the path of the mean: to arrive at the delicate balance between too much artificial effort and too little moral awareness. He had also contended that the Confucian approach to tranquility is qualitatively different from the Taoist goal of vacuity. To be sure, these fragmentary accounts cannot have much significance unless they are treated systematically in a proper framework. At this particular juncture, we merely want to suggest that before Yang-ming actually embarked on his journey, he had already deeply engaged himself in an experiential understanding of some of the basic philosophical ideas in Confucianism. Having been deprived of the privilege of pursuing systematic reading in a quiet place, giving formal instruction to his loyal students, or enjoying intellectual discourse with his sophisticated friends, Yang-ming was left with the alternative of wrestling with these issues all by himself on his way to Lung-ch'ang. Once Yangming had made up his mind to accept the challenge of banishment as a trial, he was repeatedly confronted with the question of meaning. His conscious effort to relate this basically irrational trial to the broad spiritual concern of revitalizing the Confucian tradition is reflected in a number of his poems. The most crucial problem for him at the time was not why he had to go through all this, but how to keep internal peace in a flux of ceaseless change. Symptomatic of his struggle to maintain a tranquil state of mind was his frequent use of the Book of Changes.81 Aside from the appeal of divination itself, which was to him a fascinating means of probing "the mystery of the universe," the composure required to perform the ritual properly was also an effective measure for the attainment of inner peace. One of Yang-ming's poems gives us the impression that, once he was deeply absorbed in pondering the import of a hexagram formed by playing with the milfoil stalks in the ritual of casting, his mind entered into such a perfect communion with the rhythm of the cosmos that he was moved to perform a ritual dance in honor of the sayings of the sages. Only after he suddenly realized that he had lost himself in ecstasy did he manage to revert to the state of meditation in an upright sitting posture.82 Yang-ming's trance-like experience with the milfoil stalks was by no means a kind of escape, nor was it simply a device to

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induce physical calmness. If he had attempted to master his emotions by physical self-control, it would have been a regression to his pre-Yang-ming Grotto experience. In fact, Yang-ming was fully aware of the difference between his new attempt to attain internal peace and his old effort to practice Taoist quietude. Although this is basically an issue of inner experience, it inevitably involves intellectual ramifications. On the surface, there is the question of justification. Yang-ming had to make it clear to himself as well as to his trusted friends that the kind of self-cultivation he now practiced was not merely Taoist cultivation dressed in Confucian symbols but a new practice that could not be properly appreciated in the old context of physical self-control. On the other hand, Yang-ming also had to confront the issue of negative identification. If his new endeavor was conceived only in terms of its sharp contrast to Taoism, it could easily become an inflexible doctrine, since the practice of attacking Taoism as a way of demonstrating one's allegiance to Confucian teaching easily leads to a- narrow-minded conception of what actually constitutes the proper realm of Confucian concerns. Eventually this lack of flexibility may defeat the original purpose of revitalizing Confucianism as a dynamic way of life. That Yang-ming had given much thought to these issues can again be seen in his poems. In response to his eremitic friends, Yang-ming states that the cult of longevity is not only wasteful but deceitful because it fails to take into account the natural processes of the universe. The subtle difference between the Taoist art of prolonging life and the Confucian art of self-cultivation lies in the intrinsic character of the two divergent spiritual directions themselves. For, while the sage engages in the cultivation of his personality for the sake of bearing witness to the ultimate truth that man can, by his inner strength, transcend his own limitations and assist the transforming power of heaven and earth, the recluse engages in physical cultivation merely for the sake of personal longevity. The Taoistic approach places much emphasis on the importance of the physical body, and thus runs counter to the ideal of spontaneity and falls into the trap of artificiality. The Confucian approach centers its attention on moral cultivation through ethical and intellectual activity so as to attain self-fulfillment in a true sense. The ideal is not to sacrifice the physical body for an unattainable goal; rather it is to take into consideration all aspects of human needs so as to bring about a

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complete realization. Yang-ming called this kind of realization chien-hsing, or "actualizing the human design."83 This is indeed an ideal. The Book of Mencius, from which Yangming borrowed the term, states that only the sage is capable of bringing the heaven-conferred nature to its fulfillment. According to this argument, chien-hsing is an infinite process that aims at bridging the gap between personal morality and metaphysical truth. 84 Yang-ming tried to differentiate his new experience from the Taoistic cult of longevity by adopting a broadly conceived idea of self-cultivation from the Mencian tradition of Confucianism. In so doing, he was able to criticize physical self-control as an artificial device used for egoistic purposes. As Yang-ming tried to ingest these crucial ideas in order to guide his own self-cultivation, the whole meaning of Confucianism was brought into new focus for him. His attention seems to have shifted to what may be called the subjective aspect, or the inner dimension, of Confucian symbolism. The lonely road to Lung-ch'ang was certainly congenial to intensive self-reflection. As a result, we detect a substantial change in his attitude toward the issue of social obligation. After the bitter confrontation with Liu Chin, this seems quite understandable. But we must not be misled into believing that Yang-ming's changed attitude toward social obligation in general can be fully explained by his traumatic experience in confronting the brutal facts of court politics. When Yang-ming arrived in Ch'ang-sha after he had traveled mostly by boat through the provinces of Kiangsu and Kiangsi, he was approached by a young man who presented him with a formal letter in which he asked him about precisely this question of active involvement in sociopolitical affairs. In a poem cited earlier, entitled "A Response to Mr. Chou of Ch'ang-sha," Yang-ming records his meeting with him. He is deeply impressed by Chou's intellectual quality and public spirit and is invigorated despite the fact that he was seriously disheartened only a short while previously. Yet Yang-ming's response is basically restrained; political participation is now too complicated a phenomenon to arouse unqualified enthusiasm. He does not directly criticize Chou's admiration for two outstanding social and political critics in Chinese history—Fan Chung-yen (989-1052) of Sung and Chia I (201-169 B.C.) of Han—but he makes a special effort to point out that the intrinsic value of the two most respected

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disciples of Confucius—Tseng Tien and Yen Hui —actually overshadows all sociopolitical attainment. Both of them achieved virtually nothing in the realm of what in a broad sense may be called statecraft. Yang-ming argues that although Confucius was himself actively involved in the affairs of the world, he fully approved of Tseng Tien's spirit of detachment. And although Yen Hui had talent enough for a prime minister, he chose the path of spiritual self-purification. By analogy, Yang-ming encourages his admirer to engage in a self-imposed moratorium in order to prepare for a supreme task in the futur6. To illustrate his point, Yang-ming follows a common practice and plays on the word tung, which literally means the ridgepole or the beams of a roof, but metaphorically refers to the pillars of the state. Since years of nourishment are required for a tree to become large enough to be made into a beam, years of cultivation are also essential to the formation of an extraordinary personality. Yang-ming does not try to discourage the young enthusiast, but he makes every effort to divert him from premature activism.85 It may be contended that Yang-ming's emphasis on the inner dynamism of the self is partially the outcome of his political frustration. His advice to the young man from Ch'ang-sha thus resembles that of a defeated warrior. It is probable that on an exhausting journey, with an enervated physical condition and without any assurance of what the future might bring, Yang-ming could not very well lecture unreservedly on the merits of political and social participation, but it should be pointed out that his concern for the problem of "subjectivity" was much more than a personal response to an immediate challenge from outside. His discovery of the inner self, both as a source of energy and as a foundation of meaning, will be the main concern of the following section. We note here that before he reached Lung-ch'ang, Yang-ming had already developed within himself a new sense of purpose, which was not so much a departure from his previous experiences in the Yang-ming Grotto, in Shantung, or in Peking, as an awareness of a new situation hitherto completely foreign to him. Since Yang-ming had long practiced the art of introspection, loneliness had always been bearable; sometimes he had even painstakingly sought it. However, having the opportunity to share his loneliness with a group of carefully selected friends and disciples in a highly developed cultural center was very different from being in a rustic place that

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offered no contact at all with men of understanding. As Yang-ming was approaching his destination, his sense of desertion must have intensified. This may have been one of the reasons why he cherished his dialogue with Chou so much. Having been deprived of constant and immediate contacts with friends and disciples, Yang-ming's inner quest for spiritual communication seems to have taken the form of intellectual and emotional identification with historical personages. In the bulk of his poetic writings at the time, there are references to great figures of the past. The choice of these figures seems to reflect not only his state of mind but also the direction of his thought. The inclusion of Chou Lien-hsi, Tseng Tien, Yen Hui, and Ch'ü Yüan is a case in point. Of these four men, three had virtually no practical experience in politics and one, though deeply involved in the affairs of the court, became a victim of palace intrigue. Yang-ming's high regard for Chou, Tseng, and Yen was a feeling of mingled wonder, esteem, approbation, and delight. Their ability to transcend the sordid bustle of political life without losing a sense of profound care for basic humanistic values especially fascinated him. They represented a kind of personality most admirable to him and yet most difficult for him to become. His concern for Ch'ü Yüan was of a different sort. He certainly did not share with Ch'ü a sense of unreserved personal loyalty to the emperor, but unquestionably he felt a deep empathy with the unfortunate hero. Yang-ming's poetic encounters with these historical personages are of interest. Yang-ming paid homage at the shrine of Chou Lien-hsi on his'way to P'ing-hsiang near the border of Kiangsi and Hunan. The wooden statue may not bear a resemblance to the Sung master, Yang-ming reports, but as he kneels down before the image of the great Confucian teacher and privately accepts him as his spiritual mentor, true rapport seems to transcend the period of a "thousand years" stretching between them.86 His feelings for Tseng Tien and Yen Hui are even more intimate. Their way of life becomes such a cherished ideal that he wishes, in a poem composed near the Hsiang River, that he could one day really brush aside glory and wealth as dust and participate in the "great transformation" (ta-hua), so that he would never feel ashamed of thinking about them again. 87 Nevertheless, it is the tragedy of the ill-fated Ch'ü Yüan that really seizes hold of him. In a rhymed-prose 444-character composition in the style of Ch'ü Yüan's monumental "Encountering Sorrow"

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(Li-sao), he mourns the death of the hero by recreating and thus intimately experiencing the final act of Ch'ii's life. The composition was written near the vicinity of the Mi-lo River in which Ch'ii Yuan is alleged to have drowned himself in the third century B.C. Historically, there is very little similarity between the pre-Ch'in statesman-poet and the mid-Ming Confucian thinker, but the latter seems able to find in the life and personality of Ch'ii Yuan a host of factors applicable to himself as well, such as an insistence on basic moral principles, a spirit of political protest, a sensitivity to poetic language, and the bitter experience of banishment. In fact, his sympathy for Ch'ii Yuan is so strong that the composition is written with the expressed purpose of commemorating Ch'ii's death. It is not unlikely that Yang-ming also performed a solemn ritual to dramatize his emotional identification with all of Ch'ii Yiian's sorrowful encounters—his lonely journey to his death, his angry attack on the sycophants in the court, his unanswered appeal to heaven, his mixed sentiments for his countrymen, and his fateful decision to die in honor rather than live in humiliation. 88 In this way, though denied the opportunity to communicate freely with his contemporaries on intellectual issues, Yang-ming was able to cultivate spiritual links with a few significant historical personages. Through such links his inner self-world became more dynamic, more generative, and thus more meaningful to himself. It would appear that, before he reached Lung-ch'ang, Yang-ming had already reestablished his sense of purpose, and determined to spread the Confucian message by internal self-cultivation rather than by tangible sociopolitical achievements. This stance actually foreshadowed, as we shall see, his experience of "sudden enlightenment." 3.

The Sudden

Enlightenment

In the spring of 1508 Yang-ming at long last completed his journey. Lung-ch'ang was situated in the northwestern part of Kweichow, surrounded by mountains and forests. It was an area of venomous snakes, poisonous insects, and epidemics. The inhabitants—Miao, Lolo, and other native tribes—spoke entirely different languages, making it difficult for Yang-ming to communicate with them. Those with whom he could converse were desperados who had escaped to this remote area. Furthermore, he had to face the

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challenge of acquiring the basic necessities of life. For example, since the natives all lived rustically in caves, and no residence was available, he had to have a small hut built for him. But it was too jerry-built to withstand the wind and rain. He then moved to a cave in the East, which he called "the Small Cave Heavens of Yangming" (Yang-ming hsiao tung-t'ien). 89 The cave solved only one of Yang-ming's problems. He also had to engage in picking bracken and farming for food. Meanwhile, his three servants all fell ill. Yang-ming himself chopped wood, carried water, and made congee for them. He sang songs to brighten up their gloominess. If they still felt depressed he would play tunes from their native regions and tell humorous stories. Only then could they temporarily forget their sickness and miserable life in adversity.90 It was out of this profound sense of distress that he again seriously reflected on the problem of meaning. He repeatedly questioned himself: "What special approach could even a sage adopt to cope with these circumstances?91 Intellectually he probably knew very well that no matter how unique a sage was, he could not but be responsive to the external environment. He could not single-handedly, as it were, create a new environment. The significance of achieving something in the sense of altering the external world thus became the central theme of his meditative thinking. Indeed, since the time he had made the decision to return to the world from the Yang-ming Grotto, his great ambition had been to be "useful." At that time, he came to believe that usefulness was less meaningful in politics than in teaching; the greatest task in life was therefore to spread the Confucian message through discipleship. Yet the Confucian message, he felt, could not be delivered in the wilderness, for orientation to social concerns is inherent in Confucianism. Yang-ming knew very well that his conflict with Liu Chin had been inevitable, but to endure this extraordinarily painful punishment for an act of justice was not easy. His attempt to escape while en route to Lung-ch'ang had been an indication of his uneasiness. Therefore, the question now became: What could one achieve in a situation like this? What was the meaning of attaining sagehood in this situation? Furthermore, could a Confucian sage have anything special to say in such a desperate plight? Yang-ming was again engaged in a serious struggle with himself. The problem he was wrestling with is comparable to the Yang-ming

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Grotto issue of primordial attachment. But contrary to his Grotto decision of returning to his familial ties, he was now compelled to sever, at least for the time being, all the relationships that he highly cherished. Under such circumstances, he tried to explore new ways through which he could be meaningfully related to his environment. He came to believe that a meaningful relationship with the external world depended upon a fundamental change within himself. The urgent task was therefore to attain selfpurification, or to transcend all forms of egoistic desires. After a period of bitter strife, he felt that he had reached the point of being able to go beyond the worldly values of gain and glory, and that he could accept his lot with good grace. Yet he could not quite conquer his fear of death. This agonized him immensely. Eventually he resorted to a rather desperate expedient. He had a sarcophagus built for him. Day and night he would sit in an upright posture in front of the stone coffin. He even took an oath saying, "I will quietly wait for the commands of Heaven." Only then did he gradually experience a peace of mind. One night, in the "outpost of advancing day," it suddenly occurred to him that the true meaning of ko-wu, a concept that he had encountered almost twenty years previously, was to be found internally rather than externally. 98 According to the commonly accepted account, what happened was quite dramatic: In the midnight watches, when he was sleeplessly tossing and turning, suddenly he felt as if he had heard a voice talking to him about the issue of ko-wu. Unconsciously he called out and jumped out of bed. His servants were startled. For the first time Yang-ming came to the realization that "My own nature is, of course, sufficient for me to attain sagehood. And I have been mistaken in searching for the li in external things and affairs (shih-wu)"9i He then reflected upon the words of the Five Classics that he had learned by heart as "witness" (cheng) to his new realization. He found that they were completely in harmony with it. This is, briefly stated, the famous "sudden enlightenment" of Yang-ming. It is probably the most well-known and often-discussed event of his life. Some scholars call it Ch'an Buddhistic. Some insist on the importance of Taoistic technique in the whole process. Some argue that it was an orthodox Confucian phenomenon in the tradition of Mencius and Lu Hsiang-shan. And some even consider it a hallucination created by persistent insomnia and

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intense depression. However, serious scholars all agree that it was a monumental event not only in the personality development of Yang-ming but in the history of Chinese thought.94 It seems pointless to search for the intellectual origin or origins of this "sudden enlightenment" without first going into the real problems of Yang-ming's life at the time. What actually happened cannot be grasped very well through purely theoretical arguments, because the experiential element itself played an important role, which should not be neglected. To Yang-ming, the problem of Ch'an Buddhism, Taoism, or even Confucianism as a system of thought was of secondary importance. His great delight did not come from the sudden realization that he was a true Confucian. Rather, it rested on the realization that he should always struggle to become a sage no matter how desperate the external situation was, because the meaning of sagehood was found in his own nature; inner strength was sufficient to cope with such a task. How did Yang-ming's new position—"My nature is sufficient for me to attain sagehood"—differ from his previous withdrawal from the world? He might, of course, have argued along the lines that, since he was confined in a hostile environment that was beyond the control of even Confucian sages, he did not have to achieve anything. His only solution was to feel self-content. If so, his new approach would in the last analysis have been a defense mechanism; in other words, he would not really have intended to become a sage. What he would actually have been suggesting was that a sage would have been like him had the sage been in the same condition. If, however, the idea of attaining sagehood still had any genuine significance for him, it had to be put in a new perspective. Previously, attaining sagehood had been closely connected with achieving something, either in the political sphere or in the field of education. It is in this sense that, prior to his Lung-ch'ang experience, Yang-ming's decision to attain sagehood was invariably correlated with a desire to do something useful for the world. The motivation of achievement was thus built into his orientation toward becoming a sage. Now Yang-ming had to give up the goal of achievement altogether. Indeed, with sheer survival at stake, how could he begin to think about achieving something great in the world? On the other hand, he could not simply forget about his past involvement in the pursuit of sagehood. Consequently, Yangming either had to disassociate the concept of achievement from

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attaining sagehood or modify the connotation of achievement completely. The only other choice was to give up the whole effort altogether. In a deeper sense, it seems impossible that he could have disengaged himself entirely from such an effort. Consciously he might be willing to avoid all the inner tensions and return to a previous state of mind, but even then he had to face the challenge of his new situation and prove himself worthy of the new cause. He probably wanted only to be responsible for himself, but the whole problem had become multidimensional. First, he could not simply engage in isolated self-examination as an end in itself again. The great exertion required for quiet-sitting day and night (as he had done in front of the sarcophagus) had been a means to bring about internal peace. Therefore, when he had assured himself that he was able to control his emotional outbursts, he moved closer to his servants instead of isolating himself from them. In fact, only after he had asserted himself was he able to take care of others. And through taking care of others he was more capable of establishing his own independence. Ordinarily, the servants were supposed to wait on him, yet now he not only exposed himself to humble works but also assigned himself the job of attending his servants. Furthermore, he was also responsible for his friends and disciples. He could not let them down. He had to prove to them that a beloved friend and a respected teacher could survive the hardship of banishment and make the best use of it to discipline himself. Most important of all, he was responsible for his family, especially his father and grandmother. As we have already pointed out, it was partly for the sake of his father that he had decided to go through this ordeal in the first place. Consequently, achievement in the ordinary sense of the word was no longer his major concern. His aim now was to achieve less externally so as to gain more internally. "How to become a sage" thus meant to him how to engage in self-realization by his inner strength. "My nature is sufficient to attain sagehood" seems to suggest that since sagehood is inherent in every human being, to attain it is identical with the realization of man's true nature by self-effort. Social recognition is therefore the reflection of selfesteem, even though the whole process of self-realization has to be carried out in the context of human relations. Only when Yangming had assured himself that solitude was bearable could he

