Receptions of Greek and Roman Antiquity in East Asia 9004340122, 9789004340121

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“This book is a milestone in the development of studies of reception of the Greco-Roman Classical tradition. It consolidates the growing tendency to expand these studies beyond Europe and North America and will both stimulate further research and remain as an indispensable reference work for years to come.” – Glenn Most, Professor of Greek Philology at the Scuola Normale Superiore in Pisa and Visiting Professor at the University of Chicago in the Committee on ­Social Thought “Ambitiously conceived and adequately executed, this anthology showcases the result of a multiyear research project on the receptions of Greek and Roman classical culture across East Asia. By taking a multidisciplinary approach, it includes a cross-section of well researched and richly written papers on how the Greek and Roman gods, their myths and legends and the various forms of art and literature inspired by them fascinated Asian artists, architects, poets, writers and scholars over the past five centuries. Meanwhile, the book presents convincing evidence that this cross-cultural dialogue has not followed a unilateral path. Rather, in their transferring to Asia, as the editors and contributors argue, Western classical cultures were not only received by the Asians but they themselves also received a new form of life that has, to some extent, rivaled its original form. It is a valuable reading for Western classicists and specialists in Asia and, indeed, anyone interested in cross-cultural communications between the East and West and beyond.” – Q. Edward Wang, Professor of History at Rowan University and Peking ­University “In this book, the authors have covered a wide range of topics on the spread and reception of Greek and Roman culture in East Asia. This is a highly significant work. To borrow from Edward Said’s ‘travel theory,’ one can argue that Greek and Roman culture in East Asia was a ‘travel of culture.’ Through this process from West to East, Greek and Roman culture kept changing its outlook. From its Classical origins in Europe, it eventually gave birth to the modern world in East Asia.” – Ge Zhaoguang, Professor in the National Institute for Advanced Humanistic Studies and the Department of History at Fudan University in Shanghai



  

Metaforms Studies in the Reception of Classical Antiquity

Editors-in-Chief Almut-Barbara Renger (Freie Universität Berlin) Jon Solomon (University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign) John T. Hamilton (Harvard University) Editorial Board Kyriakos Demetriou (University of Cyprus) Constanze Güthenke (Oxford University) Miriam Leonard (University College London) Mira Seo (Yale-NUS College)

VOLUME 13

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/srca



 Cover illustration: The cast drawing class at Shonan Art School, the pre-college institution, August 23, 2013. Students are drawing the bust of the Borghese Ares. © Rui Nakamura. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Renger, Almut-Barbara, editor. | Fan, Xin (Historian), editor. Title: Receptions of Greek and Roman antiquity in East Asia / edited by Almut-Barbara Renger, Xin Fan. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2018. | Series: Studies in the reception of classical antiquity ; volume 13 Identifiers: LCCN 2018023343 (print) | LCCN 2018031855 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004370715 (E-book) | ISBN 9789004340121 (hardback : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Civilization, Classical--Appreciation--East Asia. | Civilization, Classical--Influence. Classification: LCC DE59 (ebook) | LCC DE59 .R34 2018 (print) | DDC 303.48/25038--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018023343

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 2212-9405 isbn 978-90-04-34012-1 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-37071-5 (e-book) Copyright 2019 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents

Foreword ix John T. Hamilton List of Figures and Tables xi Notes on Contributors xiii Note on Personal Names xxi  Receptions and Cross-Cultural Transfers: On Greco-Roman Antiquity in East Asia – An Introduction 1 Almut-Barbara Renger and Xin Fan

Part 1 Encountering Traditions: Early Exchanges and Transfers of Knowledge 1

The Jesuit Mission to China and the Reception of Ancient Greek and Roman Culture in China and Korea 19 Andreas Müller-Lee

2

Reading Classical Latin Authors in the Jesuit Mission in China: Seventeenth to Eighteenth Centuries 50 Noël Golvers

3

History and Reception of Greek and Latin Studies in Japan 73 Ichiro Taida

Part 2 Receiving Texts: The Travel of Tropes and Literary Fusions 4

Translating and Rewriting Western Classics in China (1920s–1930s): The Case of the Xueheng Journal 91 Jinyu Liu

5

Toward a New Mode of Vernacular Chinese: A Study on Zhou Zuoren’s Modern Translation of Theocritus’ Id. 10 112 Lihua Zhang

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St. Sebastian Reborn: Greco-Roman Ideals of the Body in Mishima Yukio’s Postwar Writing 133 Ikuho Amano

7

Retelling Medea in Postwar Japan: The Function of Ancient Greece in Two Literary Adaptations by Mishima Yukio and Kurahashi Yumiko 154 Luciana Cardi

Part 3 Negotiating Terms: The Discourse of Antiquity and Modernity 8

An Adoring Gaze: The Idea of Greece in Modern Japan 175 Hiroshi Nara

9

Imagining Classical Antiquity in Twentieth-Century China 202 Xin Fan

10

Leo Strauss and the Rebirth of Classics in China 219 Xiaofeng Liu

11

The Ancient Greeks in Modern China: History and Metamorphosis 237 Shadi Bartsch

Part 4 Pluralizing Legacies: Visual, Material, and Performing Cultures 12

Cool Rome and Warm Japan: Thermae Romae and the Promotion of Japanese Everyday Culture 259 Sari Kawana

13

Back to the Future: Reviving Classical Figures in Japanese Comics 287 Carla Scilabra

Contents

vii

14

Queen Hudijin: A Medea-like Chinese Woman in Guo Moruo’s Historical Play The Peacock’s Gallbladder 310 Tianshu Yu

15

Seoul as an Exhibition Space of Urban Daily Life: The Contemporary Korean Reception of Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata (2005) 325 Yuh-Jhung Hwang

16

Politics, Culture, and Classical Architectural Elements in Taiwan 342 Chia-Lin Hsu

Part 5 Sharing Traditions: Western Classics in Contemporary East Asia 17

Classical Studies in China 363 Yang Huang

18

Retrospective and Prospects of Ancient Western History Studies in Korea: Awaiting the Sixtieth Anniversary of the Korean Society of Western History 376 Deogsu Kim

19

A Brief Report on Classical Scholarship in Korea, Focusing on Literature 395 Jaewon Ahn

20 The Influence of Roman Law in Korea 411 Byoung Jo Choe 21

Western Classics at Chinese Universities – and Beyond: Some Subjective Observations 430 Fritz-Heiner Mutschler

22

Western Classics in Japan: Memories of Bungakubu, Kyoto, 1997– 2002 445 Elizabeth Craik

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The Reception of Parthenon Sculpture in Modern Japanese Art Studies 454 Rui Nakamura