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emerge from his isolation. Indeed, he had gained his most rewarding experience through the psychological and physical sufferings of loneliness. Similarly, only after he had discovered that striving for an obvious political goal in the capital was beyond his control did he become aware of the dynamism of his inner struggle. Undoubtedly what occurred in Lung-ch'ang was a basic experiential breakthrough. The question arises, however, whether the experience should be regarded as totally unexpected or whether it was the result of a long and conscious process of self-cultivation. If it actually happened in the form of a flash of illumination, like a sudden release, how was it related to the strenuous effort of self-control that had preceded the event? We should first note that the "suddenness" in Yang-ming's experience of enlightenment must not be explained away. Since Yang-ming himself was reported to have been surprised and overpowered by the experience, we cannot but admit that it was a qualitative change that happened unexpectedly. As such, it is a unique experience that cannot be appreciated exclusively in the context of Yang-ming's previous life history. The newness in the experience renders it impossible for us to categorize it merely as a continuous development of an old concern. At the outset, it would seem that the Ch'an-like experience of "great death" offers a good explanation of what might have happened. The life-and-death meditation in front of a stone coffin is especially suggestive. Only after Yang-ming had detached himself from all the entanglements of the world, including his own biological existence, did he suddenly come to the realization that his nature was self-sufficient. This resembles the Ch'an vision that to realize one's true nature is to experience nothingness, that the "great death" is the authentic way of entering into that state of being, or rather nonbeing, which is inaccessible to the path of the spoken word and the course of the cognitive mind. Similarly, one can also advance the thesis that Yang-ming's unique experience was genetically the outcome of Taoist selfcultivation.95 It seems quite possible that in a desperate attempt to save himself from a complete mental collapse, Yang-ming did employ Taoist breathing and sitting techniques. Furthermore, it may also be suggested that those techniques helped him to forget about his agony and even about his own existence. This is of course consistent with the Taoist vision that unless one transcends one's

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worldly ties, including the very existence of one's physical body, one can never identify oneself with the Tao. Since the identification with the Tao is, in experiential terms, the embodiment of nothingness, self-cultivation as a process of self-negation becomes a prerequisite for the highest attainment in Taoism. Yet despite its formalistic resemblances to Ch'an practice and Taoist cultivation, Yang-ming himself interpreted his sudden enlightenment purely in terms of Confucian symbolism. Could this be cited as proof that Yang-ming merely made use of Confucian terminology, as in citing examples from the Five Classics, to disguise his basically Taoist, or Ch'an-like, experience? To make such an allegation is to cast doubt upon Yang-ming's sincerity. More seriously, it may even imply that Yang-ming's own interpretation of his most significant experience was given in bad faith. If we pursue this line of argument, we may find ourselves looking for secret plots or hidden motives, a practice extremely difficult to justify. How does one understand Yang-ming's unique experience in terms of Confucian symbolism, or, more specifically, in the context of his inner quest for self-realization in the Confucian spirit? An obvious difficulty lies in his experience of complete self-negation. The painful realization that nothing in the temporal world, including one's own existence, really matters seems incongruent with the Confucian insistence upon the permanence of some worldly values such as human relatedness. Yang-ming's sudden enlightenment can therefore be seen as the reemergence of a problem posed in the Grotto—the meaning of sagehood in the context of human relations. Contrary to his Yang-ming Grotto decision, which resolved that some basic values in the world ought to be affirmed, the Lungch'ang enlightenment seems to have emerged out of a realization that everything, including life itself, must be forsaken. If the decision took the form of reconciliation, the enlightenment seems to have been preceded by a psychology of total negation. If the decision signifies a continuous mental struggle, the enlightenment seems to symbolize a qualitative breakthrough. Our comparisons thus far tend to lead to the inevitable conclusion that the enlightenment was drastically different from the decision, and that if the decision can be properly understood in terms of Confucian symbolism, the enlightenment must be appreciated in an entirely different context.

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We observe, however, that after the decision, Yang-ming gave up his pursuit of Taoist longevity and accepted the social role of a confirmed Confucian scholar-official. He left the Grotto and returned to his family and subsequently to the bureaucracy. Thus by a conscious choice he transformed himself from a Taoist eremite to a Confucian activist. After the enlightenment, on the other hand, he neither gave up his commitment to Confucianism nor renounced his social role as an official. Even in exile, his sense of mission as a Confucian teacher was not lost. On the contrary, the experience of banishment added new significance to his intellectual self-definition as a transmitter of the Confucian Way. In the Grotto, Yang-ming created for himself a genuine opportunity to transcend Confucian obligations, but he decided against it; his self-imposed isolation, originally intended to detach himself from the pressure of familial ties, turned out to be an experiential confirmation of the value of human relations. At Lung-ch'ang, Yang-ming was forced to sever all relationships that are considered essential to Confucianism. He was given every good reason to leave the Confucian world of human concerns and roam in a Ch'an-like spirit of carefreeness. Indeed, his confrontation with death can very well be understood and appreciated in the Buddhist spirit of detachment. Once more he decided against it. We may perhaps suggest that despite their obvious differences, the experiences in the Grotto and at Lung-ch'ang are connected at the symbolic level by their common manifestation of Yang-ming's creative identification with Confucianism in his quest for sagehood. To be sure, Yatng-ming's efforts to maintain his inner peace prior to the experience of the enlightenment seem more congenial to Taoist or Ch'an practices, but we must not hastily conclude that because those efforts resemble Taoist or Ch'an practices of selftransformation they are necessarily integral parts of Taoism or Ch'an Buddhism. For the act is itself not a sufficient ground for us to specify the kind of spiritual affiliation to which the practitioner is committed. Since Yang-ming himself insisted that his affiliation was Confucian, if we do not have any impelling reason, psychological or otherwise, to disregard his own statement, we cannot but regard it as our point of departure. Contrary to both Ch'an Buddhism and Taoism, Confucian self-effort is to be manifested in the network of human relations. Yang-ming's inability to cultivate fruitful contacts with people around him shortly after he arrived at Lung-ch'ang must have

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caused him much anxiety. What could a Confucian do, if he had been deprived of the environment that is usually thought to be essential to Confucian practices? Should he simply cease to be a Confucian because he was not given a chance to cultivate the five basic human relations? Should he try to uphold Confucian values in a place where Confucian teaching itself was a novel concept? Such questions would probably have appeared somewhat irrelevant to Yang-ming, had he really entertained them at the time. For when the depth of his sense of frustration had reached the dimension of his own existence, the foundation of his life must have been totally shaken. Symbolically, the whole problem of human relatedness was so deep-rooted, so much a part of his quest for sagehood, that only when it was forced out into the open did he feel its full weight. As we learn from the Nien-p'u, it was after his traumatic experience of complete despair that the enlightenment unexpectedly occurred. Only after he was convinced that the struggle for life itself must also be transcended did he experience a new sense of purpose. Thus, ideas that seemed to have no connection before converged in a new unity. It is true that complete self-negation is alien to the Confucian tradition, but it is undeniable that total self-transformation is one of its central concerns. We would maintain that, through personal experience, Yang-ming deepened the meaning of Confucian selfcultivation and broadened the scope of Confucian concerns. On the surface, what he did was no more than to incorporate the Ch'an or Taoist wisdom of total self-negation into Confucianism. In fact, however, Yang-ming's total self-negation must not be interpreted as an attempt to transcend or to deny human relations; it was not directed toward solitary self-realization at all. Instead, his purpose was to purify his motivations so that he could enter into a better communion with other men. The value of human relations, instead of being deemphasized, was honored at a higher level of intellectual sophistication. If one still harbors egoistic desires, how can one enter into genuine communion with others? If one cannot come to terms with one's anxieties, how can one cultivate a tranquil relationship with one's environment? As we have already pointed out, when Yang-ming entered into a covenant with Chan Jo-shui in Peking he was caught between Ch'eng Hao's teaching on jen and Chu Hsi's precept on ko-wu. He probably assumed at the time that the process of ko-wu as

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prescribed by Chu Hsi was the authentic way of approaching Ch'eng Hao's ideal of jen, the highest goal of moral effort. In his pursuit of self-cultivation, his attention was thus exclusively centered on ko-wu as a method. In retrospect, Yang-ming summed up the position he came to later on this issue by saying, "The effort of ko-wu can only be carried out in one's body and mind. If one firmly believes that everyone can become a sage, one will naturally be able to take the task upon one's shoulders." 96 Implicit in this remark is the contention that the task of attaining sagehood must be seen and taken up in its immediacy, for human nature is the basis upon which sagehood is attained. Indeed, sagehood in the Confucian sense of the word is simply true humanity. To approach the ideal of jen is therefore not a denial of one's selfhood but a fulfillment of it. To be meaningful in this connection, ko-wu cannot be interpreted sis searching for external truths. It must be understood as an integral part of the process of becoming a sage. According to Yang-ming's own testimony, for many years he had been searching for the ultimate ground of meaning (the concept he used to convey this idea was It) from outside. He now came to the realization that the real source of self-perfection is from within. This thorough change of emphasis impelled him to reexamine all the basic Confucian issues. Human relatedness as one of the central Confucian concerns must be viewed in a new perspective. To be sure, feeling for one's parents is an irreducible element in human nature, but how can its manifestation take the form of a set of extemalizable relationships at a place where tangible links with one's family are completely severed? Unlike the Grotto situation, Yang-ming knew that he had no prospect of returning home for a long time. Consequently, the best way for him to express his filial love was to follow Yen Hui's example of self-cultivation. Indeed, the experience of isolation, with no relatives or friends around him with whom he could be meaningfully related, deepened Yang-ming's appreciation of human relations. Self-negation in this connection is an attempt neither to embody nothingness nor to dwell in sunyata (emptiness) but to manifest human care in a most profound way. Confucius once remarked, "If we do not yet know about life, how can we know about death?" 97 Yang-ming's confrontation with the inevitability of death at Lungch'ang seems to have reversed the argument: If we do not confront death face to face, how can we really appreciate the full import

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of life? What Yang-ming actually accomplished, however, was a deepening of the Confucian concern for life. Indeed, his selfnegation as a form of spiritual transformation reaffirmed his basic trust in the strength of human relatedness. We are fully aware that enlightenment in general, and Yangming's Lung-ch'ang enlightenment in particular, is so rich an experience that it can never be dissected into a series of discrete causal relationships. Any interpretation that follows a preconceived model of cause and effect inevitably shows the mark of a naive rationalism. There are always unknown, even unknowable, ingredients in the structure of enlightenment. But by focusing our attention on the elements of Yang-ming's sudden enlightenment, we can at least be sure of his spiritual orientation in general. Therefore, to understand Yang-ming's sudden enlightenment in terms of Confucian symbols is not to characterize the experience itself as authentically Confucian. To do so would be at best an arbitrary choice. Rather, the purpose is to place that experience in the perspective of the basic Confucian intentionality, for this was precisely what Yang-ming himself tried to do. We have noted that Yang-ming reflected upon his enlightenment in terms of the five Confucian classics. In his own description, he did "use the words of the Five Classics that he had learned by heart to stand as witness."98 It is of interest here to pose a hypothetical question: Had Yang-ming discovered that his enlightenment experience was actually in conflict with the teachings of the Five Classics, what would have been his response—to declare a kind of fundamentalistic loyalty to the classics or to follow his new realization? Because later Yang-ming actually said that he would not comply with the words of the sages if they caused serious uneasiness in his heart," we feel confident in suggesting that he would have followed his new realization. If Yang-ming's confidence in himself was so strong, why should he have bothered with the classics at all? To be sure, the question of intellectual origins was of secondary importance to him, but this by no means implies that his enlightenment, as a kind of pure experience, had no inner connection with the problem of how to become a sage. As the most profound experience he had undergone so far, the enlightenment must have had deep roots in virtually all of his main concerns. Therefore, it would have been natural for him to reflect on this experience in reference to the problem of

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attaining sagehood as manifested in the Confucian classics. Yangming described the outcome of his intellectual activity as mo-pu wen-ho (nothing does not tally).100 Specifically, the phrase means that the words of the Five Classics that he had memorized all supported the authenticity of his new realization. Of course this was hardly a detached analysis of the textual content; it was essentially an assertion of the spiritual intent of the classics as Yang-ming saw it. Was it justified for him to make such a claim? Indeed, was it necessary to resort to such a justification at all? Yang-ming became a confirmed Confucian in the Grotto by existential decision rather than by intellectual argumentation. At Lung-ch'ang, he underwent a total spiritual transformation again by inner experience. If he believed that his new orientation was in complete harmony with the words of the classics and that his true identity was with Confucianism, he must have done so with his entire being. To be sure, this kind of self-confidence easily invites sharp criticism. If we are to examine some of its intellectual ramifications, however, we cannot but take his own interpretation seriously.

4.

New Dimensions of Human

Relatedness

In the Nien-p'u, immediately after the account of Yang-ming's sudden enlightenment, the following remark appears: "After living with the savage tribes for some time, Yang-ming became better acquainted with them, and they day by day showed an increasing attachment toward him. They considered his hovel to be distressing and damp, and set to felling trees to build him a number of buildings, such as the Lung-kang Academy, a reception hall, a study, a pavilion and a den." 101 This event, coming as it did soon after the enlightenment, indicates a marked improvement in Yang-ming's relationship with the tribal people of Lung-ch'ang. Since they had been extremely hostile to him on his arrival (the Hsing-chuang even suggests that they would have killed him by poisoning, as they did most newcomers, had the result of their divination favored such a plan), the improvement was truly remarkable.104 Yang-ming's new relationship with the local inhabitants is further shown by another more dramatic event. Both the Nien-p'u and Hsing-chuang record that when the prefect of Ssu-chou sent his

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messengers to insult Yang-ming, the local people were enraged and beat them. The prefect was incensed and reported it to a higher official, Mao Ying-k'uei, who ordered Yang-ming to apologize in person and warned him of the possibility of severe punishment. Refusing to comply, Yang-ming defended the tribesmen and argued his case in a letter to Mao.103 He stated that the basic dignity of a banished official should be respected. And since he had already attained internal peace through an awareness that his moral integrity should be valued more highly than his physical life, he accepted Mencius' teaching that "a gentleman has a lifelong anxiety and not one morning's calamity."104 Therefore, if the prefect really intended to set traps for him, he could only accept it as he would epidemics, venomous snakes, or other forms of natural calamities which might harm his life, but which meant very little to him.105 Yang-ming's argument, arrogant as it was, not only silenced the prefect but also won the admiration of Mao, who later became his good friend and a confirmed supporter of his teaching. Yarig-ming's improved relationship with the tribesmen is also shown by his willingness to comment on a bizarre local ritual. He accepted a request to write an article commemorating a refurbished shrine honoring Hsiang, the notorious brother of the sage-king, Shun. The assignment was an awkward one. He could hardly eulogize a classical example of villainy and unworthiness, nor could he simply abolish a long-cherished tradition of the tribesmen who apparently knew very little about the historical background of the man they were honoring. Yang-ming was rather puzzled by the very existence of such a shrine, but he did not concern himself with its origins. Instead, to get around the embarrassing situation, he advanced three explanations. First, he contended that the tribesmen were really worshipping the virtuous Shun through his younger brother. Indeed, their admiration for the sage-king was so great that they not only forgave the immorality of his brother but also honored him with the status of a god. Second, he argued that historically Hsiang had been vicious as a young man, but that it was very likely that he later had become a man of dignity through the good influence of his sagely brother. If so, the tribesmen were actually worshipping the reformed Hsiang instead of the arch villain. Accordingly, Yang-ming stated his firm conviction that no man was untransformable. Finally, he argued that, in this sense, it

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was only fitting for the tribesmen to worship Hsiang as a witness of the teachability of human nature.106 As Yang-ming's contacts with the tribesmen increased, his interaction with local authorities in Kwei-yang also multiplied. Occasionally he even commented on what may be called current affairs. This of course also suggests a more intimate relationship with the external world. Despite his intense resentment of the devastating effect of the examination system, upon request Yangming condescended to write a preface to a collection of model essays compiled by Hsieh Fang in the Sung dynasty as an aid for students trying to pass the examination. In the preface he declares that the study of how to become a sage is basically incongruous with study for passing examinations. On the other hand, Yang-ming acknowledges that since passing the examinations is the only route to officialdom, it is a necessary requirement for people who want to put their lofty ideas into practice on a large scale. However, passing the examinations represents only a transitory step toward statesmanship, despite the fact that it is a prerequisite. Therefore, if one wishes to emulate the paradigms of worthy ministers such as I Yin and the Duke of Chou, and to assume the responsibility of elevating the standard of the emperor to match that of Yao and Shun, one should engage in the cultivation of one's own personality prior to taking the examinations; otherwise, the road to officialdom will become merely a means of making selfish profits.107 Yang-ming's attitude toward political participation at this time is best shown in an essay entitled "Reply to Inquiries by the Student of Lung-ch'ang." The essay gives us some insight into Yang-ming's perception of his sociopolitical role. Obviously he uses the form of a reply to an inquiry as a rhetorical device, but we must not rule out the possibility that some of the issues may indeed have been raised by his students. The question, "How should one serve the state?" is the key issue and the discussion is mainly concerned with Yang-ming's personal stand on the problem of social responsibility. Yang-ming is first asked to explain why, as an official in the capital, he served the emperor with good faith, but since his banishment has repeatedly expressed an intention to lead a retired life. Might not this be a breach of trust? Yang-ming tries to turn aside the question by saying that he feels uneasy about the life of an official and that moreover he suffers from poor health. The student accepts the latter point, but pushes the argument further by

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hypothesizing that Yang-ming has a grudge against officialdom because he has been demoted to a minor post and alienated from the center of power. Yet, even Confucius, he points out, once settled for a small post in charge of government fields. Yang-ming replies that the gentleman serves the state in order to carry out the Tao. If he fails to do so, he only usurps an official title. At the moment, he feels that he does not have an opportunity to bring the Tao to fulfillment. He further states that in ancient times poverty-stricken people did serve for emolument but in spite of this they did not neglect their duties. In his case, since he can pick up a scanty livelihood by working in the fields of his ancestors, he does not have to live on an official salary either. Then with a touch of humor he throws the question back at the student, saying, "Why should I serve? For the sake of Tao or because of poverty?" The student retorts, however, that the reason for the master's arrival in Lung-ch'ang was to accept an imperial punishment rather than to fill an official post. As a son should be filial and obedient to his parents in every way, so should a minister be guided solely by the orders of the emperor. Yet the master has not only failed to serve the emperor in a constant manner but has even tried to shake off the responsibility entirely. Might not this be disrespectful? Yang-ming rejoins that it is true that he has come there to accept an imperial punishment rather than to fill an official post, but in actuality his punishment is still to serve as an official and not as a servant. A servant serves with physical strength but an official does so with Tao. He who serves with physical strength might submit to the dominion of his master, but he who serves with Tao should not yield to the authority of anyone. Surely, though he has traveled for "ten thousand li" in order to comply with the punishment, he nevertheless has a duty to perform. If he should resign from his duty, it would be because he felt that the office was unsuitable for him and not because of the punishment. Yang-ming further argues that although the emperor is like father and mother and the minister should serve him unwaveringly, one should not forget that there is a way of attending one's parents. If one accepts their orders blindly without following the guidance of Tao, one is obedient in the manner of a concubine, which is certainly not respectful. The student then shifts the argument from personal loyalty to social commitment by saying that the sage must not be oblivious

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to the world. If the worthies all retired from official duty, with whom would the emperor run the state? Yang-ming explains that although genuine worthies are not oblivious to the world, only competent divers are capable of saving those drowning from the waves. If those unacquainted with water should run the same risk they would likely be drowned themselves in the turbulent waves. The student presses onward, quoting a proverb that says that the worthy wants to be advantageous to people whatever the degree of usefulness. If so, the student goes on, can the idea of serving the world still be considered unprofitable? Yang-ming replies that the worthy serves the world by righteousness, which should always be fitting and profitable. However, if a career cannot be pursued with righteousness, then no matter how powerful and influential it may be, the worthy does not look upon it as profitable. Thus the debate continues.108 It seems obvious that the exchange symbolizes Yang-ming's continuous struggle to come to terms with the issue of social responsibility. He was not opposed to serving the state as a scholarofficial, but he seems to have placed a higher value on teaching by example as a means of spreading the Confucian message of righteousness. Certainly he regarded the state as an effective instrument for the realization of his ideals, but even for the sake of expediency he saw very little significance in sacrificing his ideals in order to get himself established in officialdom. Yang-ming might have failed to appreciate the reality of politics, but in his moral idealism he opened up a new frontier of meanings and set up a new hierarchy of values. Indeed, he seriously challenged the well-established tradition that a Confucian must demonstrate his moral concerns in the structure of politics. By questioning the rationale of serving the state, Yang-ming underscored an agelong struggle of the great personalities in the Confucian school—to transform politics from a system of control to an ethico-religious task of education. Thus, in poems written at this time, he proudly announced that the happiness of teaching and studying with his students at Lung-ch'ang transcended wealth, power, and fame. 109 Underlying these reflections a fundamental change in Yangming's own attitude toward his new environment can be discerned. When he first arrived in Lung-ch'ang, the tribesmen were hostile to him, as they had been to all banished officials, his living quarters were extremely primitive, and even his life was in grave danger.

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As his meditative effort in front of the sarcophagus testifies, the only wish he had at that moment of his life's lowest ebb was to die with peace of mind. The very fact that he began to respond to his environment not only as bearable but even as intrinsically meaningful was certainly a dramatic attitudinal change. An examination of the names he gave to the newly-constructed buildings, together with his four essays written in commemoration of them, gives us some further insight into the general direction of his thinking. We learn that in naming the buildings, he drew widely both on the Confucian classics and on his youthful experiences. This kind of rich symbolism seems to suggest that he was consciously trying to create a world of values for himself, in a place where his cultural sensitivity probably could not find a sympathetic echo in a single mind. The academy is a case in point. That Yang-ming ordered the construction of such a building shows a remarkable departure from his earlier position that even a sage could do very little in surroundings like his. The name of the academy, "Lung-kang," which means literally "dragon hill," or a hill in the "dragon field" (Lung-ch'ang), is reminiscent of his father's courtesy name, Lungshan (dragon mountain) and his favorite scenic spot at home, Lung-ch'iian shan (dragon-spring mountain). According to Yangming's poems, it also conveys the idea of a sacred place for the resting dragon (wo-lung),lia a symbolic name for men like Chu-ko Liang who preferred the life of a recluse in the wilderness although they had the vision and ability of great statesmen. The name of the reception hall, Pin-yang ("receiving the sun"), is also rich in symbolism. Yang-ming says that he has taken the name from a passage in the "Yao" chapter of the Book of History. According to the chapter, the sage-king "commanded the second brother Hsi to reside at Yu-i, in what was called the Bright Valley, and there respectfully to receive as a guest the rising sun, and to adjust and arrange the labors of the spring." 111 Yang-ming is especially pleased with the connotations of the word yang (bright, the sun, or the male principle—the same as the yang in Yangming), which may include beginning (yuan), good (shan), auspicious (chi), prosperous (heng-chih), and even gentleman (chiintzu). Yang-ming concludes his remarks with a song written in the four-character form of the Book of Poetry, in which he announces that he will perform the most reverent ritual at sunrise every day,

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not with the intention of worshipping the sun but for the purpose of disciplining himself.112 For his study, Yang-ming picked a phrase from the following passage of the Analects: "The Master was wishing to go and live among the nine wild tribes of the east. Someone said, 'They are rude. How can you do such a thing?' The Master said, 'If a gentleman dwelt among them what rudeness would there be?"113 Accordingly, Yang-ming named his study "what rudeness" (Ho-lou) and gives his reason in a short composition. In less than 600 characters, he compares the rustic tribesmen with the civilized people in central China. He agrees that the absence of beautiful garments, lofty houses, suave manners, and elaborate rituals indicates a primitive state of development, but he strongly argues that by Confucian standards the honesty and straightforwardness of the tribesmen is superior to the hypocrisy and wickedness of many highly civilized northerners. To be sure, Yang-ming does not glorify the intrinsic value of the "uncarved block," nor advocate the idea of the noble savage. He nevertheless has high hopes for the perfectibility of the simple tribesmen. He believes that their susceptibility to superstition, profligacy, and other indulgences can be gradually transformed by Confucian education.114 In accord with this expectation, the pavilion in front of the study was surrounded with bamboo trees and suggestively named Chiintzu (superior man), which in this particular connection means a Confucian teacher. Yang-ming proposes that the bamboo tree resembles the chiin-tzu in four ways. First, its emptiness and stillness in the middle of the stem symbolizes the communicability and tranquillity of his essence (ie); its uprightness in form and verdancy throughout the four seasons symbolizes the dignity and endurance of his integrity ( ts'ao ); its responsiveness to weather and its fitness in all climates symbolizes the flexibility of his timeliness (.shih); and finally, when the wind arises the bamboos sound in harmony and sway together like a gathering of Confucian masters, but as the wind dies down they all stand up straight in an unyielding manner like maids of honor with ceremonial caps on their heads and ceremonial tablets in their hands solemnly waiting on both sides of the palace, which symbolizes the two aspects of his demeanor (Jung). Yang-ming subtly reveals his self-image by a rhetorical technique. He states that the pavilion is named after the bamboo, not

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the owner. Yet, who would doubt, as his followers would remark, that Yang-ming's intense effort to reorient his spiritual direction from external accomplishment to inner peace was indicative of the chun-tzu's virtue, that his courage to face up to the challenge of trying times was indicative of the chiin-tzu's integrity, that his ability to serve both the court and in the wilderness with equal proficiency was indicative of the chun-tzu's timeliness, and that his competence in keeping internal tranquillity despite frustration was indicative of the chun-tzu's demeanor?115 Yang-ming concludes with Confucius' instruction to his disciple Tzu-hsia, "Do you be a scholar after the style of the chun-tzu and not after that of the unworthy man." 116 In addition, a den was constructed adjacent to Yang-ming's house at the foot of a mountain. The secluded place was reserved for the study of the Book of Changes; therefore, it was given a charming name—"the nest of pondering on the Changes" (Wan-i wo)—which suggests that Yang-ming spent considerable time on divination in this beloved den. Having immersed himself in the study of this mysterious book, he states that he can understand why the ancient sages became so absorbed in it that they could forget the sufferings of slavery, imprisonment, and old age. He then goes on to elaborate his admiration for the sacred book: The Book of Changes exhausts all the truths of the three powers—Heaven, Earth and Man (san-ts'ai). The ancient sages viewed the images (hsiang) and pondered on its judgments (tz'u) in a state of quietude (chii); and they viewed the alterations (pien) and pondered on its divinations (chan) in a state of motion (tung). By the former the structure (t't) of the three powers was established; and by the latter the function (yung) of the three powers prevailed. When the structure was established the mysterious faculty preserved (ts'un erh shen); and when the function prevailed the transforming agency worked (tung erh hud). By the mysterious faculty the myriad things were comprehended without employing any specific method; and by the transforming agency the whole universe was encompassed without leaving any definite trace. Methodlessness provided foundation for the images and judgments; tracelessness gave rise to alterations and divinations. Therefore, the chun-tzu purified his mind and preserved it in the inmost secrecy; he engaged in fast and abstinence so that his virtue could be mysteriously radiant.117 In conclusion, Yang-ming makes a reference to Confucius' remark, "If some years were added to my life, I would give five

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or ten to the study of the Book of Changes, and then I might come to be without great faults." 118 Similarly, he resolves that he will devote himself to the study of the great book for several years in the hope that his faults may become fewer. Yang-ming's remarks on the academy of the "dragon hill," the hall of "receiving sun," the study of "what rudeness," the pavilion of the "gentleman," and the den for "pondering on the Changes," various as they are, seem to outline the general direction of his new life. After a period of inner purification that culminated in the experience of sudden enlightenment, Yang-ming now resumed his activity in the context of human relations. The message is clear: no matter how rude the environment is, the gentleman must constantly renew his commitment to self-cultivation and his interest in learning in order to continue his vocation of teaching through friendship and discipleship. 5.

The Structure of

Self-cultivation

Although we are not sure how many of Yang-ming's disciples actually visited him during his banishment, several of his poems in this period were composed for friends and students. One of these poems was written in commemoration of a brief gathering Yangming had with a small group of disciples. The poem begins with a sentimental question: "Since there are many sad partings in a lifetime and a happy rendezvous such as this seldom gets repeated, having traveled hundreds of li to reach here, why are you people bidding me farewell after a stay of only three nights?" It ends with a sincere suggestion: "Alas my young friends! There is real happiness in my Tao. Why not bring your books along, for this straw-thatched abode is good for us all." 119 As his contacts with students increased, Yang-ming's own program of study also intensified. We have already noted that shortly after his sudden enlightenment Yang-ming used the words of the Five Classics extensively to witness the authenticity of his new realization. Subsequently, he wrote a lengthy commentary on the Five Classics. If a complete version of Yang-ming's Opinions on the Five Classics were extant, we might be able to tell specifically how he made use of the classics to strengthen his conviction and how his new realization affected his understanding of the classics. According to Yang-ming's own statement, in a period of nineteen months immediately following

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his sudden enlightenment, he briefly examined all of the Five Classics, and this had resulted in a work consisting of forty-six chiian. With the exception of the Book of Rites, ten chiian were devoted to each of the Five Classics. Yang-ming never consented to circulate the work in printed form, despite his disciples' repeated requests. His reluctance on this account is curious: apparently he was not satisfied with his "opinions," but what was the nature of his dissatisfaction? Did he later feel that he had actually manipulated the texts of the classics to such an extent that the work was only a form of intellectual exercise and thus had merely transitory significance? Or did he change his mind about his interpretation of the classics written in the adverse circumstances of Lung-ch'ang? If no concrete evidence existed, it would be difficult to answer these questions. Fortunately, Ch'ien Te-hung located thirteen items (t'iao) of the lost work shortly after the death of his master, who was reported to have said that the bulk of the work had long been consumed in a fire. Ch'ien explains in a short preface that his master decided not to circulate the work because he felt that intellectual communication devoid of experiential confirmation is basically an inadequate method of teaching.120 The thirteen items, sketchy as they are, clearly show that Yang-ming attempted to delve into the underlying intentionality of the sages by a creative use of what may be called "classical scholarship." As Ch'ien Tehung assures us, the scholarship of his master was characterized by its penetrating insight into the oneness behind words. Yang-ming's own preface to the Opinions on the Five Classics, which is included in his collected works, gives us some clue as to the exact meaning of this characterization. In the preface, Yang-ming borrows the famous analogy of the fish and the net in the Chuang Tzu to explicate the relationship between the words of the classics and the intentionality of the sages. Acquiring an experiential understanding of the intentionality of the sages by studying the words of the classics, he states, is analogous to catching fish with a net. To equate the words of the classics with the intentionality of the sages is to identify the net with the fish. As one cannot find any fish in the net without actually involving oneself in fishing, so one cannot grasp the intentionality of the sages without really becoming engaged in an experiential understanding of the words of the classics. When the fish is caught,

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the net is laid aside; similarly, when the intentionality of the sages is experientially understood, the words of the classics are no longer necessary. Yang-ming states that he considers his Opinions a private attempt to appreciate the intentionality of the sages. With a touch of humor, he remarks, "What I have been doing with it is like fishing without any thought of catching."1*1 To him, the work was but an instrument for, or a record of, his own spiritual quest. As the words of the classics do not automatically lead to an experiential understanding of the intentionality of the sages, so, Yang-ming might have argued, his private reflections on the classics would not necessarily lead to an appreciation of his own intentionality, let alone the true meaning of the classics. Indeed, the real point at issue is not the written word but the unexpressed, or the inexpressible, experience. We may thus conclude that Yang-ming refused to make public his Opinions on the Five Classics both because he cherished the inner experience so dearly that even his own words seemed inadequate to express it and because his philosophy of education stressed the primacy of each student acquiring personal knowledge through experience in the study of the classics. That no external condition can provide us with an adequate ground for the cultivation of an inner experience and that such an experience can never be fully manifested in words are assumptions fundamental to Yang-ming's method of teaching. An example may be of interest. Yang-ming, having been approached by a man four times to speak on the subject of the immortals, replies in a letter that he has been attracted to the art of longevity since the age of eight. What he has achieved in thirty years is some loose teeth, a couple of gray hairs, nearsightedness, poor hearing, constant sickness, and strong doses of medicine. However, he does not categorically deny the legendary accounts of the death-defying Taoist masters in ancient times. Nor does he completely denounce magic practices. He simply contends that the meaning of immortality can be expounded only in the depth of one's inner experience. Then unexpectedly he turns to a rather intriguing question: "We Confucians also have the art of immortality. For example, Yen Hui is said to have died at the age of thirty-two, but in fact he is still alive today. Can you believe in it?"122 Instead of elaborating on this point, he hints that Ch'an Buddhists like Bodhidharma and Hui-neng, who, as we know, engaged in self-cultivation for the

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sake of spiritual enlightenment rather than physical longevity, come close to what he has in mind. Finally he suggests that the questioner retire into the mountains for thirty years; if he really wants to understand the way of immortality, he has no choice but to practice it through a process of internal self-purification.123 This response well illustrates Yang-ming's method. He first tries to discourage the ardent questioner by silence. When the man persists in soliciting some form of answer, he tries to dispel the myth that he is an accomplished Taoist practitioner. Although he does not question the possibility of acquiring physical longevity, he considers it a lower form of self-cultivation. The Ch'an Buddhist version of spiritual enlightenment seems to him much more profound. However, it is Yen Hui's approach to immortality that really arouses his wholehearted sympathy. The brief reference to Yen Hui is most significant. The taciturn disciple of Confusius won the highest praise from the Master not only by his intellectual ability but also by the depth of his moral self-cultivation. Yen Hui's carefreeness, not unlike the spirit of Tseng Tien, reflects a wealth of inner resources, which can never be fully articulated in words. It is interesting to note that toward the end of the letter Yang-ming suggests that "feeling sprinkling clean in the bosom," an expression he used to describe the state of mind pertaining to his sudden enlightenment, is a precondition for a fruitful discussion of the way of immortality. Yang-ming's involvement in education at Lung-ch'ang seems both an indication of his sense of responsibility and a fulfillment of his basic trust in the reliability of man's self-effort; it can also be regarded as a reflection of his inner search for human dignity. From a historical point of view, it was after he had won the battle for self-control and vigorously defended his self-respect among the higher officials that he resumed his teaching career. At Lung-ch'ang, Yang-ming played a number of roles, but his dedication to the transmission of the Confucian Tao exceeded all of his other concerns. Officially, he was supposed to be in charge of the post-stage, but his reputation as an outstanding scholar and upright statesman gave him a special status. Thus, informally his influence extended far beyond the scope of his designated position. For example, twice he successfully persuaded the pacification commissioner of Shui-hsi, by the name of An, to comply with government regulations. In the first instance, he urged An to

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abandon a plan of reducing the number of post-stages in his locality, a plan which in fact constituted a direct challenge to an imperial order. 1 2 4 In the second, he exhorted An to crush a rebellion he suspected had been stirred u p by a tribal chief named Ochia-ochia under the very influence of An himself. 1 8 5 T o be sure, Yang-ming's role as an adviser and consultant was by no means confined to politics. He was asked to comment not only on the way of immortality, 1 8 6 as we have already mentioned, but on the impact of climate and weather on human affairs as well. 127 He was also approached for articles and poems in commemoration of various other occasions. 128 Although Yang-ming's activities were diverse, his central concern was in the area of education, or, to use his own expression, chianghst (instructing and practicing). 1 2 9 In fact, after the completion of the Dragon-hill Academy, students from all over China appeared at his doorstep. 1 , 0 As mentioned earlier, some even traveled hundreds of miles just to receive his teaching for a few days. 1 3 1 Poems composed on these occasions reveal that his style of chianghsi was extemporaneous. Consonant with the approach adopted by most Confucian masters before him, especially the Sung philosophers, dialogue was used as the main form of communication. Confucius' pedagogical axiom—"Only one who bursts with eagerness do I instruct; only one who bubbles with excitement do I enlighten" 1 3 2 —was thoughtfully followed. Yang-ming was so inspired by the educational method of mutual responsiveness that he conducted his tutoring at banquets, 1 3 3 during picnics, 1 3 4 in the fields,135 and even on a walk by moonlight.13® Since Yang-ming's teaching was not a matter of communicating abstract truths as such, he attached very little significance to formal lectures on speculative subjects. As he saw it, the best way was to arouse the moral awareness of his students through personal guidance involving not only teaching by dialogue but also teaching by example. He thus encouraged those students coming from a distance to settle down in Lung-ch'ang and share with him the true happiness of the Confucian T a o . 1 3 ' Yang-ming was well aware that in a real sense he could never teach his students to appreciate what he had in mind. He could only show them the way; they must experience it by themselves. He refused to impose any rigid rules on his students. Nor did he intend to use the academy as a well-organized study group. Instead,

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a student's initiative was considered a prerequisite for joining, and despite good response to his discussions he seldom went out of his way to force an opinion on his listeners. His approach is probably best represented by the image of a bell (chung), which remains silent unless it is being knocked. Moreover, like the sound of a bell, his answers varied according to the depth of the questioning. It is, however, misleading to describe him as a restrained and dignified teacher who held aloof from his students and gave them instruction only as he saw fit, for he publicly announced his willingness to learn from his students in order to improve himself accordingly.138 In a sense, Yang-ming's method was not new, for a similar approach had been advocated not only by his Confucian predecessors but also by Ch'an Buddhists and Taoist masters. In fact, all of the three teachings placed a high value on the initiatives of the students. Therefore, in order to discover the unique features of Yang-ming's contribution, a precise analysis of his view on this issue is required. Fortunately, a four-point teaching guidance (chiao-t'iao) addressed by Yang-ming to his students of Lungch'ang is available. From it, we can examine what directions he took and what he chose to emphasize. The four points in question represent a fourfold developmental process of self-cultivation. Priority is given to li-chih, which means literally to fix the determination or to form a resolution. Ch'inhsüeh, or diligent study, comes next. However, since hsüeh here refers to the learning of how to become a sage, it involves both the transmission of knowledge and the transformation of personality. The third point, kai-kuo, can be rendered simply as reforming one's errors. But, in the Confucian context, the term carries a psychological weight comparable to the ethico-religious notion of repentance in the Pauline tradition of Christianity. Finally, the concept of tse-shan (inciting to good by means of reproof) implies a new kind of human relatedness. The principle underlying Yang-ming's four-point teaching is actually based upon the Confucian belief that self-knowledge through moral discipline, which involves both model emulation and introspective reflection, is the best way of educating others. Since self-illumination is the precondition for enlightening others, in order to become an exemplary teacher one must first and con-

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tinuously learn to be a student. In fact, the teacher-student relationship is not understood merely in terms of a one-dimensional transmission of classical knowledge. More fundamentally it is intended to be a quest for deep human understanding. Teaching and learning so defined are mutually complementary. Just as the student needs the guidance of the teacher, the teacher learns from the responses of his students. Indeed, they enter into a community of learning for the sake of helping each other to attain self-realization, which in the Confucian sense is predicated upon the cultivation of human relations. Yang-ming's insistence on li-chih as the first principle of teaching is related to his requirement for discipleship in the capital three years previously, but the new formulation is much richer in meaning. First, chih requires complete commitment of one's whole body and mind, and thus affects every dimension of one's life. Echoing Confucius' remark that "a student whose mind is set on Tao and who is ashamed of bad clothes and bad food, is not fit to be discoursed with," 139 Yang-ming states that the absence of chih is the main reason why students shamelessly idle away their time and energy.140 Furthermore, chih demands continuous assurance. A decision or aim that is of transitory significance fails to attain the status of chih. Thus Yang-ming urges his disciples to join the community of chiin-tzu and set their chih on becoming a sage.141 Yang-ming's interpretation of ch'in-hsueh is similar to his advocacy of sheng-hsiieh (the study of the sages or the learning of how to become a sage) in the capital, but attention is now focused on the infinite process of self-realization itself rather than on its highest goal. Ch'eng I's statement that "learning is the way to sagehood"142 is not mentioned, but the whole emphasis on moral character as the ultimate purpose of intellectual development seems to have been based on the assumption that the study of the classics ought eventually lead to the formation of a noble personality. Yang-ming makes it clear that among his followers "the diligent and humble are more highly valued than the smart and sharp,"143 because the former arouse admiration and respect, whereas the latter are likely to generate jealousy and contempt. Apparently, in his view, intelligence and wit are native endowments that cannot be obtained through personal merit, whereas diligence and humility are acquired virtues that all students can develop through conscious