Index of Names 467

Foreword Conceptualizations of reception imply that works of art and literature constitute a gift. To receive the legacy of another epoch and another culture means engaging in material that has been given over, dealing with something transported, delivered, or entrusted – in Latin, a traditum – which places each recipient in the position of an heir or a grantee. Yet modes of reception are hardly ever limited to passive acceptance. On the contrary, the unfolding of reception histories – the tradition of traditions – almost invariably inscribes every reader, viewer or spectator into a system of exchange. In receiving that which has come from afar, temporally, geographically, or culturally, one appears to incur a debt that henceforth summons or even obliges recipients to offer something in return. The study of cultural receptions turns on questions of reciprocity: inquiring into not simply what has been acquired, but rather into how such acquisitions return these gifts to the tradition itself, how they enhance, increase, and supplement the system of exchange as a whole. Reception history therefore ends up being a meditation on cultural gratitude and generosity. The present collection offers a number of excellent insights into the extent and limits of these acts of gratitude and generosity by providing a broad range of outstanding essays on the many topics, themes, and tensions that have emerged in East Asian receptions of Greco-Roman antiquity. With scholarly contributions from across the world, representing diverse approaches – from historical research to formalist considerations, from aesthetic theorizations to assessments of contemporary appropriations – the volume decisively represents the gamut of reflections on cultural transfers and exchanges between the so-called West and East, in a way, moreover, that usefully interrogates this rather fraught and generally misleading division. Different academic cultures entail differing sets of positions and expectations; but such differences need not amount to incommunicability. To be sure, the individual articles vary in terms of method, argumentation, and historical comprehensiveness; but it is precisely this variety that constitutes the overall richness of the collection. Indeed, this kaleidoscopic quality best captures the complexity of the project – a complexity replete with nuance and perspectival shifts, which resist submission to simplifying consistency or cohesiveness. The multiple lines of reception, both giving and giving back, can never be reduced to determined routes and well-traveled itineraries. Rather, it is arguably the less familiar pathways, the surprising displacements and détournements, that eventually arrive at truer, albeit more difficult destinations.

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Although the Classical tradition has long been regarded as the exportation of hegemony, authority, and colonializing power, narratives of the real development of these intellectual and creative exchanges rarely journey on a one-way street. Nor can these stories of cultural inheritance be written off as mere examples of tradition and individual talent. Despite their obvious distinctions, what the following essays all share in common is the conviction that the gift of tradition refers to actions and interventions involving sources and receptions alike. For this reason, the acknowledged difficulty of the volume is arguably its primary virtue; for the book ultimately grapples with important and pressing issues of cultural difference within the context of globalization. By attending to this fundamental tension, the project persistently addresses relevant problems concerning cultural homogenization and reactionary parochialism, issues that touch on social and political aspects that clearly move well beyond academia. The performative aspect of this collection should not be overlooked. The very diversity of the contributions from European and Asian scholars formulates a mode of reciprocal exchange that inherently mirrors the collection’s object of study. The presentations in themselves enact the central gesture of reception and the obligation contained therein. In the end the hope remains that gratitude will breed gratitude, exercising a freedom grounded in obligation, replying to rather than complying with the heritage that antiquity has bequeathed to the modern cultures far beyond the Western European orbit. The study of East Asian receptions of Greco-Roman antiquity – a study of communicative differences – is therefore exemplary for the study of reception in general. In our present climate of increasing cultural chauvanism, frightened insensitivity, and secluded atomization, enterprises like the one offered here rest on the kind of mutual indebtedness that has perhaps never been more vitally urgent. John T. Hamilton

Cambridge, Massachusetts

List of Figures and Tables 6.1

Figures

Saint Sebastian (ca. 1616) by Guido Reni. Oil on canvas, 127 × 92 cm. Musei di Strada Nuova, Palazzo Rosso, Genoa. The painting is extensively discussed in Mishima Yukio’s Confessions of a Mask (1949). The sensual portrayal of the saint galvanizes the protagonist’s first ejaculation 137 6.2 Mishima poses St. Sebastian inspired by Guido Reni’s Saint Sebastian (ca. 1616), now in the Palazzo Rosso of Genoa. This photography by Shinoyama Kishin was published in the first issue of the literary magazine Chi to bara (Blood and roses) (1966) 148 12.1 Cover of Thermae Romae 261 12.2 Satsuki and Julius Caesar. Satsuki discovers Julius Caesar as the embodiment of her ideal man (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 4: 70) 266 12.3 Mount Fuji vs. Mount Vesuvius. Lucius has been transported via bathwater to contemporary Japan. In his confusion, he mistakes the painting of Mount Fuji for one of Mount Vesuvius (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 16) 271 12.4 Shampoo hat. The old man shows Lucius how to use a ‘shampoo hat,’ whereas Lucius thinks to himself: ‘A crown? Is this old man the head of this tribe?’ (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 93) 272 12.5 Washlet. With no understanding of modern technology, Lucius is puzzled as to how many slaves the flat-faced tribe employ in order to make the Washlet work (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 131) 277 16.1 A building with dents and Ionic capitals, Chongqing N. Rd., Taipei, ­Taiwan 348 16.2 An entrance decorated with dents and Corinthian capitals, MRT Zhongxiao Xinsheng Station, Taipei, Taiwan 349 16.3 Outbound departures of Taiwanese to Europe and America 1980–2012 351 23.1a The cast of the bust of the ‘Hermes of Olympia’ 456 23.1b A drawing of the bust of the ‘Hermes of Olympia.’ Drawing: Kota Kato. An early stage. November, 2012 456 23.1c A completed drawing of the ‘Hermes of Olympia’ 457 23.2 The cast drawing class at Shonan Art School, the pre-college institution, August 23, 2013. Students are drawing the bust of the Borghese Ares 457 23.3 Diagram showing the combined effort of art history, art education, and art creation 458

xii 23.4

23.5a 23.5b 23.5c 23.6a 23.6b 23.6c

4.1 16.1

List Of Figures And Tables The three-dimensional recreation of the gods of the Parthenon frieze. Displayed at the ‘Parthenon Now’ exhibit, the British Museum, from November 2012 to May 2013 459 The Parthenon frieze, (from the left) Hermes, Dionysus, Demeter, and Ares. British Museum 460 Speculative bird’s-eye view of Hermes, Dionysus, Demeter, Ares, and three other figures. Drawing: Kota Kato 461 The bird’s-eye view, (from the left) Hermes, Dionysus, Demeter, and Ares. Source: Second Sight of the Parthenon Frieze, 1998 461 The drawing of Demeter in the Parthenon frieze 462 Demeter nude 463 The skeletal structure of Demeter 463

Tables The Xueheng translations of select key terms in the English versions of ­Platonic and Aristotelian works 100 Departments of European Languages in Taiwanese Universities 352