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effort. Therefore, underlying this seemingly naive emphasis on social adjustment, he is actually advocating a principle of moral equality based on the firm conviction that every human being has the inner strength to improve himself, to become a chiin-tzu, a worthy, and ultimately a sage. In practice, however, Yang-ming is aware that the road to sagehood is an infinite one. Since committing error is inevitable despite the perfectibility of human nature, one should always be in the process of rectifying oneself. Accordingly, he stresses that the courage to correct errors, rather than the wish to avoid them, is the central concern of Confucian education. 144 Yang-ming does not set up a list of requirements and ask his students to comply with them. He only suggests that they mend their ways through a process of inner examination (nei-hsing). 145 According to his teaching, the root issue is what one intends to do rather than what one has already done. 146 In fact, one's inner urge to be good is a necessary condition for being good. Social sanction, especially in the form of mutual exhortation among fellow students, is also an important area of concern, but its major function is still to arouse the moral consciousness of the individual rather than to coerce him into an acceptable pattern. It is probably in this sense that Yang-ming considers tse-shan the true meaning of friendship. He warns his students, nevertheless, that the art of exhortation is a subtle one. It requires not only sincerity but gentleness; hypercriticism and bluntness should be avoided in approaching others. On the other hand, those who are being approached should accept any criticism in good faith. Yang-ming's attempt to live up to his own standard is expressed in the following remarks: I have no attainment in the Tao; my learning is crude and I am unworthy that you, my youthful friends, should follow me to this point. When I think of this during the night, I realize that I cannot avoid serious errors, and how much less can I hope to avoid small mistakes! It is said that in attending a teacher one should neither offend him nor screen his wrongs. But thereupon to say that the student should not reprove the teacher is mistaken. Actually the proper way of reproving a teacher is simply by frankness without reaching the point where it offends and by congeniality without reaching the point of screening the faults. [If you act accordingly], in case I am right I may come to know why and in case I am wrong I may try to rectify my error. For teaching and learning mutually

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complement each other. You, my youthful friends, should therefore begin with me in your attempt to incite to good through reproof. 147

Yang-ming's endeavor to persuade his students to criticize him may have been a pedagogical technique, but it also seems to have signified a longing for self-improvement through close contact with his students. His discussions on fixing determination, on diligent study, and on reforming one's errors all seem to have been reflections of his own inner experience. Indeed, he had not only thought over these issues but personally confronted them in his life. Consequently, to him teaching was both an instrument for transmitting the Tao to his students and a way of deepening his self-knowledge through them. Undoubtedly, the four-point teaching guidance had deep roots in Yang-ming's own life. The insistence on li-chih as the first priority is most revealing. Through personal experience Yang-ming had realized the importance of inner decision, without which a man is like "a rudderless ship or a reinless horse."148 As a complete commitment and a continuous assurance, a man's inner decision entails a direction of life. However, to make an inner decision is only the first step. Unless one is constantly involved in learning, one's determination cannot be translated into an active principle of internal self-transformation. Significantly, Yang-ming's sudden enlightenment not only did not lure him away from reading, it actually impelled him to study the Five Classics with a new sense of purpose. However, for learning to be more than book reading, it is of paramount importance to become engaged in an unceasing process of self-criticism and self-examination. Self-criticism, one of the oldest Confucian practices, presupposes a willingness to recognize one's fallibility as a moral agent, to examine one's own mistakes and wrongdoing, and to improve one's way of life. Inherent in such a practice is the awareness of one's human relatedness. A classical example is to be found in the Analects. When one of Confucius' most respected disciples, Tseng Tzu, engaged in self-criticism, he asked himself every day: "Whether in dealing with others I have not been honest; whether in intercourse with friends I have not been faithful; and whether I have not studied and practiced the precepts that have been handed down to me?"149 Indeed, self-criticism in the Confucian sense is never an attempt to isolate oneself from the world of

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human relations. On the contrary, it is thought to be an authentic way of entering into communion with others. In fact, to relate oneself to others in mutual exhortation is a natural development of self-criticism. It is in this sense that some communal effort in the task of "inciting to good by means of reproof' is conceived by Yang-ming as the last stage in his fourfold program of selfcultivation. Strictly speaking, human relations such as friendship and discipleship are necessarily a constituent part of self-cultivation. It is true that Yang-ming's own experience attests to the fact that sometimes no meaningful relationships in the conventional sense are possible. On such occasions, one simply cannot cultivate oneself in the context of human relations and one's self-cultivation may have to take the form of self-negation. However, as Yang-ming's sudden enlightenment remarkably shows, even a complete selfnegation must eventually lead to an affirmative attitude toward human relatedness, for self-negation in the Confucian sense is not a denial of the ultimate meaning of one's human existence but a total transformation of one's egoistic demands. This necessitates a willingness to enter into true communion with others. Furthermore, the real significance of entering into communion with others is to be found in mutual exhortation. This is precisely how friendship and discipleship are defined. If they are not formulated by the principle of mutual exhortation with a view to selfimprovement, they are merely empty names. In light of the above, Yang-ming's understanding of selfcultivation can be summed up as follows: Man's greatest task in life is to become a sage. How to become a sage, however, never begins with an external method but with an inner decision. For the inner decision to be a sustaining power for self-transformation, it must be supported by learning. Continuous learning necessarily leads to self-criticism, and deepened self-criticism itself is manifested in mutual exhortation among friends and disciples. And the community of the "like-minded" people is organized with the expressed purpose of realizing the selfhood of each of its members.

Chapter IV

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The Precept of chih-hsing ho-i

IN 1509, about one year after the sudden enlightenment, Yangming was invited by Hsi Shu, the education commissioner of Kweichow, to take charge of the Kwei-yang Academy. 1 Before extending this formal invitation, however, the commissioner had made a number of visits to Yang-ming. On the first occasion, he asked about the difference between the spiritual orientation of Chu Hsi and that of Lu Hsiang-shan. Yang-ming refused to dwell on this issue, although he acknowledged its philosophical as well as historical significance. Instead, he elaborated on what he himself understood, presumably through the inner experience of his enlightenment, to be the true Confucian message. Hsi Shu departed, fascinated by his fresh ideas, but somewhat puzzled as to their intellectual authenticity.* When he came back the next day, Yang-ming again discoursed at length pn his own interpretation of Confucianism by concentrating on the issue of the "original substance" {pen-t'i) of knowing and acting. 3 He confidently cited excerpts from the Five Classics and the writings of the Confucian masters to bear out his new precept. Hsi Shu began to apprehend the drift of Yang-ming's thinking. After many more visits, he came to a fuller appreciation of Yang-ming's thought and asserted that "the teaching of the sages is being revived today." 4 Hsi Shu now believed that the precepts of Chu and Lu needed no argument nor searching inquiry, for the real issue was not to find out what the objective truths were, but to search for self-realization. Accordingly, the primary value of the ideas of the masters depended not so much on their argumentative strength as on their applicability to the individual's internal quest. The difference between Chu and Lu, in this sense, could 147

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be properly evaluated, or at least made apparent, by referring to one's inner self.5 Indeed, Hsi Shu was so convinced by Yang-ming's new approach that, jointly with Mao Ying-k'uei, he gave orders to have the provincial academy rebuilt and personally led the government students in Kwei-yang (the hsiu-ts'ai, or first-degree-holders) in paying their respects to Yang-ming as one would to one's teacher. 6 Thus, for the first time, Yang-ming's role as a Confucian master received some form of official recognition and his public image coincided with his private sense of duty. This is, roughly, the Nien-p'u account of how the epoch-making precept of the "unity of knowing and acting" (chih-hsing ho-i) was first formulated. Surprisingly, however, in the very poem that was supposed to have been inspired by this official appointment, Yang-ming showed a lack of enthusiasm. The poem, entitled "A Reply to Mao Cho-an's [Mao Ying-k'uei] Invitation to Head the Academy," contains a number of common excuses. If studied out of context, they may easily be misunderstood as standard expressions of modesty. In the poem, he calls himself a rustic and confesses that invalidism has made him fall into idleness. He apologizes for having neglected his reading and classical study, and expresses the fear that he might not be worthy of the exalted status. Definitely, he says, the adulation in the official dispatch was more than he deserved. Since he is about to receive some medical treatment, he feels reluctant to be involved with the lecture hall, despite the fact that the "empty chair" is waiting. Finally, with a classical allusion and a touch of humor, he predicts that if he tries to live by moral principle his students might fail to achieve anything, and his predicament would be like that of the famous charioteer, Wang Liang. 7 The allusion to Wang Liang needs some explanation. According to Mencius, he was once caught in a rather awkward situation: when he observed the proper rules for driving during a hunting trip, his companion, a man of questionable integrity, could not catch any birds; when he drove deceitfully to intercept the birds, the man got ten in one morning. Consequently, Wang decided to sever his relationship with the man, saying, "I am not accustomed to driving for a mean man." Mencius explained the moral of the story as follows:

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Thus this charioteer was even ashamed to bend improperly to the will of such an archer. Though, by bending to it, they would have caught birds and animals sufficient to form a hill, he would not do so. If I were to bend my principles and follow those princes, of what kind would my conduct be? . . . Never has a man who has bent himself been able to make others straight. 8

Yang-ming's poem gives the impression that he did not feel very enthusiastic about the new appointment. Contrary to what might have been expected, he even showed a considerable degree of indifference. We have already pointed out in the previous chapter that Yang-ming's central concern at Lung-ch'ang was Confucian education, or in his own words, the teaching of the sages. The opportunity to take charge of the Kwei-yang Academy, which represented an official vote of confidence, would therefore seem significant for his long-range objective. The very fact that he later not only accepted the position but also made it famous, albeit inadvertently, by his highly original talks on the precept of chih-hsing ho-i, indicates Yang-ming's awareness of its significance. Why, then, did Yang-ming still feel somewhat uneasy? We may recall that in his first attempt to initiate students into Confucian fellowship, Yang-ming had felt that his major task was not to fight against Buddhist or Taoist dabblers, but to confront those professed students of Confucianism whose sole aim in studying the classics was to succeed politically via the examination system. How to turn their attention from externalized values to internal self-cultivation became his basic pedagogical concern. His banishment certainly ¿reated a series of spiritual crises, but when he had attained inner peace at Lung-ch'ang, his self-confidence was restored. Despite a complete lack of political influence and tangible achievement, he found his teaching experience intrinsically rewarding. Therefore, consistent with his advice to the Mr. Chou of Ch'ang-sha, the theme of his instruction to the students of Lungch'ang was not political participation but moral self-transformation. Now, after he had decided to assume the responsibility of a Confucian teacher in his own right, he was caught in a new dilemma. To accept a reputable and influential position as the appointed master of the Kwei-yang Academy would probably give him little choice but to instruct the first-degree-holders in the

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locality, whose major objective would be at variance with his central concern: if the students failed to pass official examinations, it would be bothersome; if the students focused all their attention on official examinations, it would be intolerable. T o Yang-ming, making manifest the Way of the sages was the primary goal of teaching, but the goal for the students was to enter officialdom. As the anecdote of the charioteer implies, Yang-ming simply would not bend his principles to accommodate the utilitarian motives of the students. Under such circumstances, how could he inspire his students to commit their body and mind to his T a o ? Yang-ming's dilemma might have contributed to the formulation of the precept of chih-hsingho-i. Yang-ming himself later remarked on a number of occasions that his precept had been formulated in response to a current situation: People today distinguish between knowing ( chih) and acting ( hstng ) and pursue them separately, believing that one must know before one can act. They will discuss and learn the business of knowledge first, they say, and wait till they truly know before they put their knowledge into practice. Consequently, to the last day of life, they will never act and also never know. This doctrine of knowing first and acting later is not a minor disease and it did not come about only yesterday. My present advocacy of the unity of knowing and acting is precisely the medicine for that disease.9 Although we have no way of determining how Yang-ming actually applied his precept of chih-hsing ho-i to the teaching program of the Kwei-yang Academy, we learn that he warned the students that they could never really grasp the meaning of the classics if they studied and even memorized them as a body of literature irrelevant to their daily lives. His warning was implicitly an attack on the way in which the whole process of education was conducted. Under the examination system, the student was asked to master the classics as a necessary instrument for political advancement. Being a student, his duty was to know by heart the sayings of the classics. Only after he had earned his status as a scholar-official would he be given a chance to put his knowledge into practice. If he could not enter into government service, he had little choice but to spend his time and energy on studying for the examinations. Since there was such a

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clear separation between the stage of learning and that of practice, the examination became the most important passage to a useful existence in society. As a result, the doctrine of knowing first and acting later provided a rationale for the students to be completely absorbed in bookish knowledge as a necessary preparation for some useful action in the future. Unfortunately, as Yang-ming contended, this kind of thinking could easily lead to false knowledge and prolonged inaction. Yang-ming's cure was to urge the student to confront the issue of relevance from the very beginning of his career of study. In this way he would be impelled to relate his intellectual pursuit to his ethico-religious commitment. For to know, Yang-ming suggested, is not to assimilate a set of externalized values, but to manifest what one has truly understood in concrete actions. It is a delusion to believe that the quest of knowledge can be independent of its application. If one studies the words of the sages as if they had nothing to do with one's body and mind, here and now, one inevitably falls prey to self-deception. The words of the sages are to be learned in experience. They can never be fully internalized by a process of cognitive appreciation. Real experiential participation is so much an integral part of the learning process that to delay action means to falsify knowledge. By arguing that the knowledge of the sages must be immediately relevant to the action of one's body and mind, Yang-ming impugned the validity of the prevalent claim that learning the classics was a precondition for any useful action. In his own words: Study, inquiry, thinking, sifting, and practice are all ways of learning. No one really learns anything without carrying it into action. Take the learning of filial piety. One must relieve his parents of the burden of toil, serve and care for them, and personally put the principle of filial piety into action before one can be said to be learning filial piety. Can merely talking about it in a vacuum be considered as learning?10

Thus, Yang-ming instructed his students to manifest the meaning of study in their own lives rather than waiting for a fundamental change in their external situation in order to put their ideas into practice. What Yang-ming really advocated was self-realization through an experiential understanding of the teachings of the sages. The road to officialdom was meaningful only in reference to such a process of spiritual cultivation.

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It would be misleading, however, to suggest that Yang-ming's precept was formulated purely as a corrective measure. Yang-ming believed that his principle worked as an effective medicine not because it happened to cure a prevalent social ill but because of its intrinsic value. He pointed out that the precept was not invented for a specific utilitarian purpose, "for it is the original substance (pen-t'i) of knowing and acting that they are one." 11 His position was clearly stated: "Although my idea arose as an urgent remedial measure, nevertheless the substance of knowing and acting is originally like this. It is not that I have promoted or suppressed either of them according to my own wishes, and purposely propounded such a precept carelessly to effect a temporary remedy."12 Why did Yang-ming maintain that knowing and acting were, in their original substance, identical? On what basis could he really make such a claim? So long as the precept could in effect serve as a remedy for the intellectual disease of the times, one may very well argue, it is inconsequential whether the substance of knowing and acting is originally one. To Yang-ming, however, the issue was of paramount importance, for he regarded the unity of knowledge and action as a defining characteristic of the true spirit of Confucian teaching, indeed the authentic meaning of learning: In all the world, nothing can be considered learning that does not involve action. Thus the very beginning of learning is already action. To be earnest in practice means to be genuine and sincere. This is already action. It is to make the action sincere and the effort continuous without stopping. In learning, one cannot help having doubts. Therefore one inquires. To inquire is to learn; it is to act. As there is still doubt, one thinks. To think is to learn; it is to act. As there is still doubt, one sifts. To sift is to learn; it is to act. As the sifting is clear, the thinking careful, the inquiry accurate, and the study competent, one goes further and continues his effort without stopping. This is what is meant by earnest practice. It does not mean that after study, inquiry, thinking, and sifting one then takes steps to act.13 What Yang-ming had in mind was not only accumulating empirical knowledge but, more importantly, learning in order to become a sage. In fact, it was through his personal experience in the quest for self-realization that he came to advocate the inseparability of knowing and acting.

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In the quest for self-realization one cannot really know except by an active participation in the process of spiritual cultivation, and one cannot really act except by a conscious effort to deepen and broaden one's self-awareness. In concrete terms, when one knows that one is resolved to become a sage, it does not mean that one knows something objectively as a passive observer. Rather, it means that one tries to renew one's commitment to the task of internal self-transformation. Similarly, when one acts in accordance with the Way of the sages, one does not follow a set of external rules but tries to expand one's self-knowledge. This brings us to what may be called the issue of subjectivity. Actually, it is in this connection that Yang-ming has frequently been labeled as a follower of Lu Hsiang-shan. We shall present an inquiry into this claim. Our purpose is not only to question the validity of the claim that Yang-ming owed his great insight to Hsiang-shan but also to put the precept of chih-hsing ho-i in proper perspective.

2.