Notes on Contributors Jaewon Ahn is Professor of Western Classical Philology at Seoul National University. His research concerns ancient rhetoric of Western civilization, ancient literary history of Western civilization, the history of encounters between civilizations, translation, reception history of Classical texts between Eastern and Western civilization, history of Classical schol­arship, and comparative studies between Asia and Europe. Ikuho Amano  is Associate Professor of Japanese at the University of Nebraska–Lincoln, where she teaches literature, culture, film, and language. Her research has explored various themes salient in modern and contemporary Japanese literature, particularly the idea of decadence, postwar body politics, and issues of economy. In recent years her research has expanded its parameters to include other areas, such as popular cultural production (anime, manga, and photography) and consumption of industrial memory. She is currently working on a book project that commemorates Japan’s economic bubble (ca. 1986–1992). Shadi Bartsch is the Helen A. Regenstein Distinguished Service Professor of Classics and director of the Stevanovich Institute on the Formation of Knowledge at the University of Chicago. She has written and edited several books, including most recently Persius: A Study in Food, Philosophy, and the Figural and (with Alessandro Schiesaro) The Cambridge Companion to Seneca. She is also a co-editor of the University of Chicago Seneca in Translation series. Her research focuses on the literature of the Neronian period, Roman Stoicism, epistemic history, and the contemporary Chinese reception of the Western Classics. Luciana Cardi is Lecturer in Japanese Studies and Italian language and culture at Osaka University. She received her master’s degree in Japanese Studies at Osaka University of Foreign Languages and obtained a PhD in comparative literature from L’Orientale University of Naples, Italy. Her research interests include contemporary Japanese literature, Asian American studies, comparative literature, and gender studies. She is currently researching adaptations of Japanese folktales in American fiction, and her project is supported by the Kakenhi Fund for Scientific Research, from the Japanese Ministry of Education. Her publications

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include ‘Ancient Greece and Contemporary Japan in Mishima Yukio’s Theatre: Niobe and The Decline and Fall of the Suzaku’ (Studies in Language and Culture, 2015), ‘A Fool Will Never Be Happy: Kurahashi Yumiko’s Retelling of Snow White’ (Marvels & Tales: Journal of Fairy-Tale Studies, 2013), and ‘Angela Carter’s Postmodern Rewriting of Japan’ (Contact Zones: Rewriting Genre across the East-West Border, 2003). Guangchen Chen is a Cotsen Fellow in the Society of Fellows and Lecturer in the Humanities/ Comparative Literature at Princeton University. He received his PhD in Comparative Literature (with a secondary field in Music) from Harvard University. His first book manuscript investigates the interplay between intellectual innovations and the collecting of ancient artifacts in twentieth-century China. His research interests include modern Chinese literature and intellectual history, Sino-Czech cultural relations, phenomenology of music, and the politics of aesthetics. He translated Albert Schweitzer’s Bach into Chinese, and is currently working on the Chinese translation of David Damrosch’s How to Read World Literature. He held the Frederic Sheldon Traveling Fellowship from Harvard University and a Junior Fellowship in the ‘Principle of Cultural Dynamics’ network from Freie Universität Berlin.  Byoung Jo Choe has been Professor of Roman law and European legal history at Seoul National University’s (SNU) College of Law and School of Law since 1985, and he has been director of SNU’s Interdisciplinary Graduate Program in Classical Studies (2010–2016). Professor Choe holds an LL.B and an LL.M from SNU, a Dr. jur. with distinction from Georg-August-Universität Göttingen, and he is the winner of the SNU Research Award (2012) and Youngsan Legal Culture Award (2015). His academic interests include Roman law, civil law, and European and Korean legal history. He has authored and co-authored several books, including the largest commentaries of the Korean Civil Code, and has published over ninety specialized articles on Roman law. Professor Choe served as president of the Korean Society of Legal History (2010–2014) and the Korean Society of Greco-Roman Studies (2010–2012). He has also been a corresponding member of the G10 National University (SNU) College of Law and School. Elizabeth Craik previously Professor at Kyoto University (1997–2002), is now Honorary Professor in the School of Classics at the University of St Andrews, Scotland. She has published extensively on Greek society and literature, particularly Euripidean

Notes on Contributors

xv

tragedy, but also on Hippocratic medicine, where her main research interests now lie. Xin Fan is Assistant Professor of East Asian history at the State University of New York at Fredonia. His research focuses on the production of world-historical knowledge over the course of the twentieth century in China as well as the study of the reception of Greco-Roman knowledge in East Asia. Noël Golvers PhD in Classical philology, is Senior Researcher at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven (KU Leuven). He studies Latin texts on the Jesuit mission in China, especially in the early Qing period, focusing on Ferdinand Verbiest’s astronomical work. He has contributed many shorter works on mainly cultural aspects of the Jesuit mission in the Qing period, with regard to history of science and book culture, and the communication networks between Europe and China, such as Building Humanistic Libraries in Late Imperial China (Rome, 2011) and Libraries of Western Learning for China, 3 vols (Leuven, 2012.2013.2015). Recently he published a revised edition of the correspondence of F. Verbiest (Letters of a Peking Jesuit, Ferdinand Verbiest Institute, KU Leuven, 2017). Currently he is pre­paring a monograph on the learned network of the China missionary Johann Schreck Terrentius, S.J., in Europe (ca. 1600–1618). Chia-Lin Hsu obtained her doctorate in Classical archaeology from the University of Oxford and is now Assistant Professor in the History Department of Tunghai University, Taichung, Taiwan. She specializes in the connoisseurship and technique of Greek red-figure vase painting. With a bachelor’s degree in chemistry as well as years of training in Chinese calligraphy, she looks at Greek vase painting from a unique viewpoint. She also researches the reception of Greek and Roman decorative elements of Taiwanese architecture that appear on Japanese colonial buildings as well as more recent constructions. Her academic interests include the impact of Classical archaeology on the study of ancient history, and so far this focuses on the excavations related to the Battle of Marathon and their historical interpretations. Yang Huang PhD King’s College London, is currently Professor of Ancient History and Chair in the Department of History, Fudan University, Shanghai. His early research interest was land tenure in ancient Greece. Since then he has moved on to