The R elevance of Lu

Hsiang-shan

It is commonly accepted that Lu Hsiang-shan, alleged founder of the School of Mind (hsin-hsiieh), foreshadowed the emergence of Wang Yang-ming as the most eloquent and influential spokesman for the school. The only actual historical link between Hsiangshan and Yang-ming in a period of more than three hundred years is said to have been Chan Jo-shui's teacher, Ch'en Hsien-chang. Thus, since Lu Hsiang-shan and Wang Yang-ming are considered to be the outstanding proponents of this tradition, the School of Mind is sometimes referred to as the Lu-Wang School. For years students of Chinese thought have taken this interpretation for granted. Fung Yu-lan, for example, in his standard work on the history of Chinese philosophy, names one of the chapters "Lu Hsiang-shan, Wang Yang-ming, and the School of Mind in the Ming Dynasty."14 Kusumoto Masatsugu, in his study on Confucian thought in the Sung-Ming period, also assumes that Hsiang-shan was the intellectual predecessor of Yang-ming. 15 So does Takase Takejiro in his study of Yang-ming's philosophy,16 and Chia K'ai in his work on the School of Mind. 17 Hu Che-fu also follows this convention using "Lu-Wang philosophy" as part of the title of his book.18

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Yang-ming has been considered so closely linked with Hsiangshan that his Ch'uan-hsi lu is sometimes put in the same volume with Hsiang-shan's collected works as the exposition of the same tradition. 1 9 In the eyes of many scholars, it is only fitting that Yang-ming be characterized as an outstanding exponent of Hsiangshan's thought. Some even suggest that, in order to discredit the prevailing influence of Chu Hsi, Yang-ming consciously brought forth the thought of Hsiang-shan as a better intellectual alternative for his contemporaries. Thus some painstaking research has been conducted to find conclusive evidence for Yang-ming's indebtedness to Master Hsiang-shan. 8 0 In terms of ideas, Yang-ming's insistence upon the centrality of inner experience in the learning of the sages does resemble Hsiangshan's single-minded attention to the establishment of the great self. Both lines of thinking remind us of Mencius' spiritual orientation: the process of self-realization involves, essentially, the extension of man's inner goodness, but the process must begin with the will to become a sage. Since there is no external restraint that can really prevent a m a n from having such a will, it is basically an inner decision. In this sense, the Confucian concept of li-chih can also be meaningfully rendered as the establishment of the will, the making of an existential choice, or the making of an inner decision. T o be sure, Chu Hsi's attention was also focused on the problem of how to become a sage; he also believed that learning is for the primary purpose of self-transformation. However, by stressing the necessity of ko-wu as a gradual process of investigating the It of human affairs and natural phenomena, he inadvertently deemphasized the mind as a self-transforming agent. His school is therefore characterized as the School of Reason ( li-hsiieh ), or the Ch'eng-Chu School (Ch'eng in this connection refers to Ch'eng I rather than Ch'engHao). From a historical point of view, Yang-ming's spiritual orientation in general undoubtedly was anticipated by Hsiang-shan by more than three centuries. Yang-ming, in his later years, not only acknowledged this intellectual debt but often entered into debate to defend Hsiang-shan's position in the genealogy of Confucian masters. 4 1 Ironically, it was in part because of his forthright efforts to clear away allegations that Hsiang-shan had a "wild Ch'an" mentality that he himself was later charged with the same fault. M In fact, Yang-ming was so impressed with Hsiang-shan that in 1520,

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at the age of forty-nine, he wrote a preface to Hsiang-shan's collected works, M and in the same year ordered officials in Hsiangshan's native place to extend to his progeny the same privileges enjoyed by the descendants of sages and worthies.*4 If Yang-ming's admiration for Hsiang-shan needs no further justification, an important qualification should be made in order to clarify Hsiang-shan's impact on Yang-ming: although Yang-ming's thought might have taken a shape reminiscent of that of Hsiangshan in his postenlightenment period, Hsiang-shan's contribution to Yang-ming's intellectual maturation in his formative years was rather limited. To our knowledge, he was seldom mentioned in Yang-ming's early works. The Nien-p'u makes its first reference to him in the year 1509, when Yang-ming was thirty-eight, and it was the education commissioner, Hsi Shu, who brought up the issue of comparing Chu Hsi and Hsiang-shan. Even in this case, Yangming showed little interest in the issue itself.25 In another place, the Nien-p'u states that Hsi Shu's major objective in his first visit was to "cry out for redress" on behalf of Hsiang-shan. 86 Yang-ming's refusal to take up the problem does indicate that he was not at that time urgently concerned with Hsi Shu's effort. Of course, he might have felt that to work out a case for Hsiang-shan at the time was premature, and that unless some more basic issues had been tackled, Hsiang-shan's strength would not easily be appreciated by contemporaries. The introduction of chih-hsing ho-i was, therefore, only circumstantially related to the question of Hsiang-shan. Indeed, among Yang-ming's philosophical precepts, this was the least indebted to him. Chia Feng-chen, for example, in his study on the teachings of Yang-ming apologetically remarks: "Although I have stated above that Yang-ming's philosophy was mainly inherited from Hsiang-shan, the theory of chih-hsing ho-i does not seem to have come from him." 87 Without any explanation, however, Chia jumps to the conclusion that since a similar precept was first mentioned by Ch'eng I, Yang-ming was in this particular case much indebted to the younger Ch'eng brother instead. To quote Chia again: "This is indeed beyond our expectation!"*8 It is interesting to note that, in addition to Chia Feng-chen, many scholars have made a similar claim about Yang-ming's indebtedness to Ch'eng I in the formulation of his chih-hsing ho-i precept. 29 Indeed, anticipating Yang-ming's precept, Ch'eng I had

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taught, "Without intelligence (ming) activity (tung) cannot proceed, and without activity intelligence cannot operate." His emphasis on the mutuality of knowledge and action thus seems to have foreshadowed Yang-ming's insistence upon the unity of knowing and acting. Certainly Yang-ming would have concurred with Ch'eng I that "people nowadays do not seek within themselves but outside themselves and engage in extensive learning, effortful memorization, artful style, and elegant diction, making their words elaborate and beautiful. Thus few have arrived at the Tao. This being the case, the learning of today and the learning that Yen Tzu (Yen Hui) loved are quite different." 30 With some modification, he might have also accepted Ch'eng I's statement that "the only thing to do is to extend one's knowledge. If one's knowledge is clear, his strength will be enhanced." 31 To be sure, there are significant differences between Ch'eng I's insistence that both knowledge and action are important and Yangming's doctrine of chih-hsing ho-i. For Ch'eng I, the emphasis is on knowledge as a necessary condition for intelligent action; whereas for Yang-ming it is acting that authenticates an experiential knowing. Nevertheless, so far as the genesis of Yang-ming's doctrine of the unity of knowing and acting is concerned, the intellectual legacy of Ch'eng I seems quite pertinent; we must not rule out the possibility that in his formulation of chih-hsing ho-i, Yang-ming may indeed have been inspired by Chu Hsi's philosophical predecessor, Ch'eng I. While it is difficult to determine in what way Hsiang-shan had influenced Yang-ming in his formative years, even a brief survey of Yang-ming's life chronology and collected works is sufficient to demonstrate the pervasive and profound impact of Chu Hsi, whose spiritual direction is thought to be most congenial to Ch'eng I's teaching. As we have already shown, Yang-ming began his intellectual pursuit in his teens with a strong commitment to Chu Hsi's concept of self-cultivation, continued his inner struggle, puzzling over Chu Hsi's approach to sagehood in his twenties, and at least temporarily ended his spiritual odyssey with a critique of Chu Hsi's orientation to Confucian learning in his thirties. It is true that Yang-ming later arrived at a new realization basically different from Chu Hsi's way of thinking, but despite great uneasiness on this account he never ceased to believe that he was faithful to Chu Hsi's true intention.

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After his sudden enlightenment, Yang-ming found his inner experience very much in harmony with the thought of Lu Hsiangshan, but he simply refused to accept the fact that Hsiang-shan's ideas charted a course for attaining sagehood fundamentally different from Chu Hsi's insistence upon the gradual process of ko-wu. Of course Yang-ming was fully aware of the famous "Goose Lake Debate" (1175)." He nevertheless entertained the thought that Chu Hsi substantially changed his mind after the public confrontation with Hsiang-shan, a position difficult to justify on historical grounds. As we shall see, Yang-ming's sympathetic attitude toward Hsiang-shan was in essence an attempt to redeem the true spirit of Chu Hsi from its vulgarized interpretations. Thus, Yang-ming began his quest for meaning with the precepts of Chu Hsi but gradually came to a solution comparable to that of Lu Hsiang-shan. Even then, he refused to identify himself with the Hsiang-shan School, for he still entertained the thought that he was truthful to Chu Hsi's last word, or to what Chu Hsi would have wished to say.

3.

The Challenge of Chu Hsi

In recent years there has been an increasing awareness among scholars of Sung-Ming Confucianism that the development of Yang-ming's teaching must be understood with reference to Chu Hsi's spiritual orientation. The dichotomy of Ch'eng-Chu and Lu-Wang as two rival schools, at least in the case of Yang-ming's intellectual maturation, seems not only oversimplified but also misleading.33 Shimada Kenji's The Teachings of Chu Hsi and Wang Yang-ming (Shushigaku to Ydmeigaku) and Araki Kengo's Buddhism and Confucianism (Bukkyo to fukyo) are very instructive in this connection. According to Shimada's analysis, although we cannot deny that Yang-ming's emphasis on the identity of mind (hsin) and principle (li) was a revival of Hsiang-shan's teaching, his intellectual development—especially in its initial state—was much more influenced by Chu Hsi. In concrete terms, Araki brilliantly demonstrates how Chu Hsi's sophisticated approach to the problems of knowledge and action impelled Yang-ming to formulate his qualitatively different precept of chih-hsing ho-i.34 Ch'ien Mu, in his The Essentials of Yang-ming's Teaching {Yang-ming hsiieh shu-yao), published almost four decades ago,

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argues that Yang-ming's philosophy was a response to some of the most fundamental and unresolved issues left over from the Sung Confucian masters. 35 And, we may add, Chu Hsi, the key figure among them, played the leading role in formulating these issues. Accordingly, Mijima Fuku, in his Philosophy of Wang Yang-ming (Oyomei no tetsugaku), after a thorough discussion of the ten issues separating the school of Lu-Wang and that of Chu Hsi, concludes with a quotation from Yang-ming: When at times my ideas are different from those of Chu Hsi, it is because I have to argue for my position, so that the student may not make an infinitesimal mistake in the beginning and end up with an infinite error. But my ultimate purpose and that of Chu Hsi are not different. For the rest, where his statements and explanations are clear and appropriate, why does a single word of his need to be altered?®6 In his article, "The Development of the Concept of Moral Mind from Wang Yang-ming to Wang Chi," T'ang Chun-i goes further to suggest that "from a historical point of view, Wang Yang-ming's thought may be taken as a synthesis of Chu Hsi's and Lu Hsiangshan's thoughts." 37 Certainly, additional research is required before we can make any conclusive statement on the evolution of Yang-ming's thought. At this particular juncture, we can only point out that Yang-ming in his formative years was overpowered by Chu Hsi's formulation of the basic Confucian teachings. It was not until after his enlightenment and subsequent advocacy of the theory of chih-hsing ho-i that he gradually discovered that Hsiang-shan had already forcefully argued along the same line. Even then he continued to feel uneasy about the "coarseness" (ts'u) of Hsiang-shan's approach. He probably felt that Hsiang-shan lacked a deep personal experience to sustain his teaching.3* To be sure, Yang-ming might have been exposed to Hsiang-shan's thought through his good friend, Chan Jo-shui, who in turn studied under Ch'en Hsien-chang. Even here, though, we are confronted with the puzzling problem: Was Yang-ming truly influenced by Ch'en Hsien-chang through his disciple? Yang-ming's relationship to Ch'en has bewildered scholars in the field for years. Above all, it is still uncertain whether or not the two men actually met. Since Ch'en died in 1500, several years before Yang-ming's sworn friendship with Chan Jo-shui began, the possibility of such a meeting seems very slight. Through Chan Jo-shui,

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Yang-ming must have known a great deal about Ch'en, but in the collected works of Yang-ming such references are few. It is certainly legitimate to question how Yang-ming could have failed to make extensive remarks about the greatest Ming Confucian scholar before him, who was not only the mentor of his closest friend but the harbinger of many of his own ideas.39 Since such a conspicuous omission does not seem to have been caused by any deliberate falsification, and since the claim that Yang-ming's spiritual orientation had indeed been foreshadowed by Ch'en still needs fresh exploration, we can only conclude that the available sources do not support the view that Yang-ming was in any significant way influenced by Ch'en Hsien-chang either. It may therefore be contended that, intellectually, it was Chu Hsi who was most relevant to Yang-ming in his formative years. As a matter of fact, Yang-ming's lack of communication with Ch'en Hsien-chang can also be explained in terms of his obsession with Chu Hsi's problems. Chi Wen-fu seems to confirm this observation when he asserts in his study of late Ming intellectual history that Yang-ming's chih-hsing ho-i precept was a direct response to Chu Hsi's challenge. 40 Before inquiring into the relationship between ko-wu and chihhsing ho-i, we shall first examine another relevant issue concerning the nature of Yang-ming's response to Chu Hsi's challenge: why did he take pains to show that he was still in perfect accord with Chu Hsi's spirit after he had come to realize the weakness of Chu Hsi's approach to self-cultivation? Was he so overpowered by Chu Hsi's influence that he did not have the courage to say outright that the great Sung master was wrong? Or was he fearful of the consequences of infuriating contemporary Confucian scholarofficials who were avowedly followers of Chu Hsi's teaching? These queries bring us to a highly controversial subject—Yang-ming's compilation of what purported to be Chu Hsi's Final Conclusion Arrived at Late in Life (Chu Tzu wan-nien ting-lun). Although the work was completed several years after his sojourn in Lung-ch'ang, it throws much light on the problem of Yang-ming's agonized struggle with Chu Hsi's ideas in his formative years. Chu Tzu wan-nien ting-lun was printed for circulation in 1518, but the preface had been written three years previously. Wing-tsit Chan suggests that Yang-ming compiled the work mainly as a response to criticism leveled against his opposition to Chu Hsi's teaching:

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Wang's situation must have been very desperate. Partly to lessen the animosity and partly to put his own theories into the mouth of Chu Hsi with the hope of wider acceptance of his own views, he selected a passage each from thirty-four letters written by Chu to twenty-four people, as well as a passage from Wu Ch'eng (1249-1333), and published them under the above title in 1518 in an attempt to show that Chu Hsi had changed his position in late life and adopted the views now advocated by Wang. These selections are arbitrary and mostly out of context.41 As might be expected, the matter created violent storms of protest from Yang-ming's contemporaries. Furthermore, as Chan asserts, "throughout the Ming and Ch'ing dynasties, Wang was severely criticized for intellectual dishonesty and for trying to deceive students by utilizing Chu Hsi's name and influence to promote his own doctrine." 42 How could Yang-ming allow himself to be caught in such an embarrassing situation? If it had been his conscious design to take advantage of Chu Hsi's reputation, how could he have been so untactful in his approach? Should we accept the view of some of his sympathizers that what he did was no more than what the early Confucians had done by putting their own ideas into the mouths of ancient sages? Speculations of this kind are based on the premise that Yang-ming's basic motive in the compilation of the Chu Tzu wan-nien ting-lun was to take advantage of Chu Hsi's reputation as a subtle way of expressing his hidden desire to outshine Chu Hsi. If we accepted this premise, we would be forced to interpret his articulated wish for reconciliation with Chu Hsi either as a mere gesture or as a tactic move. Obviously, neither interpretation comes to terms with Yang-ming's unfailing seriousness in his attempts to come to grips with Chu Hsi's teaching. Moreover, both tend to discredit Yang-ming's moral integrity. T o be sure, it is not an easy task to explain Yang-ming's awkward position in terms of a genuine desire for reconciliation, but Yang-ming defended himself along these lines: I compiled Chu Tzu wan-nien ting-lun because I had to. It is true that I have not fully substantiated whether certain passages were really written earlier or later in his life. However, even though not all of them were written late in his life, most of them were. At any rate, my main concern was to accommodate and compromise as much as possible for the sake of illustrating the doctrine [of ko-xuu\.43

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We are thus confronted with a clear choice: whether, as a number of scholars have suggested, Yang-ming consciously worked out a strategy to elevate his prestige by putting his own ideas into the mouth of Chu Hsi, or as Yang-ming himself took pains to testify, he was motivated by a strong wish to make peace with Chu Hsi. The theory of conspiracy evidently reflects a conventional view that Yang-ming, as a follower of Lu Hsiang-shan, was necessarily in conflict with Chu Hsi; if he actually tried to accommodate Chu Hsi's ideas, it must have been on grounds other than intellectual affinity. According to our study, however, the Chu-Lu dichotomy seems to have had very little significance in the formulation of Yang-ming's thought. Indeed, Lu Hsiang-shan was virtually irrelevant as an alternative to Chu Hsi in Yang-ming's formative years. The fact that Yang-ming in youth was overwhelmed by Chu Hsi's influence compels us to examine his own explanation in some detail. In a letter to one of his penetrating critics, Lo Ch'in-shun (1465-1547), part of which has been quoted above, Yang-ming made a confession: All my life Chu Hsi's doctrine [of ko-wu] has been a revelation to me, as though from the "highest spiritual intelligence" (shen-ming). In my heart I could not bear suddenly to oppose him. Therefore it was because I could not help it that I did it. Those who know me say that my heart is grieved but those who do not know me say that I am after something. The fact is that in my own heart I cannot bear to contradict Master Chu but I cannot help contradicting him because the Tao is what it is and the Tao will not be fully evident if I do not correct him. As to Your Honor's contention that I purposely differ from Master Chu do I dare deceive my own mind?44

Accordingly, it may be suggested that Yang-ming's effort to show that his new ideas were not really contradictory to Chu Hsi's final words was prompted by his inner urge to harmonize with the spiritual orientation of the great Sung master, rather than motivated by a pragmatic purpose to appease the majority of his scholar-official contemporaries who were professed followers of Chu Hsi. In the preface to the Chu Tzu wan-nien ting-lun, Yang-ming revealed how he was led to the controversial task of compiling excerpts from Chu Hsi's letters. T o put the whole issue in proper perspective, he began with a brief description of his intellectual

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development, which, as we know, entered a new stage when he was banished to Lung-ch'ang. Later, in his own words, despite severe criticism from his contemporaries and an earnest search within himself, there was absolutely no doubt left in his mind about the truth of his new realization. However, he continued, "only in Master Chu's doctrines did I find some disagreement, for which I felt sorry for a long time. I was wondering whether, with his wisdom and virtue, Master Chu could still have failed to understand." 45 Keeping this problem constantly in mind, he claimed to have discovered that the true intent of Master Chu was not in conflict with his realization after all: As I feel fortunate that my ideas are not in conflict with those of Master Chu, and also am happy that he apprehended before me what our minds have in common . . . I have selected and gathered passages privately to show like-minded friends so that they will no longer doubt my position and that we may hope that the doctrine of the Sage will be made clear to the world.46

Yang-ming's wishful thinking cost him heavily nevertheless; having failed to convince his critics that he was the true heir of Chu Hsi, he had no choice but to face squarely the bitter reality that he was conflicting with Chu Hsi on a fundamental issue. Psychologically it must have been a painful experience. His own words thus carry a traumatic tone: Alas! I have failed even more to realize the limitation of my ability. It is definitely clear that I shall place myself in danger and shall perish without anyone's saving me. When all people are in the depths of merriment, I alone weep and lament, and when the whole world happily runs [after erroneous doctrines], I alone worry with an aching heart and a knit brow. Either I have lost my mind or there must surely be a great grief hidden away in the situation. Who except the most humane in the world can understand it?47

Yang-ming's tragic sense was not unjustified. Indeed, whom could he expect to lend him a sympathetic ear? Those who blindly adhered to Chu Hsi's teaching never had any experiential encounter with the course of action expounded by the Sung master. In essence, Chu Hsi had nothing to do with their bodies and minds, yet they now suddenly styled themselves as defenders of Chu Hsi orthodoxy. Yang-ming, who for two decades had continuously tried

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to experience Chu Hsi's instruction for self-cultivation with his entire being, unexpectedly found himself identified as a ruthless rebel against one of the Confucian thinkers he most admired. Yang-ming remarked that he had no choice in the matter. He even quoted Mencius to say, "Do I like to argue? I cannot help it." His self-confidence was mixed with a profound sense of inevitability, as is clearly evident in the following passage: The Tao is public and belongs to the whole world, and the doctrine is also public and belongs to the whole world. They are not the private properties of Master Chu or even Confucius. They are open to all and the only proper way to discuss them is to do so openly. If what is said is right, it will be beneficial to one though it may differ from his opinion. If it is wrong, it will be harmful to him even if he may agree with it. One surely rejoices in what is beneficial to him and dislikes what is harmful to him. Thus, even if my present opinion possibly differs from that of Master Chu's, it is not unlikely that he would rejoice in it. The faults of the superior man are like eclipses of the sun and moon. When he corrects them, all men look up to him. But the inferior man is sure to gloss over his faults. Although I am unworthy, I surely dare not treat Chu Hsi with the mind of an inferior man.48 4.