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studying Athenian democracy and the comparative study of the barbarian and ethnic identity in ancient Greece and China. Yuh-Jhung Hwang  is a doctoral candidate in Theatre Arts at the University of Pittsburgh. She lectured on Korean language and culture at University College Cork, Ireland. She won the New Scholars’ Prize of the International Federation of Theatre Research with an essay titled ‘Mourning Origin: Performing the 1916 Easter Rising’ in 2014. Her research areas are based on audience reception, theater culture, and history. She has published widely on modern and contemporary Korean theater and culture. Among her articles is ‘A Mad Mother and Her Dead Son: The Impact of the Irish Theatre on Modern Korean Theatre’, which appeared in Literature Compass (2012). Sari Kawana is Associate Professor of Japanese at the University of Massachusetts Boston. She is the author of Murder Most Modern: Detective Fiction and Japanese Culture (University of Minnesota Press, 2008) and The Uses of Literature in Modern Japan: Histories and Cultures of the Book (Bloomsbury, 2018). Her research interests include modern Japanese literature, genre fiction, history of the book, adaptation, manga, and the relationship between culture and tourism in the contemporary world. Deogsu Kim is Professor in the History Education Department, College of Education, Seoul National University. His main research areas include the political and social history of the Augustan Principate, the history of Rome and Christianity, the history of education in Greek and Roman society, and world history education for South Korean middle- and high-school students. Haiying Liu is Associate Professor of Western literature in the Department of Foreign Languages, College of Humanities and Development Studies, China Agricultural University, Beijing. Born in Liaoning Province, China, she was educated first at Northeast Normal University, and later at Peking University. She is the editor and co-translator of Selected English Dramas with Chinese Translation (Beijing: China International Broadcasting Press). Her current research interest is the English Romantic poet John Keats.

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Jinyu Liu  PhD Columbia University 2004, is Professor of Classical studies at DePauw University, USA, and Shanghai ‘1000 Plan’ Distinguished Professor at Shanghai Normal University, China. Her main research interests include Roman social history, Latin epigraphy, and the reception of Greco-Roman Classics in China. She is currently completing a book-length project on the reception of GrecoRoman Classics in China and serving as the principal investigator for the project ‘Translating the Complete Corpus of Ovid into Chinese with Commentaries,’ sponsored by the National Social Science Fund of China (2015–2020). Her article on ‘Virgil in China’ is forthcoming in Susanna Braund and Zara Torlone (eds.), Virgil and His Translators, from Oxford University Press. Xiaofeng Liu is Professor of Comparative Classics in the College of Liberal Arts of Renmin University of China, as well as current director of the Centre for Classical Studies at Renmin University and president of the Chinese Comparative Classical Association, now mainly focusing on Classical philology, political philosophy, history of European thought, and history of Chinese political thought. Andreas Müller-Lee studied in Leipzig, Nanjing, and Bochum, and finished his PhD (in Korean and Chinese studies) at Ruhr-Universität Bochum. He has worked at Seoul National University, Ruhr-Universität, and Freie Universität Berlin. His research focuses on the histories and intellectual histories of premodern Korea and China. Fritz-Heiner Mutschler is Professor Emeritus of Latin at the Institute of Classics, Technische Universität Dresden. He studied in Heidelberg and Berlin, and taught in Heidelberg (1973–1988), Changchun (1988–1992), Tianjin (1992), Dresden (1993–2011), and Beijing (2011–2016). His main research areas include Augustan poetry, Roman values, Roman philosophy, and ancient historiography in comparative perspective. He is the author of monographs on Caesar’s commentaries and the elegies of Tibullus and the co-editor of Römische Werte als Gegenstand der Altertumswissenschaft (2005), Conceiving the Empire: Rome and China Compared (2008), Römische Werte und römische Literatur im frühen Prinzipat (2011), and The Homeric Epics and the Chinese Book of Songs: Foundational Texts Compared (2018).

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Rui Nakamura has been Associate Professor of the history of ancient Greek art at Kochi University since 2014, after teaching at Tokyo University of Arts from 2004 to 2014. She is the author of ‘The Hediste Stele in the Context of Hellenic Funerary Art: The Display of the Corpse of a Tragic Woman’ (PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 1995), and ‘Recreation in 3-D of the Gods on the Parthenon Frieze: Body and Space of the Invisibles’ in The Parthenon Frieze. The Ritual Communication between the Goddess and the Polis, Parthenon Project Japan 2011–2014, ed. Toshihiro Osada (Vienna: Phoibos Verlag, 2016). Her main research areas include Greek funerary art and the religious aspects of Parthenon sculpture. She ­currently directs the project 3-D Recreation of the Olympian Gods of the Parthenon Frieze. Hiroshi Nara is Professor and Chair of the Department of East Asian Languages and Literatures at the University of Pittsburgh in Pennsylvania. He has a wide range of research interests, including Japanese language pedagogy, linguistic semantics, translation studies, and interwar intellectual history. He is particularly interested in the formation of aesthetic categories in modern Japan. His recent publications include The Structure of Detachment: The Aesthetic Vision of Kuki Shūzō (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2004), which contains his English translation of Kuki Shūzō’s ‘Iki’ no kōzō (1930), and Pilgrimages to the Ancient Temples in Nara, an English translation of Watsuji Tetsurō’s Koji junrei (1919). Almut-Barbara Renger is Professor of Ancient Religion and Culture and Their Reception History at the Institute for Religious Studies at Freie Universität Berlin. Her research concentrates on the reception of Greco-Roman antiquity, dynamics in the history of religions between Asia, Europe, and America, the relationship of religion and literature, and key terms and concepts central to the study of religion. Recent publications include Oedipus and the Sphinx: The Threshold Myth from Sophocles through Freud to Cocteau (University of Chicago Press, 2013), and Pythagorean Knowledge from the Ancient to the Modern World: Askesis – Religion – Science (Harrassowitz, 2016). She is currently working on the book project New Antiquities: Transformations of Ancient Religion in the New Age and ­Beyond, to be published with Equinox.

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Carla Scilabra is a Classical archaeologist. She received her PhD from the Università degli Studi di Torino in 2013, having written her thesis on preadult individuals in the Greek colonies of Sicily and Magna Graecia. Her main research fields are the archaeology of identity and the study of ancient material culture, especially Greek and Roman pottery. Lately she has studied the reception of the Classical heritage in modern media, mainly in the representation of Greco-Roman history and myth in Japanese comics and animated productions: among her works on this subject are ‘Theoi becoming Kami: Classical Mythology in the Anime World,’ in Ancient Magic and the Supernatural in the Modern Visual and Performing Arts (London, 2015), written with M.G. Castello, and ‘Vivono fra noi: L’uso del classico come espressione di alterità nella produzione fumettistica giapponese,’ in Status Quaestionis issue 8 (2015) on Classical reception. Ichiro Taida is Associate Professor at Toyo University in Japan. His research interests include Greek epics and Classical reception studies. He researched the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite for his doctoral thesis and received his PhD from Hokkaido University in Japan in 2005. He has had a number of articles published, focusing especially on the Homeric Hymns and the history of Western Classical studies in Japan.​ Jiaming Xiu received his Masters degree in literature from Peking University, P.R. China (2014), and has dedicated himself to reviewing books and translating ever since. His recent translation work includes a Chinese translation of Revolution of the Heart by Haiyan Lee (Beijing: Peking University Press, to be published in 2018). Tianshu Yu is currently Professor of Western literature at the Institute of World Literature, School of Foreign Languages, Peking University, P.R. China. She was born in Beijing and educated at Peking University before becoming a staff member there. She is the author of the following three books: Mainstream Thoughts in the Period of May 4th Literature and Christian Culture; Guowei Wang, Moruo Guo and Confucianism; and A Survey of Western Literature. She is also the coauthor of Zen and Landscape Architecture. Her research interests include Chinese literature, Western literature, and the relationship between religion and literature.

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Lihua Zhang is Associate Professor at the Department of Chinese Language and Literature, Peking University. She obtained her PhD at Peking University, P.R. China (2009), and has done research at Heidelberg University, Germany (2005–2007, 2016–2017), and Nanyang Technology University, Singapore (2009–2011). Her main research areas include modern Chinese literature and culture, translation studies, and genre studies. She has published a monograph entitled The Rise of ‘Duanpian xiaoshuo’ (short stories) in Modern China: The Formation of a New Genre (Beijing: Peking University Press, 2011). Her current research is focused on the compromise of literary forms in transcultural contexts during late Qing and Republican China.

Note on Personal Names Regarding non-European names, this volume follows the standard practice in East Asian studies. For traditional sources, Chinese, Japanese, and Korean names are presented in traditional fashion, with family name followed by given name. As a number of contributors to this volume are from an East Asian cultural background, we solicited individual preferences and have listed the names accordingly. In most cases, the family name is placed after the given name.

    

Receptions and Cross-Cultural Transfers: On GrecoRoman Antiquity in East Asia – An Introduction Almut-Barbara Renger and Xin Fan Since the 1970s, the rapid process of globalization has fundamentally transformed the collective consciousness of human communities across the entire world. Yet that is not to suggest that people today have embraced a homogeneous global identity. The rise of fundamentalist religious movements in the Middle East, the resurrection of nationalist sentiment in East Asia, and the backlashes against immigrants and refugees in Europe and America have all presented us with some very powerful cases that counter any insistence on the withdrawal of identity politics from the contemporary world. The key issue is not about integration. Instead, the interchange of worldviews, products, ideas, and other aspects of culture has created a certain form of dynamic which pressures any form of human communities, including but not limited to ethnic groups, nation-states, or regional organizations, to envision their very existence vis-à-vis the globe. In other words, although globalization has not yet provided us with all the answers, the conversation about it has definitely dominated our attention at the opening of the twenty-first century. In this edited volume, we, as scholars of reception studies, aim to contribute to the contemporary discussion of globalization by focusing on its very root. Specifically, we study the processes by which knowledge about Classical GrecoRoman antiquity has been transferred to and received by East Asian educated elites over the longue durée of history. In doing so, this study tackles one of the most complex questions in the field of Classical reception studies: the dynamics, and in particular the cultural dialogue, between the so-called East and the so-called West at their very roots. By this we mean the encounter of various traditions, while bearing in mind that the reduction of ‘East’ and ‘West’ into simple, contrastive categories has a long history which can be traced back to the conflict between the Hellenes and the Persians – an encounter that has given rise to postulating cultural ‘essences’ and stereotypes about the ‘East’ and the ‘West’ (and contrasting them as some eternal, transcendent opposition) up to the present. When we speak of East and West, or Far East and Far West, we do so with skepticism, fully cognizant of the many complexities and diversities that characterize particular cultures. Following Martin Heidegger and Jacques Derrida, we would retain these terms only ‘under erasure,’ deleting them in a way that allows them to remain legible. With these caveats, terms referring to the East and West are used throughout the book for the sake of expository ­convenience and economy. The primary issue, rather, is to pose significant  Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_002 ©

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questions in the context of globalization, concerning the movement and transmission of knowledge between Greek and Roman antiquity and modern East Asia – how such knowledge has circulated within China, Japan, Korea, and Taiwan. To be sure, the study of receptions of Greek and Roman antiquity in East Asia is not an entirely new topic. Especially with regard to the postclassical West, the adaptation of Classical Greco-Roman antiquity by later cultures – the persistence and change that mark the afterlife of texts, imagery, objects, ideas, institutions, monuments, architecture, cultural artifacts, rituals, practices, and sayings – has become a prominent issue in many disciplines and cultures. Over the course of the twentieth century, international scholars, not least in East Asia, Europe, and North America, have produced foundational and inspiring works on the historical cultural exchanges between East Asia and Europe. However, more often than not, those previous inquiries were conducted, and afterward construed, in a fragmented way. Generally speaking, the conversation remains limited either to the role of certain individuals, such as Jesuit missionaries, in establishing cross-cultural contacts or to the comparison of some broad cultural characteristics through a more or less philosophical lens. A well-documented study from an integrated East Asian perspective is still needed.  Receptions of Greek and Roman Antiqutiy in East Asia is the first scholarly attempt to fill this lacuna. It presents an interdisciplinary, collaborative, and truly global effort to examine the reception of the Western Classical tradition in a cross-cultural context. Overcoming the fragmented studies of past scholarship through a collective effort, this book allows leading scholars from East Asia, Europe, and North America to explore the transmission and understanding of knowledge about ancient Greek and Roman culture among East Asian scholars and artists. As such, it opens a promising dialogue in Classical reception studies. This book comprises invited submissions along with papers ­presented at the 2013 conference The Reception of Greek and Roman Culture in East Asia: Texts & Artefacts, Institutions & Practices, organized by Almut-­ Barbara Renger at Freie Universität Berlin in the Institute of Religious Studies, Division of Ancient Religion and Culture and Their Reception History. Our contributors are well-established scholars in their fields as well as leading voices in their local intellectual communities. They not only address issues from such varied fields as Classics, history, cultural studies, literature, architecture, and theater studies, but do so from a variety of cultural backgrounds and contexts. They live and work in China, Germany, Italy, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, the United Kingdom, and the United States. Equally important, by speaking to the shared concerns about receptions of Greek and Roman antiquity in East Asia, these scholars engage a truly global conversation in exchanges of knowledge. By the same token, as editors of the volume, we are aware that 