The Issue of ko-wu

As we have seen, Yang-ming's agonizing struggle with Chu Hsi's teaching was centered on the issue of ko-wu. Little justification is needed to stress the importance of ko-wu as a central issue in NeoConfucian thinking. A.C. Graham, in his seminal study on the two Ch'eng brothers, underscores a common belief when he states that from the twelfth century on, the chief controversial problem within Neo-Confucianism was ko-wu.*9 It is commonly accepted that the term first appeared in the Confucian classic of the Great Learning, which was originally only a chapter of the Book of Rites. Since 1190, when Chu Hsi grouped it with the Analects, the Book of Mencius, and the Doctrine of the Mean and published these together as the Four Books, it has been honored as one of the most important of the Confucian classics. And from 1313 to 1905 the Four Books, mainly with Chu Hsi's commentaries on them, were the basis for civil examinations. 50 According to a passage in the Great Learning: The ancients who wished to illustrate illustrious virtue throughout the kingdom, first ordered well their own states. Wishing to order well their

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states, they first regulated their families. Wishing to regulate their families, they first cultivated their persons (hsiu-shen). Wishing to cultivate their persons, they first rectified their hearts (cheng-hsin). Wishing to rectify their hearts, they first sought to be sincere in their thoughts (ch'eng-i). Wishing to be sincere in their thoughts, they first extended to the utmost their knowledge (chih-chih). Such extension of knowledge lay in the investigation of things (ko-wu). 51

Since the interpretations of all the other stages of self-realization pivot upon a proper understanding of the first one, ko-wu becomes the subject of contention among commentators. Unfortunately, both the characters of ko and wu can carry a variety of philologically acceptable meanings. As a result, consensus of opinion on the correct interpretation of ko-wu at the level of textual analysis alone is out of the question. Throughout Chinese history, scores of attempts have been made to render ko-wu meaningful in the broad context of Confucian self-cultivation. The multiplicity of such interpretations indicates how crucial a position ko-wu occupied in Neo-Confucian thought as a whole. It practically became a barometer to determine specific lines of thinking within the Neo-Confucian tradition. Generally speaking, there are three major interpretations of the character ko: "to oppose" (han), "to arrive at" (chih), and "to correct" (cheng). Ssu-ma Kuang (1019-1086), the eminent statesman-historian of the Sung dynasty, who is believed to have treated the Great Learning as a separate work, took ko-wu in the first sense, "to guard against things," which means "against having one's selfish desires excited by external stimuli." 58 According to Chu Hsi, who mainly followed the instruction of Ch'eng I, the phrase means "to arrive at things" or to grasp the li inherent in things by a systematic and gradual process of investigation. Yangming, however, argued that ko-wu means "to rectify or to correct ideas and thoughts." Since the word "wu, " like its English counterpart "thing," can mean both objects and affairs (including events and activities), ko-wu may thus be construed either as a process of investigating the external phenomena or as one of rectifying one's own affairs. It is probably in this sense that some scholars go to the extreme of arguing that the different possible interpretations of ko-wu were in themselves what actually forced the Neo-Confucian thinkers to bifurcate into the Ch'eng-Chu School and the Lu-Wang School.

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Although such a position is probably too simplistic, the two different approaches to the concept of ko-wu do appear to reflect two fundamentally different spiritual orientations. According to the conventional viewpoint, the Ch'eng-Chu School emphasizes the role of systematic learning and the Lu-Wang School focuses on the character of moral decision. Of course, this should not lead us to overstate their differences, for the Ch'eng-Chu School is concerned more with the problem of self-cultivation than with empirical knowledge, and the Lu-Wang School by no means ignores practices such as reading books. As we have pointed out, to follow the conventional view and treat Yang-ming as a follower of Lu Hsiangshan, thereby acknowledging the bifurcation of Neo-Confucian thought, is both simplistic and misleading. This does not mean, however, that we do not accept the claim that there is fundamental conflict in spiritual orientation between Chu Hsi and Yang-ming. Indeed, the conflict is of such a magnitude that Yang-ming, despite his strenuous efforts, completely failed to resolve it. How should this conflict be properly viewed? To answer the question properly, we shall again put the issue in the perspective of Yang-ming's spiritual development. As we have seen, as early as 1489, at the age of eighteen, Yang-ming was initiated into Chu Hsi's teaching on ko-wu through his first and only important Confucian master, Lou Liang. This was later considered by his disciples as the beginning of his long and strenuous road toward embracing the teaching of the sages. Three years later, in 1492, at twenty-two, he tried to put the concept into practice by an intensive concentration of physical and mental energy before a bamboo grove. Then in 1489, at twenty-seven, he made a renewed effort to comprehend ko-wu, especially as it conconcerned the relationship between hsin and It. His failure produced another spiritual crisis that was augmented by ill health. On the surface, the Yang-ming Grotto experience does not seem to have been connected with the issue of ko-wu. Upon reflection, however, we realize that an awareness that the natural feeling for one's familial ties is itself the ground of spiritual cultivation makes it difficult to accept the assumption that a process of ko-wu is a prerequisite for the discovery of the true principle of filial piety. In fact, this was precisely how Yang-ming later began his instruction on chih-hsing hoi with his beloved disciple, Hsu Ai. Finally in 1508, at thirty-seven, for the first time he convinced himself that he had

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grasped the real meaning of ko-wu. His new realization impelled him to take departure from Chu Hsi's basic position. T h e departure was crystallized in Yang-ming's precept oi chih-hsing ho-i. Later, in retrospect, Yang-ming gave this short account of his experience with ko-wu: People merely say that in the investigation of things (ko-wu) we must follow Chu Hsi, but when have they carried it out earnestly and definitely? In my earlier years my friend Ch'ien and I discussed the idea that to become a sage or a worthy one must investigate all the things in the world. But how can a person have such tremendous energy? I therefore pointed to the bamboos in front of the pavilion and told him to investigate them and see. Day and night Mr. Ch'ien went ahead trying to investigate to the utmost the principles in the bamboos. He exhausted his mind and thoughts and on the third day he was tired out and took sick. At first I said that it was because his energy and strength were insufficient. Therefore I myself went to try to investigate to the utmost. From morning till night, I was unable to find the principles of the bamboos. On the seventh day I also became sick because I thought too hard. In consequence we sighed to each other and said that it was impossible to be a sage or a worthy, for we do not have the tremendous energy to investigate things that they have. After I had lived among the natives of the South for three years, I understood what all this meant and realized that [it is pointless to investigate all the things in the world, for] originally there is nothing in the things in the world to investigate. The effort to investigate things can only be carried out in and with reference to one's body and mind. If one firmly believes that everyone can become a sage, one will naturally be able to take up the task of investigating things. This idea, gentlemen, I must convey to you. 63 Underlying this statement is not merely a difference in emphasis but a qualitative change of orientation. Yang-ming seems to contend that if ko-wu is understood as the investigation of things, it must be preceded by a qualitative change of spiritual orientation. A decision to become a sage has to be m a d e prior to the actual process of investigating things; otherwise, no matter how vigorously one is engaged in the task of investigating natural phenomena and h u m a n affairs, the effort itself does not necessarily lead to selfrealization. In a strict sense, that which really constitutes an experiential ko-wu is itself an integral part of the decision to become a sage. If the decision to become a sage has not yet been m a d e , the things to be investigated are limitless; if the decision to become

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a sage, which is an unceasing process of self-realization, is continuously being made, there is really nothing to investigate in the external world since each encounter with a thing, be it a human affair or a natural phenomenon, becomes an integral part of internal self-transformation. To probe the full implication of this, we shall analyze the transition from Chu Hsi's ko-wu to Yang-ming's chih-hsing ho-i in some detail.

5.

The Principle of Subjectivity

Historically, by the time Yang-ming seriously reflected upon the concept of ko-wu, Chu Hsi's interpretation of it as the "investigation of things" had been widely accepted for so long that to the majority of mid-Ming scholars it had become almost self-evident. To be sure, Chu Hsi's purpose was not to urge accumulation of empirical knowledge, although ko-wu might very well lead to such a result. His primary aim was rather to commend to students a systematic way of obtaining self-knowledge by being constantly in touch with the external world. Specifically, he advocated a gradual process of reading, quiet-sitting, ritual practice, and a host of other means to discipline one's body and mind. Chu Hsi believed that the pursuit of objective truths, or the It inherent in the manifold world, is prerequisite for the attainment of sagehood. Ko-wu, in this sense, is the necessary instrument by which the moral agent relates himself in a harmonious way to the outside world and brings himself in line with a normalized pattern of behavior in society. In concrete terms, ko-wu involves a constant examination of the results of one's conduct. It also involves book learning, including careful studies of the classics and consistent inquiries into daily affairs. In this connection, both written and oral communication with the teacher are essential. Furthermore, it involves investigation into all aspects of the external world, including both natural phenomena and human affairs.54 Despite its broad scope, however, as Fung Yu-lan points out, ko-wu meant to Chu Hsi an indispensable method of self-cultivation and its ultimate purpose was "to illuminate the total capacity of our mind (/um)". ss T'ang Chiin-i further suggests that in Chu Hsi's thought ko-wu is the necessary link between abstract moral principles and concrete moral situations.56 In other words, it is an essential effort (kung-fu) in bridging the gap

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between what should be done according to the moral axioms of Confucian teaching and how it should be done in a specific ethical context. Chu Hsi thus characterized ko-wu as the "juncture and crisis of awakening from a dream" (meng-chueh kuari).*7 To Chu Hsi, therefore, ko-wu is the conscious effort on the part of the moral subject to internalize the li as manifested in a blade of grass or in an act of humanity. The subject must come to terms with the objective It; otherwise, the force of selfish desires will become so powerful that the chances of being "awakened to the truth," as it were, may eventually be lost. Efforts such as han-yang (self-nourishment), ts'un-yang (self-preservation), and hsing-ch'a (self-reflection) are thus, with ko-wu, constituent parts of the same process of purifying the subject and arriving at the ultimate meaning of the object. It is true that the li of the object is identical with the li of the subject, but Chu Hsi maintained that in order to realize the li of the subject, which means to manifest the li inherent in one's human nature, it is essential that one try to appropriate the li of the manifold world by investigating a variety of cases (for practically no one has the vital energy to exhaust the full meaning of the li by a thorough examination of one single thing). However, in a strict sense, the process of ko-wu is not that of gradual accumulation either. Chu Hsi believed that if one consistently tried to confront the various kinds of manifestations of the li, one would surely grasp the li some day in the form of a sudden release.58 Admittedly, Yang-ming's frustration over Chu Hsi's approach to ko-wu was inherent in the nature of his attempts to understand it. Chu Hsi's concept of ko-wu as a method of self-cultivation is actually subsumed under a whole complex of metaphysical presuppositions such as the dichotomy between hsin and li, a point beyond our immediate concern. When Yang-ming was told that sagehood could be attained through learning, he immediately put ko-wu into serious practice. He was so preoccupied with the concrete and urgent problem of how to become a sage that the delicate issue of why, in the metaphysical sense, does not seem to have bothered him at all. This might well be a reflection of his personality; he had such a "mad ardour" in youth that Chu Hsi's complicated philosophical system must have seemed very remote from his intense quest for self-realization. He was searching for ultimate meaning in life through direct confrontations with his immediate existential situation. Must we therefore conclude that Yang-ming simply failed to

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understand the subtlety of Chu Hsi's thought and that his criticism has no direct bearing upon Chu Hsi's concept of ko-wu? Yang-ming's principal attack on Chu Hsi's ko-wu concerned precisely the balanced and comprehensive way in which it was presented. He felt that an order of priority, together with a sense of urgency, was absent: In his doctrine of ko-wu, Wen Kung [Chu Hsi] lacked a basis (t'ou-nao). For instance, he said [that among the method of investigating things] is "the examination of one's subtle thoughts and deliberations." [Being the most fundamental], this should not be grouped together with "searching for the principles of things in books," "testing them in one's conspicuous activities," and "finding them out in discussion." He lacked a sense of relative importance.59 T h e term t'ou-nao literally means "head-brain." Yang-ming frequently used it to denote the first order of concern. Actually, he was not so much perturbed by the scope that Chu Hsi's concept of ko-wu involved as by the manner in which its contents were organized. In a real sense, he was not so much opposed to what the Sung master's ko-wu meant to include as he was perturbed by what it failed to take into serious consideration. Yang-ming noted that what Chu Hsi meant by ko-wu was "to investigate the li in things to the utmost as we come in contact with t h e m . " He then pointed out that "to look in each individual thing for its so-called fixed li" resembles the suggestion that one should look for the li of filial piety in parents. " I f the li of filial piety is to be sought in parents, then is it actually in my own mind (hsin) or is it in the person of my parents? If it is actually in the person of my parents, is it true that as soon as the parents pass away the mind will lack the li of filial piety?" 60 Through such an inquiry, Yangming arrived at the conclusion that if Chu Hsi's ko-wu was pursued indiscriminately, it might easily lead to "the defect of devoting oneself to external things and neglecting the internal, and becoming broad but lacking essentials." He warned that to follow Chu Hsi's teaching to the extreme would lead to "trifling with things and losing one's purpose in life." 6 1 As a remedy for the defects of Chu Hsi's doctrine, Yang-ming tried to establish the claim that the "head-brain" of ko-wu is located in the mind. He stated succinctly, "the master of the body is the mind. What emanates from the mind is the will (i). T h e original substance of the will is knowledge (chih), and wherever the will is

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directed is a thing (wu)."6i He also stated that "the word ko in ko-wu is the same as the ko in Mencius' saying that 'A great man rectified (ko) the ruler's mind.' It means to eliminate what is incorrect in the mind so as to preserve the correctness of its original substance. Wherever the will is, the incorrectness must be eliminated so that correctness may be preserved." H Implicit in this statement is the principle of subjectivity. We must hasten to add that Yang-ming's principle of subjectivity by no means allowed indulgence in egocentrism. He made his position quite clear: The ordinary man is not free from the obstruction of selfish ideas. He therefore requires the effort of the extension of knowledge and the investigation of things (ko-wu) in order to overcome selfish ideas and restore principle (It). Then the mind's faculty of innate knowledge will no longer be obstructed but will be able to penetrate and operate everywhere. One's knowledge will then be extended. With knowledge extended, one's will becomes sincere.64 Like Mencius' teaching on the priority of establishing that which is great in each of us, and Lu Hsiang-shan's instruction on the importance of awakening the original mind, Yang-ming's principle of subjectivity is centered around the issue of inner decision. His insistence upon raising the question about the "headbrain" of ko-wu really points to an uncompromising demand that making up one's mind to become a sage must be taken as the first order of concern in any form of self-cultivation. Ever since Yangming's precocious remark to his teacher that to study and to become a sage is the greatest task in life, he had repeatedly tried to put his personality-ideal into concrete practice. It was through the experience of his innermost struggle that the teaching of li-chih gradually evolved. It is probably in this sense that the crystallization of a simple precept could carry such tremendous weight. The following remark by Yang-ming to his students gives us a glimpse of his seriousness on the matter: Here, gentlemen, all of you must have your minds set on becoming sages. At all times and at every moment, your effort must be so earnest and strong that "every beating on the body will leave a scar and every slap on the face will fill the palm with blood." Only then can every sentence of mine be effective as you listen to me. If you while your time aimlessly, you will be like a piece of dead flesh which feels no pain even if it is struck.

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In this way you will never amount to anything. When you go home, you will find only a cunning way of doing things. Will that not be a pity?65 Obviously, this was neither empty rhetoric nor a pedagogical threat. Rather, it was closely related to what Yang-ming himself had personally gone through. In a practical sense, such an inner experience was not only difficult but sometimes impossible to communicate. In fact, he was once prompted to say, "I cannot tell you any more than a dumb man can tell you about the bitterness of the bitter melon he has just eaten. If you want to know the bitterness, you have to eat a bitter melon yourself."66 The point at issue is therefore not only the ineffability of the inner experience but the need to undergo such an experience for oneself, which requires a true commitment. Just as one can never know the taste of the bitter melon except by tasting it, one must go through the bitter experience of total transformation to really understand the meaning of self-realization. To Yang-ming, ko-wu as a gradual process of investigating things may be acceptable as a useful method of self-control, but it certainly lacks a sense of urgency, and an intense commitment is precisely what is required to make a qualitative change from a conventional manner of existence to a new way of life. Only after one has firmly made up one's mind to attain sagehood, Yang-ming insisted, will Chu Hsi's version of ko-wu become immediately relevant; otherwise, vigorous efforts to arrive at the It inherent in things do not necessarily elevate the level of one's self-knowledge. What Yang-ming was actually doing was of course much more profound than finding a way to accommodate Chu Hsi's ko-wu. In a fundamental way, he eliminated the subject-object dichotomy inherent in Chu Hsi's ko-wu by a creative formulation of the principle of subjectivity. He transformed ko-wu from a series of fragmentary acts of self-control to a continuous process of internal self-renewal. He made ko-wu almost identical in meaning with concepts such as "the sincerity of the will" and "the rectification of the mind." In so doing he was impelled to interpret the instruction on self-cultivation in the Great Learning as a holistic approach to human perfection rather than as discrete stages in a gradual process of moral development. If ko-wu is no longer construed as the conscious effort of the subject to enter into contact with an object, it becomes the transforming principle of the subject's quest for

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self-realization. In this particular connection, knowing is necessarily a rectifying act and acting invariably increases one's self-knowledge, thus the unity of knowing and acting (chih-hsing ho-i).

6.

The Implications of chih-hsing ho-i

Etymologically, chih refers to the faculty of knowing, hsing refers to the function of acting, and ho-i means either unity or identity. The idea that knowledge should guide the direction of action, and action check the applicability of knowledge, manifests itself in a variety of forms. In most cases, what the unity of knowledge and action implies is that without the challenge of action, knowledge may become a set of inflexible dogmas, and without the control of knowledge, action may become random experiments. This still assumes, however, that knowledge and action, as two mutually complementary aspects of a higher synthesis, are in themselves different. Yang-ming's approach conflicts with this view in a fundamental way. His chih-hsing ho-i asserts that knowing and acting are identical, for they are both rooted in the same "original substance." While he agreed that knowledge and action may be discussed separately, he felt that the distinction was merely a conventional practice or a contingent device. We have seen that in his criticism of Chu Hsi's understanding of ko-wu, Yang-ming singled out the lack of an order of priority as a serious defect. He proposed that the inner decision to become a sage be established as the most urgent concern. An analysis of the structure of such a decision may help us understand Yang-ming's unique way of formulating his precept of chih-hsing ho-i. Obviously, the inner decision involves both cognitive and affective dimensions. The decision involves knowing, but more than a cognitive knowing. As a form of introspective examination, knowing simultaneously transforms one's present existence into a state of being projected toward the future ideal. Indeed, the decision is knowing only in the sense that it is a transforming self-reflection. Similarly, the decision involves acting, which reorders one's existential situation and affects the whole dimension of one's life, yet as the actualization of a conscious design, it is never a random act. Thus the decision is acting only in the sense that it is an intentional self-affirmation. A speculative thought without much experiential

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significance or an ephemeral act without much cognitive value can never become a part of the inner decision. Knowing, which causes fundamental changes in one's life, and acting, which brings new depth to one's perception, thus form a unity in the structure of the inner decision to become a sage. T h e unity of knowing and acting so conceived is more than an achieved state and a desired ideal; such unity is the original substance of both knowing and action manifested in the process of man's inner decision to transform and perfect himself. Indeed, according to Yang-ming, "knowing is the beginning of acting; acting is the completion of knowing"; "knowing is the crystallization of the will to act and acting is the task of carrying out that knowledge." The inseparability of knowing and acting is thus advanced as more than a corrective measure; it is a description of their true nature. If we investigate the original substance of knowing and acting, Yang-ming claimed, we are compelled to recognize that "without knowing, acting is impossible; without acting, knowing is impossible." The real nature of knowing in this respect is to be found in the actual transforming effects it has exerted on action. Similarly, the real nature of acting is to be found in the real deepening effects it contributes to self-knowledge. 67 T o be sure, Yang-ming's teaching of chih-hsing ho-i is far from self-evident. It sometimes puzzled even his most trusted disciples. It will suffice to mention only one example. After a lengthy debate on the meaning of chih-hsing ho-i with his friends without coming to any conclusion, his best student, Hsu Ai, raised the following point: "There are people who know that the parents should be served with filial piety and elder brothers with respect, but cannot put these things into practice. This shows that knowing and acting are clearly two different things." Yang-ming replied: "The knowing and acting you refer to are already separated by selfish desires and are no longer knowing and acting in their original substance. There have never been people who know but do not act. Those who are supposed to know but do not act simply do not yet know." 68 Yang-ming apparently did not mean to establish merely an empirical truth when he insisted upon the unity of knowing and acting in their original substance. But he made use of a common experience to illustrate his point. He continued: "Seeing beautiful colors appertains to knowing, while loving beautiful colors appertains to acting. However, as soon as one sees that beautiful color,