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our contributors come from different academic traditions, and we have thus strived to maintain the cultural diversity of the collective work. Some contributions are merely documentary in nature, providing reports about the situation in the country and the state of the field in the manner of an oral history; others are of a more scholarly nature, grappling critically with these materials. The book has both a thematic and a chronological structure, reflected in the volume’s five parts. Part 1 addresses the early encounter between the Western Classical tradition and early modern East Asia and presents the reader with a complex picture of knowledge exchanges before Europe’s rise to world dominance. It comprises three chapters based on meticulous research on the reception of Classical texts in China, Japan, and Korea in the premodern context. First, Andreas Müller-Lee offers a survey of the existing study of the reception of Greco-Roman culture in East Asia. As he rightfully points out, this topic is not yet fully established in the field of East Asian studies. Contacts between the early cultures of the Far East and the (Far) West were not consistent in the ancient world, despite the fact that indirect – and even direct – exchanges happened on an occasional basis, such as those between Greece and Rome and the Chinese Han Empire or the Three Kingdoms in Korea. The Jesuit mission to China introduced the earliest known information about Greco-Roman antiquity to the Chinese in the late sixteenth century. Müller-Lee is particularly interested in investigating the forms by which Greco-Roman culture was presented and utilized in Jesuit writings, and how it was received and transformed by educated elites in East Asia. His chapter also includes evidence from Chosŏn Korea – which was politically stable, but also affected by the dynastic transition in seventeenth-century China – as an additional example of how Confucian states and societies reacted to the Jesuit efforts as well as their use of Greco-Roman antiquity. After this survey of the state of the field, the next two chapters focus more on local contexts – Chinese and Japanese, respectively. In the second chapter, Noël Golvers concentrates on the Classical Latin authors that the Jesuit Mission introduced to China during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This chapter is based on a careful reading of the first inventory of Classical Latin authors and texts in East Asia, whose basis is twofold: (a) the extant books in the current ‘Beitang Bibliography’ (based on the collection at the Xishiku Church in Beijing) and (b) the references to authors, textual citations, and other existing evidence found in the Jesuit manuscripts composed in China. In Golvers’s view, it is indisputable that knowledge about ancient Latin authors and texts existed in China; in particular, the ancient Roman poets and historians enjoyed some reception, together with a series of chrestomathies and a small number of scattered fragments. Some Chinese writers even ­attempted to emulate the style of those poetic texts and chrestomathies. 

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However, the majority of these texts remained marginal to mainstream Chinese culture. Likewise, in the third chapter, Ichiro Taida provides an outline of the history of the reception of Western Classics in Japan. As Taida shows, the study of Western Classics in Japan began in the sixteenth century, when European missionaries came to the country to teach Latin in missionary schools. Later, the Tokugawa government rejected Christianity and closed the country to most of the West in 1641. Some eighty years later, the government started to lift the ban and permitted the import of Western books that were not related to Christianity. At this time, a small group of Japanese scholars started to learn how to read Latin, driven by their interest in these books. In the mid-nineteenth century, Western powers forced Japan to open its doors, ending its isolation. Kanda Naibu (1857–1923) traveled to the United States and learned Greek and Latin. He returned to Japan and taught these languages at Tokyo Imperial University until 1893. That same year, the prominent professor Raphael von Koeber (1848– 1923) arrived in Japan from Germany to teach philosophy at Tokyo Imperial University. Under his influence, many students started to pursue Classical studies. From these three chapters, we can see that, although the contacts between East Asia and Europe prior to the mid-nineteenth century remained by and large limited, a small number of scholars in China, Korea, and Japan had already been exposed to knowledge about Western Classics. At this stage of cross-cultural exchanges, Jesuit missionaries played a crucial role. In moving on to the twentieth century, Part 2 examines how East Asian scholars translated and interpreted primarily literary texts from Greco-Roman antiquity. These four chapters explore how writers borrowed tropes from Western Classical traditions and reinvented them in the social, cultural, and linguistic contexts of twentieth-century East Asia. In the first chapter of part 2, Jinyu Liu examines the role of the Xueheng journal (‘The Critical Review’) in translating and rewriting Western Classics in China during the 1920s and 1930s. She argues that this journal represented the most intensive exploitation of GrecoRoman antiquity during this period in China, particularly with respect to Greek philosophy and ethics. Based on a critical analysis of the Xueheng translations or rewritings of texts from the Greco-Roman period, Liu demonstrates that translating these materials served as an important means by which Xueheng scholars actively constructed common transcendent values in both Chinese and Western antiquity. These scholars emphasized shared notions of self-control through inner moral force, avoidance of excess, and the central importance of ‘ritual propriety’ (li). By doing so, they attempted to forge an alliance between Western and Chinese antiquity under the guidance of humanism. The Greco-Roman texts, therefore, were used to support Xueheng scholars’ 

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plea to revisit Confucian (and, to a lesser extent, Buddhist and Taoist) teachings in an age of effusive iconoclasm, as well as to buttress their critique of Chinese modernization modeled on the West. Meanwhile, Xueheng scholars’ translations of Greco-Roman writings also functioned as a forum where they could experiment with their own version(s) of modern Chinese prose style. The issue of translation is also central to Lihua Zhang’s study. In this chapter, she examines the famous Chinese writer Zhou Zuoren (1885–1967), who published a translation of Theocritus’ Idyll 10, a Hellenistic pastoral poem that allows an exploration of the internal mechanisms and ideology of processes of ‘Europeanization.’ Tellingly, this piece was Zhou Zuoren’s ‘first writing in vernacular Chinese.’ Thus, in comparison to Xueheng scholars’ understanding of Western literacy through a shared humanist foundation with Confucian tradition, Zhou, as Zhang carefully argues, was more a thinker who tended to see the divergence between classical Chinese and modern literature by denigrating the former while promoting the latter. Zhang further points out that Zhou’s translation was based on the English version prepared by the Victorian scholar Andrew Lang. By accepting Lang’s translation as well as his interpretation of Theocritus, Zhou shared the ideology of the May Fourth generation, which considered the vernacular an effective medium to express the heart of the ­people. From these two chapters on the translation of Greek and Roman texts in early twentieth-century China, we can see that Western Classics were often placed within the context of debate about tradition and modernity among Chinese writers during the first half of the twentieth century, and that the value of the relationship between Western antiquity and Chinese modernity was at times contentious. Similarly, Japanese writers in postwar Japan adopted Greek and Roman tropes in their own efforts toward reconciling the tensions between tradition and modernity. In the third chapter, Ikuho Amano studies the reception of the legend of St. Sebastian (256–283) in the work of the Japanese writer Mishima Yukio (1925– 1970). The image of the early Christian martyr in the late Roman Empire was transmitted to twentieth-century Japan through artifacts of the Renaissance and fin-de-siècle Decadence, which profoundly galvanized the writer’s vision of the human body as an ontological foundation. Mishima’s semi-autobiographical ­novel Confessions of a Mask (1949), the travelogue The Cup of Apollo (1952), and the self-reflexive essay Sun and Iron (1969), among other works, ­display the writer’s psychosomatic journey, which grew into a radical body politics. Culminating in his public suicide by disembowelment, Mishima restages the site of martyrdom and thereby interrogates the location of the body in postwar Japan. At this juncture, the aesthetics of St. Sebastian’s body lends 

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itself to a political ideologue who goes against the country’s postwar democracy, laden as it was with shallow intellectualism, pacifism, and commercialism. By virtue of Greco-Roman male beauty, Mishima forges his aesthetics of corporeality, which does not remain ensconced at the level of arts, but contests the lukewarm mindset of a society oblivious to the vigorous body – a poignant metaphor for kokutai, the national polity. Indeed, individuals such as Mishima Yukio played a pivotal role in introducing ancient Greek and Roman culture to modern East Asian audiences. In the fourth chapter, Luciana Cardi further explores the function of ancient Greece in postwar Japanese literature and traces the changing perception of Greek dramas among Japanese writers from the 1940s to the 1960s. She, too, begins her exposition with Mishima Yukio. In this chapter, the emphasis falls on Mishima’s Shishi (‘Lioness,’ 1948), a literary adaptation of the Greek tragedy Medea. Setting the story of Medea in Tokyo in the aftermath of the Second World War, Mishima underscores the decadent ideal of traditional Japan, pointing out the gap between pre- and postwar society, and thereby highlights the contradictions internal to Japanese modernity. Yet Japanese writers’ views of ancient Greek tragedies changed over time. Cardi’s second case study on Kurahashi Yumiko’s Shiroi kami no dōjo (‘The White-Haired Little Girl,’ 1969) reflects these shifts. Here, some twenty years after Mishima’s work, Kura­hashi rewrote the story of Medea in a contemporary Japanese context. Yet unlike Mishima, she did not use ancient Greece to imbue traditional Japan with an idealized aura. Instead, she experimented with cross-cultural narrative forms that mirror the ambivalent roles of a generation of Japanese intellectuals caught between Western literature, the avant-garde, and Japanese tradition. Thus, these adaptions reflect upon Japanese writers’ ambivalent positions regarding modernity and tradition, Japan and the West. In retelling Euripides’s tragedy, they appropriate a foundational story of Western culture and establish a cross-cultural dialogue between Japanese and European literary and theatrical avant-gardes. Whereas literary writers are ready to borrow tropes from ancient Greek and Latin literary works, some cultural critics in East Asia are more interested in negotiating the relationship between the East and the West in more general terms, which is the theme of the four chapters that comprise Part 3. In the first chapter, Hiroshi Nara provides an overview of the influence of ancient Greek culture on the formation of modern Japanese identity during the first half of the twentieth century. In his view, modern Japanese scholars often regard ancient Greece positively, and this ‘adoring gaze’ provides a way for modern Japan to imagine its own collective identity. As he indicates, during Japan’s profound transformation and modernization (from the 1860s onward), intellectuals, especially in the arts, and scholars subscribed to the idea 

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of Greece (and, to some extent, Rome). This favorable view of ancient Greece in Japan started with American art historian Ernest Fenollosa (1853–1908), who commented on formal stylistic similarities between Hellenistic art and early Japanese sculptural art. The idea evolved and engendered its own life in the thought of influential intellectuals of the period, such as Okakura Tenshin (1862–1913), Watsuji Tetsurō (1889–1961), Aizu Yaichi (1881–1956), the art historian Yashiro Yukio (1890–1975), and many others. The notions that Japan was connected to Greece in the remote past, that Japan was not unlike the West in many ways, that Japan shared the same core cultural values that constituted the fountainhead culture of the West, and that Japan possessed a culture that rivaled the West each had a significant resonance among Japanese intellectuals and were seen as raising Japan’s stature in the arts and in world politics. Chinese intellectuals, like their counterparts in Japan, have also been active in negotiating the relationship between their own cultural tradition and that of ancient Greece and Rome. In the second chapter, Xin Fan reviews the debates in which Chinese historians contested the nature of ‘Classical antiquity’ over the course of the twentieth century, demonstrating how they attempt to develop an alternative periodization of the history of the ancient world that is less based on European experiences. To many Eurocentric scholars in the nineteenth century, the concept of ‘Classical antiquity’ was synonymous with the high point of ancient Greek and Roman civilization, and it registered the beginning stage of a teleological development of human society, followed by the medieval and modern ages. At the turn of the twentieth century, some historians in China, such as Xia Zengyou and Liang Qichao, appropriated this concept from Europe via Japan and applied the ancient/medieval/modern divisions to Chinese history as an attempt to replace the old dynastic history. Yet this application provoked serious discussions among historians in later years due to the terms’ vague meanings in both theoretical and historical contexts. For example, Chinese Marxist intellectuals, influenced by their Soviet counterparts, asserted that slavery, as epitomized in Greco-Roman antiquity, was the defining characteristic of Classical antiquity. Conservative scholars such as Lei Haizong criticized this ancient/ medieval/modern scheme in historical periodization for its Eurocentric nature. After the radical years of communist control, historians in the 1980s resumed this debate and claimed that it was the existence of city-states that should serve as the defining characteristic of ‘Classical antiquity.’ The debate on the periodization of the ancient world, Fan argues, represents not only a bold experiment in synthesizing various legacies of historical writing in China, but also a radical attempt by non-Western scholars to challenge the hegemony of Eurocentrism in world history.



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From the remote past to the recent present, the next two chapters in this part address the role of knowledge about ancient Greece and Rome in shaping contemporary debates among Chinese thinkers. In the third chapter (translated by Guangchen Chen), Xiaofeng Liu calls for a reconsideration of the recent resurgence of interest in ‘national studies’ in China. He cautions the reader that this development is polluted by a nationalist overtone, which attempts to reestablish the orthodox tradition of Chinese classical scholarship at the expense of its Western counterpart. Liu argues that the defect in this project lies in the fact that many Chinese scholars are ignorant of the rupture embedded in the Western tradition. What they perceive as the unified ‘Western tradition’ is actually a modern remake forged by the old quarrel between the ancients and the moderns, which has its roots in the work of the Italian thinker Niccolò Machiavelli. It is nothing less than a betrayal and degradation of the great tradition, where the sociological approach, in the name of liberalism, neutralizes and ultimately overthrows the moral message that was so dear to the ancients. To rescue the true message of Western as well as Chinese Classics, Liu proposes that we embrace Leo Strauss’s mode of thinking as the essential basis upon which Classical scholarship, in China and in the West alike, could be reestablished. In contrast to Liu’s praise of conservative thinkers like Leo Strauss, Shadi Bartsch believes that the trope of the ‘ancient Greeks’ used to carry a positive connotation in China’s liberal movements. In the fourth chapter, she traces the Chinese interest in Western Classical texts to the fall of Qing Dynasty, as intellectuals and reformers looked to foreign political theory to seek models for their own society. Although this interest faded with the rise of the Communist party in the 1940s, the opening up of China under Deng Xiaoping once again encouraged free political discourse for a time, with Gu Zhun’s ideas about ancient Greece fueling interest in the relationship between trade and democracy. Yet the current decade witnesses a strand of Classical reception that is more critical of the values traditionally ascribed to the Western intellectual tradition. In this chapter, she identifies three methodologies by which Classical texts are reinterpreted to serve a Chinese nationalist agenda. They can be made to testify against their own Western context, as Thucydides, for example, is made to do against democracy; they can be associated with the Enlightenment preoccupation with rationality and criticized on that basis as supporting the advance of soulless technology; or they can be read ‘against the grain’ in a Straussian fashion, and thus made to yield esoteric readings that ultimately support the Chinese government’s political agenda. Thus, from this piece, we can sense the anxiety that this liberal tradition might have been betrayed in China today. 