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he has already loved it. It is not that he sees it first and then makes up his mind to love it." 69 By analogy, he who is supposed to know filial piety must have actually practiced it. This is similar to his observation, quoted earlier, that only after one has experienced bitterness can one really know what it means. True knowledge is therefore an experiential confirmation of one's cognitive understanding. Yang-ming finally warned: "What is the use of insisting on their being one or two unless one knows the purpose of the precept?" 70 The purpose, as we have already shown, is to make known that the road to becoming a sage necessarily begins with an inner decision. One wonders whether the unity of seeing and loving in the case of an instinctual response to beautiful colors is analogous to the unity of knowing and acting in the case of a disciplined reflection upon moral behavior. 71 It may very well be contended that only in an ideal state where selfish desires are completely eliminated can one immediately carry one's ethico-religious knowledge into action. Ordinarily, to know what one should do by moral reflection does not necessarily lead to the natural impulse of acting. Even if one acts according to what one truly knows, there is still a temporal gap between knowing and acting. Yang-ming's teaching, however, addresses itself to a unique phenomenon when man is caught, as it were, in an ethico-religious predicament of how to become a sage. The main purpose is, therefore, not to find out how a person functions in normal conditions but how one makes the spiritual breakthrough necessary for the attainment of sagehood. According to Yang-ming, this can be brought about only by a fundamental transformation from within, which depends on an act of the will, for the strength inherent in man's nature is sufficient for the task of self-renewal. Thus, if one knows the teaching of the body and mind one cannot but act simultaneously. Only then can the ideal of attaining sagehood become an integral part of one's everyday existence. It is true that by insisting upon the precept that knowing necessarily leads to acting in the structure of the will, Yang-ming may have slighted the crucial issue of man's fallibility. We must bear in mind, however, that his focus on inner decision as the primary task of self-cultivation was the result of a long and strenuous process of intense spiritual struggle. Actually his "strong will" reminds us of a passage in Mencius:

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When Heaven is about to place a great burden on a man, it always first tests his resolution

(hsin-chih,

literally, mind-will), exhausts his frame

and makes him suffer starvation and hardship, frustrates his efforts so as to shake him from his mental lassitude, toughen his nature and make good his deficiencies. As a rule, a man can mend his way only after he has made mistakes. It is only when a man is frustrated in mind and in his deliberations that he is able to innovate. It is only when his intentions become visible on his countenance and audible in his tone of voice that others can understand him. 7 *

Considered in this light, chih-hsing ho-i actually symbolizes a triumph of Yang-ming's repeated attempts to understand himself. Since the road to self-knowledge never ends, Yang-ming's formulation of this precept marks only the beginning of a long and anxious quest for self-realization. However, even in this early stage, some aspects of the meaning of Yang-ming's remarkable effort to go beyond Chu Hsi's teaching on ko-wu have already become evident. First, ko-wu describes the subject and object as two independent entities; they come into contact when the subject makes conscious efforts to approach the object. Chih-hsing ho-i rejects such an artificial dichotomy and points to a dynamic process of selfrealization in which man's subjectivity becomes a real experience rather than an abstract concept. Second, ko-wu stresses tangible forms of self-cultivation, sometimes at the expense of deep personal commitment, whereas chih-hsing ho-i compels one to be morally alert in an unceasing process of inner transformation. Third, ko-wu quantifies morality into a series of discrete deeds; as a result, external manifestations take precedence over the internal struggle. Chih-hsing ho-i, on the other hand, keeps one's moral consciousness awake so that despite changing situations one's inner identity cannot be diffused. Ko-wu tends to subsume moral principles under empirical knowledge, whereas chih-hsing ho-i resists such an attempt and thus underscores the unique character of spiritual self-cultivation. Finally, ko-wu in a relative sense seems to undermine the motivational aspect of moral action; chih-hsing ho-i, by focusing on the intentionality of the moral agent, speaks directly to the issue of man's inner resources. One question readily comes to mind: How did Yang-ming account for objective truths? In other words, did he imply that reality is already "in the mind" and that therefore there is no need for empirical study? T o give any satisfactory answer to this im-

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portant question, we have to turn to his mature philosophy, especially his concepts of the "unity of mind and principle" (hsin-li ho-i) and "the extension of innate knowledge."73 At present we shall only mention that he was fully aware of this problem and was confident that his advocacy of the principle of subjectivity did not in any way commit him to what may be called subjective determinism. In his reply to Lo Ch'in-shun, the charges against his new formulation of the concept of ko-wu (in essence, a transformation of Chu Hsi's ko-wu to chih-hsing ho-i) are all clearly acknowledged: Your Honor is skeptical about my theory of ko-wu because you undoubtedly believe that it affirms the internal and rejects the external; that it is entirely devoted to self-examination and introspection and neglects the work of explanation, study, and discussion; that it concentrates on the over-simplified fundamental principles and leaves out the full details; that it submerges itself in the extremes of Buddhist and Taoist lifeless contemplation, emptiness and silence, and fails to take full account of the changing conditions of human affairs and the principles of things. If that were really the case, it would not only be a crime against the Confucian school and Master Chu Hsi; it would be a perverse doctrine to delude the people and a rebellious teaching to violate truth, and I should be punishable by death.74 Such a heavy cost was willingly risked by Yang-ming to maintain what he characterized as "a relative degree of importance, differing, as we say, by a fraction of a fraction." However, the real issue, as he saw it, lay in the fact that "an infinitesimal mistake in the beginning may lead to an infinite error at the end." 75 To him, it was therefore of great urgency that his message be fully appreciated. And yet with a sense of tragedy, he knew only too well that he could easily be dismissed by those who did not have even the faintest idea of what he was attempting to manifest with his entire body and mind. In fact, it took Yang-ming another decade and incalculable difficulty—or, in his own expression, "a hundred deaths and a thousand hardships"—to bring his precept of chih-hsing ho-i to its fruition. Nevertheless, we feel that even in its initial formulation, chih-hsing ho-i, as a distillation of Yang-ming's inner experiences, was already a brilliant response to Chu Hsi's challenge. With this new precept, Yang-ming embarked on his journey to become one of the greatest exemplary teachers of the Confucian Tao.

NOTES

The following abbreviations will be used in the notes: CHL Ch'uan-hsi lu HC Yang-ming hsien-sheng hsing-chuang NP Nien-p'u YMCS Yang- ming ch 'üan-sku

Notes to Introduction (pp. 1-12) 1. David S. Nivison, "The Problem of 'Knowledge' and 'Action' in Chinese Thought since Wang Yang-ming," in Studies in Chinese Thought ed. Arthur F. Wright (Chicago, 1953), pp. 112-145. 2. See Wing-tsit Chan, "Wang Yang-ming: A Biography," Philosophy East and West, 22:63-74 (January, 1972). 3. NP, under 51 sui (2nd month). For an authoritative account of Yang-ming's biography, see Yü Ch'ung-yao, Yang-ming hsien-sheng chuan-tsuan (Shanghai, 1923), 1 - 4 . 4. Wing-tsit Chan, "Wang Yang-ming: A Biography," p. 72. For Kuei O's attack, see NP, in YMCS, 34:32b. 5. Wing-tsit Chan, tr., Instructions for Practical Living and Other NeoConfucian Writings by Wang Yang-ming {New York, 1964), pp. xix-xx. 6. Ibid. 7. Wm. Theodore de Bary, ed., Self and Society in Ming Thought (New York, 1970), p. 9. 8. A phrase borrowed from de Bary, p. 13.. 9. Huang Tsung-hsi, Ming-ju hsüeh-an (preface 1693), 10:5b-6b. Also see Ch'ien Te-hung, "K'e wen-lu hsü-shuo," in YMCS, hsü-shuo 6. 10. Ch'ien Te-hung, "K'e wen-lu hsü-shuo," in YMCS, hsü-shuo 6. 11. NP, under 37 sui. 12. Ibid., under 50 sui. 13. Ibid.,under38sui. 14. Ibid., under 48 sui. 15. Ibid., under 50 sui and bl sui, 11th month. 16. Ibid., under 53 sui, 10th month. 17. Ibid., under 56sui, 4thmonth. 177

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18. See Ta-hsüeh wen, in YMCS, 26:1b. 19. NP, under 56 sui, 9th month. For a philosophical analysis of the ssu-chü chiao, see Tu Wei-ming, "An Inquiry into Wang Yang-ming's Four-Sentence Teaching," The Eastern Buddhist, new series, 7:32-48 (October, 1974). 20. See Ch'ienTe-hung, "K'e wen-lu hsü-shuo," in YMCS, chiu-hsü, YMCS, 5b. 21. See his third letter to Tsou Ch'ien-chih (Shou-i, Tung-k'uo), in YMCS, 6:3b. 22. NP, under 39 sui, 12th month. Translations of the official terms are mainly based on Charles O. Hücker, "Government Organization of the Ming Dynasty," HarvardJournal of Asiatic Studies, 21:1-66(1958). 23 .NP, under 40 sui, 1st month. 24. Ibid.,under41 sui, 12thmonth. 25. Ibid., under 43 sui, 4th month. 26. Ibid., under 45 sui, 9th month. 27. Ibid., under 46 sui, esp. 2nd, 9th, and 10th months; under 47 sui, ,esp. 3rd month for his pacificatory campaigns; under 46 sui, 1st month for his shih-chia p'aifa (ten-family placard system); and under 47 sui, 4th month for his she-hsüeh (community school system). 28. Feng Meng-lung, Wang Yang-ming ch'u-shen ching-luan lu (reprint, Taipei, 1968). Hereafter the book will be referred to as Ching-luan lu. For some remarks on this Ming fiction see Shimada Kenji, Shushigaku to Yömeigaku (Tokyo, 1967), pp. 122-123. 29. Ming-shih, comp. Chang T'ing-yü et al. (Po-na edition), 195, and Mingshih kao, comp. WangHung-hsü (n.p.d.), 185:80. Cf. Wing-tsitChan, Instructions, p. xix. 30. Wing-tsit Chan, Instructions, p. xix.

Notes to Chapter I (pp. 13-54) 1. Chang Yü-ch'üan, "Wang Shou-jen as a Statesman," Chinese Social and Political Science Review 23, no. 1:39 (1939-40). See also Chin-shu (Po-na edition), 33:1-3. It should be mentioned that Chang's pioneering study on Wang Yangming's political career also contains many explanatory remarks on his life history as a whole. 2. Chin-shu, 80:1-6. 3. See Lü Ssu-mien, Sui-T'ang Wu-taishih (Peking, 1960), 11:1340. 4. NP, preface, in YMCS, 32:1. See also Chang Yü-ch'üan, p. 31. 5. Chang I-min, Wang Hsing-ch'ang hsien-sheng chuan, in YMCS, 37:l-b. Also see Chang Yü-ch'üan, p. 32. Yang-ming apparently remembered the whole story of his ancestor well; see his poem entitled "Shu Ch'uan-weng pi," in YMCS, 20:40b. 6. NP, under 57 sui, 10th month. 7. Chang I-min, 37:1b. The phrase kung-keng yang-mu may very well be a cliché in literary expression, but judging from the impoverished state of the Wang family, it seems quite plausible that Wang Yen-ta actually engaged himself in the cultivation of the land as a daily routine. 8. Although the Book of Changes may be classified as a divinatory book, it is also a reservoir of primordial wisdom from the formative years of Chinese philosophy. Despite constant seclusion, Wang Yü-chun devoted much of his time to the

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study of the ancient classics and he was said to have been especially versed in the Book of Changes. His only printed work was a book entitled I-wet (On the subtlety of the Book of Changes). Wang Yu-chun's involvement in the Book of Changes foreshadowed Yang-ming's practice of using the hexagrams as guides for action. See Hu Yen, Tun-shih hsien-shengchuan, in YMCS, 37:2. 9. For this information on the Yang-ming Grotto, see Feng Meng-lung, Ching-luan lu (reprint, Taipei, 1968), I:12a-b. 10. Ch'iLan, Huai-li hsien-sheng chuan, in YMCS, 37:Sa-b. 11. Analects, XVI:4. 12. Wei Han, Chu-hsiian hsien-sheng chuan, in YMCS, 37:4. 13. YMCS, 23:4b-5. 14. Wei Han, 37:4a-b. 15. NP, under42sui, 10thmonth. 16. The name of the senior poet was Wei Han. For Yang-ming's association with Wei, see NP, 21 sui. 17. Yang I-ch'ing, Hai-jih hsien-sheng mu-chih ming, in YMCS, 37:6b. The formulation of parallel couplets (tui-lien), a literary device of matching characters in terms of imageries, allusions, or tonal qualities of the words, was widely practiced in traditional China both for the preparation of government examination and for the improvement of poetic skill. 18. Lu Shen, Hai-jih hsien-sheng hsing-chuang, in YMCS, 37:9b-10. 19. NP, under birth. For the corresponding date in the parenthesis, see Ch'en Yuan, comp., Chung-Hsi-Hui shih jih-U (Peking, 1926), 14:18b. Also see Hsueh Chung-san and Ou-yangI, Liang-ch'ien-nien Chung-Hsilitui-chaopiao(Shanghai, 1940), p. 295. 20. Legend has it that Yang-ming's mother had been pregnant for fourteen months before the baby finally arrived. Both the NP and HC report this occurrence. For the account in ATP see under birth; for HC see YMCS, 37:10. Although it seems unlikely, we should not rule out the possibility that his mother had actually been pregnant for more than ten months before Yang-ming was born. 21. For a historical account of this Loft see Lo Hung-hsien, "Jui-yiin-lou i-chih," in Shih-lien tung Lo hsien-sheng uen-chi (1616 edition), 13:4b-6b. 22. Lo Hung-hsien, 13:4b. 23. NP, under 5 sui (age 6). However, according to HC, he did not learn to speak until seven years of age. 24. Ibid. 25. Analects, XV:32. Although my interpretation is based on Chu Hsi's Lun-yii chi-chu, in Ssu-shu chi-chu (reprint, Taipei, 1952), I have consulted Liu Pao-nan's Lun-yii cheng-i (reprint, Taipei, 1958). 26. NP, under 5 sui. 27. Ibid., under 10 sui. See also Yang I-ch'ing, 37:6b and LuShen, 37:10b-ll. 28. NP, under 11 sui. This instance is recorded by Chan Jo-shui in his Yangming hsien-sheng mu-chih-ming, in YMCS, 37:15b. I am indebted to my colleague, Professor Leonard Nathan, for his kind help in the English translation of this and other poems by Wang Yang-ming used in the book. 29. NP, under 11 sui. 30. Feng Meng-lung, Ching-luan lu, I:6b. 31. NP, under 21 sui.

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32. Ibid. 33. See Chang Yu-ch'iian, p. 35. Cf. Frederick Goodrich Henke, The Philosophy of Wang Yang-ming (Chicago, 1916), pp. 7-8. 34. Ming-shih comp. Chang T'ing-yu et al. (Po-na edition), 181. 35. NP, under 21 sui. 36. HC, 37:19b. 37. Ibid. 38. For a general discussion of the ku-wen movement in the Sung, see Liu Ta-chieh, Chung-kuo wen-hsiieh fa-chan shih (reprint, Taipei, 1957), 11:44-61. 39. Yang-ming's association with the Seven Masters is mentioned in HC but not in NP. However, there is no reason to doubt the authenticity of such an association. See Yang-ming's own writing, "Hsu Ch'ang-kuo mu-chih-ming," in YMCS, 25:3-4b. For an account in the history of Ming literature, see Sung P'ei-wei, Ming wen-hsiieh shih (reprint, Taipei, 1957), pp. 297-302. 40. For the joint biography of the Three Yangs, see Ming-shih, 148. 41. Sung P'ei-wei, p. 82, and Liu Ta-chieh, 11:297. 42. HC, 37:19b. 43. NP, under 31 sui, 8thmonth. 44. See Sung P'ei-wei, pp. 94-95. 45. For a brief account on Han Yu's interpretative position, see Liu Ta-chieh, 1:281-283. 46. Feng Meng-lung, Ching-luan lu, 1:6b. 47. NP, under 11 sui. 48. Ibid. 49. For a general discussion of the patterns of "downward mobility" in traditional China, see Ping-ti Ho, The Ladder of Success in Imperial China (New York, 1960), p(p. 126-167. 50. See Li Shao-wen, Huang-Ming shih-shuo hsin-yu (blockprint edition, Wan-li period), 6:20. It is interesting to note that later among Shou-jen's students we find at least one chuang-yiian, Shu Kuo-shang. For information on Shu Kuoshang, see CHL, in YMCS, 3:27b. 51. See HC, 37:19. 52. Feng Meng-lung, Ching-luan lu, I:7a-b. 53. NP, under 46 sui, 1st month through 12th month; under 47 sui, 1st month through 3rd month. 54. Ibid., under 48 sui, 6th month. 55. Ibid., under 15 sui. 56. Ibid. 57. Ibid., under 48 sui, 11th month. 58. See Fan Yeh, Hou Han-shu (Po-na edition), 54. For a chronological account of Ma Yuan's last military campaign, which vividly portrays the dynamic personality and the tragic death of the Eastern Han general, see Ssu-ma Kuang, Tzu-chih t'ung-chien (reprint, Hong Kong, 1971), 1:1399-1412. 59. NP, under 15 sui. 60. For the event and the poem, see NP, under 57 sui, 10th month. 61. For Chang Liang's biography, see Ssu-ma Ch'ien, Shih-chi (reprint, Peking, 1972), 11:2033-2049.

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181

62. NP, under 15 sui. 63. Analects, XIII:21. 64. For an analysis of this aspect of Yang-ming's personality, see Julia Ching, "Wang Yang-ming (1472-1529): A Study in 'Mad Ardour,'" Papers on Far Eastern History (The Australian National University, March, 1971), pp. 90-99. 65. Yangl-ch'ing, 37:6b-7. 66. NP, under 28 sui. 67. For a biography of Wang Yfleh, see Ming-shih, 171. 68. NP, under 28 sui. For a discussion on the pa-chen t'u, see Ch'en Shihhsiang, "To Circumvent 'the Design of Eightfold Array,' " Tsing-h.ua Journal of Chinese Studies, new series 7:26-51 (August, 1968). 69. Feng Meng-lung, Ching-luan lu, I:10b-ll. 70. NP, under 26 sui. 71. In addition to NP, we find that Huang Wan and Chan Jo-shui both give the instance a prominent place in Yang-ming's biography. See HC, 37:19a-b for Huang Wan's account and Yang-ming hsien-sheng mu-chih ming in YMCS, 37:15b-16 for Chanjo-shui's account. 72. NP, under 28 sui. Foracomplete version of the memorial, see YMCS, 9:1-5. For an English translation, see Wing-tsit Chan, tr., Instructions for Practical Living and Other Neo-Confucian Writings by Wang Yang-ming (New York, 1964), pp. 284-292. 73. YMCS, 9:1-5. 74. NP, under 30 sui. The term p'ing-fan, used in the NP, legally means to reverse the verdict on a case that was thought to have been reached not in accordance with justice. 75. HC, 37:19b. 76. Chan Jo-shui, Yang-ming hsien-sheng mu-chih-ming, 37:15b. For this translation, see Julia Ching, p. 100. 77. NP, under 11 sui. For this translation, see Julia Ching, p. 103; only minor modifications have been made. See also her interpretation of the Taoist concept of the cinnabar field on the same page. 78. Feng Meng-lung, Ching-luan lu, 1:7. 79. Liu Ts'un-yan, "Taoist Self-cultivation in Ming Thought," in Self and Society in Ming Thought, ed. Wm. Theodore de Bary (New York, 1970), pp. 293-296. 80. For a brief discussion on this particular aspect of Taoist cultivation, see Chou Shao-hsien, Tao-chia yii shen-hsien (Taipei, 1970), pp. 132-184. 81. NP, under 17 sui. For this translation see Chang Yu-ch'uan, p. 34. Chang's footnote to this section is instructive: "This Taoist or Buddhist practice of sitting cross-legged and engaging in regulated breathing (utkatu kasana) is conventionally misnamed 'meditation.' In reality the secret consists in suppressing every thought, just the opposite of meditating." 82. NP, under 44 sui, 1st month. In 1515, since Shou-jen was still childless at forty-three, his father suggested that he adopt his cousin's son as the male inheritor of the family. A solemn ritual was performed in Peking to legitimize the adoption. At that time, none of Shou-jen's three younger brothers had any male progeny either. The seven-year-old by the name of Cheng-hsien was then recognized

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as the only heir of the Wang family. Shortly after his wife's death, Shou-jen remarried and his second wife bore him a son in less than two years. He was then fifty-four years old and it was only twenty-four months before his death. His triumph of "obtaining a son in old age" (lao-nien te-tzu), to use a Chinese idiom for such a great joy, was greeted with congratulatory poems by the six eldest members of his village. It was indeed a public celebration. The so-called "Six Friends of the House of Tranquility" (Ching-chai liu-yu), who dedicated the two poems to Yang-ming, were said to be all in their nineties. Their participation in the celebration of the new addition to the Wang family further indicates that it was greeted as an important public event in Yang-ming's native town. See NP, under 55 sui, 11th month. In the folk tradition of Ming China, it would have been a great sadness to the Wang clan if Shou-jen had never been blessed with a son of his own. To many relatives and friends of Shou-jen's father, it was indeed mournful that at the moment of Wang Hua's death (1522) the genealogical line of the Wang family was being continued only by an adopted grandson. Shou-jen himself must have been acutely aware of this predicament. 83. NP, under 17 sui. 84. Ibid. For this translation, cf. Chang Yii-ch uan, p. 34. 85. For Ch'eng Hao's remark, see Chu Hsi and Lu Tsu-ch'ien, comp., Chin-ssu lu (reprint, Taipei, 1966), 4:4. Also see Wing-tsit Chan, tr., Reflections on Things at Hand, the Neo-Confucian Anthology Compiled by Chu Hsi and Lu Tsu-ch'ien (New York, 1967), p. 133. 86. Lou Liang is not even discussed in Jung Chao-tsu's study on the history of Ming thought. See his Ming-tai ssu-hsiang shih (reprint, Taipei, 1962), p. 71. A very succinct and instructive account of Lou Liang is found in Kusumoto Masatsugu, So-Minjidai Jugaku shiso no kenkyu (Tokyo, 1964), pp. 411-414. 87. The centrality of the concept of ko-wu in the formulation of Yang-ming's spiritual direction will be discussed later. T'ang Chun-i has presented a systematic treatment of ko-wu from the perspective of Neo-Confucian philosophy in his Chung-kuo che-hsiieh yuan-lun (Hong Kong, 1966), 1:278-347. 88. NP, under 18iui', andHC, 37:19. 89. For a brief account of Lou Liang's life and teaching, see Huang Tsung-hsi, Ming-ju hsueh-an (Preface 1693; SPPY edition), 2:8-9. See also Cheng Chi-meng, Wang Yang-ming chuan (reprint, Taipei, 1957), p. 24. 90. NP, under 48 sui, 6th month. 91. Ibid., under 18it«'. 92. Ibid., under 27sui. 93. Ibid., under 21 sut. As Wing-tsit Chan (Instructions, p. 249) has pointed out, this event probably occurred in 1492 when Yang-ming was around twenty years old. For Yang-ming's own account see CHL, 3:23. 94. Quoted in NP, under 27 sui. See Chu Hsi, Chu Tzu ta-ch'uan, comp. Chu Tsai (reprint, Taipei, 1970), 14:12a-b. 95. NP, under 27 sui. 96. Ibid. 97. Ibid. 98. Ibid., under 30 sui. See Chang Yu-ch'uan, p. 38. Cf. Frederick Goodrich Henke, p. 9.

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99. In a letter Shou-jen wrote in response to a friend's query about the cult of longevity in 1508 he suggested, certainly with a touch of irony, that his friend give up all worldly entanglements and dwell in the mountains for a period of thirty years as a precondition for entering into such a cult. See YMCS, 21:4-5. 100. NP, under 30 sui. See Chang Yü-ch'üan, p. 94, and Frederick Goodrich Henke, pp. 9-10. 101. Feng Meng-lung, Ching-luan lu, I, l l b - 1 2 .

Notes to Chapter II (pp.

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1. NP, under SI sui, 8th month, and HC, in YMCS, 37:19b. Yang-ming's psychological struggle in this period of time is vividly described in Chang Hsi-chih, Yang-ming hsüeh-chuan (Taipei, 1961), pp. 10-13. 2. HC, 37:19b. Also see Chang Hsi-chih, p. 11. 3. NP, under 21 sui. 4. Ibid., under 27 sui. 5. Ibid., under 30 sui. 6. Ibid.,- under 18 sui. Also see Chan Jo-shui, Yang-ming hsien-sheng muchih-ming, in YMCS, 37:15b. 7. NP, under 27 sui. 8. Ibid., under 15sui. 9. Yang I-ch'ing, Hai-jih hsien-sheng mu-chih-ming, in YMCS, 37:7, and Lu Shen, Hai-jih hsien-sheng hsing-chuan, in YMCS, 37:11b. 10. Yang I-ch'ing, 37:7, and Lu Shen, 37:11b. 11. See his poems in YMCS, 19:5b-8b. 12. See his poem "Shan-chung li-ch'iu-jih ou-shu," YMCS, 19:6b. 13. See his poem "T'i ssu-lao wei-ch'i t'u," YMCS, 19:7. 14. See his poem "Lieh-hsien feng," YMCS, 19:8. 15. See the first of his two poems on "Hsi-hü tsui-chung man-shu," YMCS, 19:6b, and the second of his six poems on "Hua-ch'engssu," YMCS, 19:7b. 16. See the first of his two poems on "Fu-jung ko," YMCS, 19:8. 17. See his second poem on "Fu-jung ko," YMCS, 19:8b. 18. See his second poem on " Wu-hsiang ssu," YMCS, 19:7. 19. NP, under 31 sui, but in HC, 37:19b, the phrase "ch'ang-sheng chiu-shih," also a description of the Taoistic cult of longevity, is used. For a brief account on tao-yin, see Chou Shao-hsien, Tao-chia yii shen-hsien (Tapei, 1970), pp. 169-174. 20. NP, under 31 sui. Instead of hsien-chih, the HC, 37:19b, uses the term yü-chih, which essentially means the same thing. Also see Chou Shao-hsien, pp. 143-144, for the concept of yang-sheng. 21. NP, under 31 sui. See HC, 37:19b. For the English version, see Chang Yü-ch'üan, "Wang Shou-jen as a Statesman," Chinese Social and Political Review 23, no. 1:39 (1939). Also see Frederick Goodrich Henke, The Philosophy of Wang Yang-ming (Chicago, 1916), p. 10. 22. NP, under 31 sui. 23. Ibid. 24. Most of the secondary sources in Chinese follow the Nien-p'u and consider the Yang-ming Grotto experience the beginning of Shou-jen's orientation towards

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Confucianism; see Chang Hsi-chih, p. 12; Cheng Chi-meng, Wang Yang-ming chuan (reprint, Taipei, 1957), p. 36; Chia Feng-chen, Yang-ming hsiieh (Shanghai, 1933), p. 4; Ch'ien Mu, Yang-ming hsiieh shu-yao (Shanghai, 1930), p. 27; Hu Mei-ch'i, Yang-ming chiao-yu ssu-hsiang (Shanghai, 1927), p. 4; Hu Yueh, Wang Yang-ming (Shanghai, 1927), pp. 9-10. Surprisingly enough, to our knowledge, none has elaborated on its philosophical as well as psychological significance. 25. NP, under 31 sui. For his visit to the West Lake see "Hsi-hu tsui-chung man-shu,"two poems written by him in this period of time, YMCS, 19:6b. 26. For an authoritative study on Yang-ming's visit to these two monasteries, see Kusumoto Bun'yu, Oyomeino Zenteki shiso kenkyu (Nagoya, 1959), p., 115. 27. See Feng Meng-lung, Ching-luan lu, 1:14. 28. NP, under 31 sui. For an elaboration on this point from a Ch'an Buddhistic point of view, see Kusumoto Bun'yu, pp. 87-88. A case of Yang-ming's creative adaptation of Ch'an pedagogy can be found in CHL, in YMCS, 3:14b-15. "Tsokttan" is comparable topi-kuan (literally, wall-gazing), a Ch'an practice particularly associated with Bodhidharma. 29. NP, under 31 sui. 30. Ibid., under 54 sui, 10th month. 31. Ibid. 32. For example, Yang-ming tzu is used in his poems; see "Ssu-kuei hsiian f u , " YMCS, 19:4, and his preface to the "Pa-yung," YMCS, 19:12b. It is used also in his other writings; see "Tseng Cheng Te-fukuei-shenghsu," YMCS, 7:8b-9. 33. Yang-ming shan-jen is also used in his poems as a form of self-address though it does not seem to have occurred as often as Yang-ming tzu. For example, see his poem written for "Yang-ming pieh-tung," YMCS, 20:16b. 34. LuShen, 37:14b-15. 35. See his letter to Ho T'ing-jen, YMCS, 6:17. This letter is also quoted in NP, under 57 sui, 10th month. 36. Mao Ch'i-ling, Wang Wen-ch'eng chuan-pen, tse 18 in Ming-pien-chai ts'ung-shu (1864 edition), 1:2. Mao's contention is quoted in Yu Ch'ung-yao, Yang-ming hsien-sheng chuan-tsuan (Shanghai, 1923), 1:10-11 and also in Wingtsit Chan, tr., Instructions for Practical Living and Other Neo-Confucian Writings by Wang Yang-ming (New York, 1964), p. xxiii. 37. See Feng Meng-lung, Ching-luan lu (reprint, Taipei, 1968), I:12a-b. 38. Chanjo-shui, 37:15b. 39. Kusumoto Bun'yu compares Yang-ming's philosophical concepts with those of Hui-neng; see Kusumoto, pp. 145-161; and Nukariya Kaiten goes so far as to call his work Yang-ming yii Ch'an (originally titled Bodhidharma to Yomei) tr. Liu Jen-han (Shanghai, 1921). 40. Liu Ts'un-yan, "Ming-ju yu Tao-chiao," Hsin-ya hsueh-pao 8:275-283 (February 1967). See also his "Taoist Self-cultivation in Ming Thought," in Self and Society in Ming Thought, ed. Wm. Theodore de Bary (New York, 1970), pp. 307-321. 41. For example, see Chang Hsi-chih, pp. 7-10; Cheng Chi-meng, pp. 20-26; and Hu Yueh, pp. 3-11. 42. Although many of Kusumoto's arguments are somewhat farfetched and

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some of his evidence is merely circumstantial, his scholarly effort to establish a link between Yang-ming's philosophy and Ch'an Buddhism deserves our attention; see Kusumoto Bun'yu, pp. 195-240. Ch'an and Zen refer to the same Chinese character. For the sake of distinction, we have decided to use Chinese Ch'an and Japanese Zen. 43. See Nukariya Kaiten, passim. 44. Liu Tsung-chou, Liu Chi-shan hsien-sheng i-chi(preface, 1753), 1 4 : l l a - b . It is misleading, however, to interpret Liu's statement as a direct attack on Wang Yang-ming. For Liu's defense of Yang-ming's position, see Liu Tsung-chou, 6:16a-b, 7:15a-b, 16:16b-20, 17:9-10. For the names of the "Five Houses" see Kenneth K. S. Ch'en, Buddhism in China (Princeton, 1964), p. 357. For a historical account on the "Five Mouses," see Heinrich Dumoulin, A History of Zen Buddhism (Boston, 1963), pp. 106-122. 45. Wing-tsit Chan, "How Buddhistic is Wang Yang-ming?" Philosophy East and West, 7:203-216 (December, 1962). 46. Kusumoto, Bun'yu, pp. 126-131. 47. The calculation is based on Kusumoto Bun'yu, pp. 114-125. 48. Ibid., pp. 92-111. For the preface attributed to Yang-ming, see "Sungjih tung-cheng-shih Liao-an ho-shang kuei-kuo hsu," in Kusumoto Bun'yu, pp. 107-108. Since the preface is not included in Yang-ming's collected works, some further research is required. For monk Keigo (Kuei-wu), see Bukkyd daijiten, ed. Mochizuki Shinko (Tokyo, 1935-1937), 1:837; and Zengaku jiten, ed. Jimbo Nyoten and Ando Bunei (Tokyo, 1915), p. 304. 49. Ch'en Chien, Hsueh-pu t'ung pien, quoted in Kusumoto Bun'yu, p. 160. Our contention is that although Yang-ming spoke very highly of both of them, intellectually he was definitely less indebted to them than to Chu Hsi. For Yangming's reference to Hui-neng and Bodhidharma, see "Ta jen wen shen-hsien," YMCS, 21-4b. 50. Wing-tsit Chan, Instructions, p. xxxvii. 51. Henrich Dumoulin, p. 96. 52. Ibid, pp. 106-122. Also see Kenneth K. S. Ch'en, pp. 356-364. 53. Henrich Dumoulin, pp. 123-136. 54. Kenneth K. S. Ch'en, pp. 471-473. 55. Henrich Dumoulin, p. 107. See Ch'u Ju-chi, Chih-yiieh lu (preface, 1602; reprint, 1959), 13:10a-b. 56. Henrich Dumoulin, p. 109. 57. NP, under 31 sui. 58. See Wing-tsit Chan, tr., A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy (Princeton, 1963), p. 201. 59. CHL, l:17b-18. For this translation, see Wing-tsit Chan, Instructions, p. 52. Italics are mine. 60. CHL, 3:7b. For this translation, see Wing-tsit Chan, Instructions, p. 205. Italics are mine. 61. Clifford Geertz, "The Integrative Revolution," in Old Societies and New States: The Quest for Modernity in Asia and Africa, ed. Clifford Geertz (New York, 1963), pp. 109-110. 62. NP, under 49 sui, 8th intercalary month.

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63. CHL, 1:13. For this translation, see Wing-tsit Chan, J»wirMc Lu (province) Lu (mountain) ]|£ Lu Ch'eng (disciple) g j g i Lu Ch'eng (governor) Lu Hsiang-shan (Chiu-yiian)

(»)

m Lu-ling | g | g Lu Lung-ch'i Lu Shen Lu-Wang Lung-ch'ang f|:||§ "Lung-ch'ang-sheng wen-ta" Lung-ch'uan

GLOSSARY Lung-ch'üan shan Lung-hsi fffiPl Lung-kang jft|?5| "Lung-kang hsin-kou" "Lung-kang man-hsing' : Lung-shan f | ( i l Lung-shan hsien-sheng üU-l pfeife. Lung-shan ssu f i l i l i Lung-t'an M a Yüan (Fu-po) (tfc® M a o Ch'i-ling ^ f à M a o Tse-tung M a o Ying-k'uei (Cho-an) ^ W M mm) Meng f ü meng-chüeh kuan ?P5UI!il " M e n g yü I-chih K'un-chi y ü " Mi-io mm mi-shu Miao | g Mijima Fuku H Ü j i S Min ming Eg ming-che pao-shen Ming-i Ming-shih Mishima Yukio mo-pu wen-ho o" Nakae T ö j u Nan-ch'ang fff H Nan-p'ing ^ f p . nei p j nei-hsing p g ^ nei-tan pjflNing ^ Nishitani Keiji no§ nü-she ^ f f e Nukariya Kaiten

215

Ochia-ochia ßnfJfßnftL Okada Takehiko Ou-yang Hsiu Oyömei no tetsugaku pa-chen t'u APRISI "Pa-yung" A I * pao-chia pei-tsou H u nan-tsou Yüeh ^ t ^ i M pen-t l pi f ß pi-kuan "Pi yüeh shan-fang" "Pieh Chan Kan-ch'üan hsü" If&J* "Pieh san-tzu hsü" g l J H i ^ "Pieh yu yü-chung" g l j ^ ^ i f pien f j i Pien Kung(T'ing-shih) Pin-yang P'in pn p'ing-fan P'ing-hsiang "P'ing-hsiang tao-chung yeh Lienhsi t z ' u " ^ f f l m + l g ^ i p B l po-i i m Po-na Po-yang {ÖH Po Yen-hui g f ö f t "Pu-huang ch'i-chü Yen-yün chih "Pu-mei" Sakuma Shözan fe^Jsü&UJ san-kuan — gfl san-ts'ai — shan "Shan-chung Ii-ch'iu-jih ou-shu" UJ^ÄiiCSiB» Shan-yin U J ^ Shang

216

GLOSSARY

"Shantung hsiang-shih l u " \li~MM mm "Shantung-shih liu shou" tr shao chan-shih flf^f shao-yu ta-chih ^ ^ j A i f e " S h e Hsiang yii-mai Yii-lu shih tsun" she-hsiieh shen flf shen-hsin chih-hsiieh ^ [ ^ ¿ S p l shen-ming shen-seng ; sheng-hsiieh shih (time) shih (affair) shih-chia p'ai fa Shih-chieh Shih-jen Mil shih-li chih chia f ^ H t ^ ^ shih-shih shih-wen shih-wu shih-yu chih chien ¡=55¿.Pal Shimada Kenji shou ^ Shu-ching | | | g shu-chi-shih pf;fc " S h u Ghu Yang-po chiian" ]

mm

im " S h u Ch'Uan-weng p i " Shu Kuo-shang gf " S h u Wu-chen p'ien ta Chiing T'aich'ang" « g M I M i ; ^ Shui-hsi t K ® Shun ^ Shushigaku to Tomeigaku so m "So-wei ta-ch'en" J f r H A E Ssu Ssu-chou ssu-chti chiao ES^bJ^C

¿

Ssu-ma Ch'ien laj J§jH Ssu-ma K u a n g Ssu-ming H K Ssu-shu ta-ch'uan [Z3JJA:§i su-jen 0 A sui " S u i - m u " mm " S u n g Jih tung-cheng-shih Liao-an ho-shang kuei-kuo hsii" jig 0 |pf lE&TmftftfflSIf " S u n g M a o Hsien-fu chih-shih" j g «BlSffc Ta-ch'u A ^ ta-hua A i t Ta-hsiieh wen A¥fii! " T a j e n wen shen-hsien"^: Afn3fi'fill " T a K u Tung-ch'iao shu" If* " T a Lo Cheng-an shao-tsai shu" " T a M a o Cho-an chien-chao shuyiian " T a M a o Hsien-fu" g H g ^ g f l Ta-ming hui-tien A K^Tzft " T a yu-jen w e n " g ^ A f S T a i Hsien WMt T'ai ^ t'ai-hsu A ® t'ai-ko m m "T'ai-shan-kao tz'u W a n g Neihan-ssu hsien-yiin" ftt&wUR« T'ai-tsung A t k Takase Takejiro tang-t'ou pang-ho T ' a n g (dynasty) T ' a n g (sage-king) T ' a n g Chiin-i Jjf^jjffi Tao 3 ! tao-p'o 3li® tao-yin | T ' a o Yuan-ming j ^ g g

GLOSSARY te " T e n g T'ai-shan" Ti-tsang T u n g i f e ^ ^ l t'ijfi " T ' i Ssu-lao wei-ch'i t ' u " M M ^ M tftWI " T i a o Ch'u P'ing f u " i g J B ^ F K t'iao Tien m t'ien t'ien-chi ^ ^ T'ien-ch'uan ch'iao ^ ^ ^ T'ien Tzu-fang f B J - J j ting-chiao t'ing-chang t'ou-nao §?)]