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In these chapters, we can see that the reception of knowledge about Greece and Rome in East Asia has hardly been a passive process. Over the course of the twentieth century, scholars from East Asia often voiced sharp critiques of Western modernity through a creative interpretation of the meaning of Western terms. These critiques in turn had an impact on the East Asian conception of modernity today. With the processes of translation, interpretation, negotiation, and appropriation, scholars in East Asia transformed ancient Greek and Roman culture into highly diverse cultural legacies in today’s world. In Part 4, scholars of visual, material, and performing cultures address the pluralized legacy of Greek and Roman culture in architecture, visual arts, and theater in East Asia today. Through these cultural exchanges and cross-cultural dialogues, a promising community of scholars, artists, and educators in East Asia embrace the Greco-Roman tradition in the age of globalization. With these individuals’ efforts, Greek and Roman culture is on the way to becoming a shared tradition in the contemporary world. This part comprises five chapters, the first two of which address the reception of Greek and Roman culture in Japanese popular literature. In the first chapter, Sari Kawana focuses on the representation of Roman culture in the Japanese manga series Thermae Romae. She observes that knowledge about ancient Rome is often neglected in Japanese primary and secondary education. Yet interested individuals are able to explore it outside the formal school curricula. Thermae Romae, a hugely successful manga, attracts people’s attention to Roman culture. It is a story about a Roman bath engineer who travels through time and space to contemporary Japan to find the marvels of modern engineering. In this story, the protagonist, Lucius Modestus, joins the long list of ‘foreigners’ (or non-Japanese) who become ardent fans of Japanese culture. Unlike Shiono Nanami’s nonfiction essay Rōmajin no monogatari (‘The Story of the Romans’), the intention of which is to educate a Japanese audience about the wonders of the Romans, Thermae Romae tells the story of a foreigner who applies what he learns in Japan through creative and amusing misunderstandings. The audience in turn learns what is noteworthy about their own culture, which may have otherwise been missed. This kind of work helps to contextualize the historical legacy of Rome – ruins, architecture, art – that Japanese tourists visiting the Mediterranean world may have seen but not fully appreciated. With the wide dissemination of Thermae Romae in manga, movie, and anime formats the relationship between Rome and Japanese audiences may have entered a new phase. In the second chapter, Carla Scilabra offers an overview of the adoption of Greek and Roman historical figures in manga imagery in Japanese pop culture,



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and contends that its evocation of the Greco-Roman past indicates the wider diffusion of Greek and Roman knowledge in Japanese society. She selects and analyzes two different productions: a group of shounen manga (boys’ comics) in which the surviving mythological creatures symbolize a malevolent alterity which endangers the world, and a list of shoujo manga (girls’ comics) in which unlucky or tragic characters are given a second chance to fulfill their dreams when they are revived in contemporary Japan. Furthermore, each work is set in an ideal timeline, in order to analyze how the use of Greek and Roman culture changes along with the evolution of Japanese society. Scilabra observes that the reception of Greek and Roman Classics in the manga world often requires a long period of assimilation, but the Classics are eventually felt to be part of a shared knowledge. From comics to dramas, the next two chapters address the influence of ­ancient Greek and Roman plays in China and Korea. In the third chapter (translated by Haiying Liu), Tianshu Yu identifies a character similar to Medea in the historical play The Peacock’s Gallbladder, written by Guo Moruo (1892– 1978), a prominent author, poet, and historian. This 1942 play is based on a historical event recorded in The History of China’s Yuan Dynasty and was successfully performed more than seventy years ago in wartime China. Critics often praise its dramatic plot, multiple themes, and various characters, while paying little attention to Queen Hudijin, one of the minor characters, who is roughly viewed as a co-conspirator of the evil murderer Chancellor Chelitemuer. Yu argues that Guo Moruo’s historical plays were profoundly influenced by ancient Greek tragedies. Medea’s story inspired Guo to remake the image of the little-known queen who committed suicide under pressure from her husband into a complicated literary figure who is elegant, graceful, noble, charming, and, above all, evil. Hudijin sacrifices her son for erotic love, unlike the traditional Chinese literary filicides, which were committed for moral or political purposes. Her Medea-like action decides the miserable fates of all the other characters. The author contends that Queen Hudijin, a unique filicide in modern Chinese drama, plays a crucial role in the play and can be seen as a Chinese version of Medea. Contemporary artists in Korea are also interested in ancient Greek and Roman plays. In the fourth chapter, Yuh-Jhung Hwang portrays Seoul as an exhibition space for urban daily life. Yet, paradoxically, this observation comes out of her reading of the remaking of an ancient Greek drama, Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata (2005), for a contemporary Korean audience. This production was staged by a famous Greek theater director, Michael Marmarinos, who worked with Korean actors at the Seoul Arts Centre in 2005. In exploring the Korean reception of Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata, Hwang argues that the 

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production’s rehearsal process contributed to transferring fragmentary memories of Seoul into the performance. In considering how the playhouse serves as a sensible space during the performance, she investigates the significance of the chorus composed of Seoul citizens and assesses the silence and waiting involved in the production as conditions of everyday life. This chapter reminds us how modern daily life is built upon the construction of an insecure order by means of two ancient Greek female characters, namely Cassandra and Clytemnestra. In Taiwan, the reception of Greek and Roman culture in the form of architecture reflects the complex process of identity formation in modern East Asian society, as Chia-Lin Hsu demonstrates in the fifth chapter. Her research indicates that the use of Classical architectural elements in Taiwan is often related to cultural and political situations. This practice was first introduced during the Japanese colonial period, between 1895 and 1945. Here, Westernization was regarded as an advance, and architects followed a fashionable style of neoclassicism. After the Japanese left Taiwan following World War II, Taiwanese architects continued employing Classical elements. However, this shifted after a decade or so. In a period of poor economic conditions, the then-Nationalist Party government (the Kuomintang or KMT) received American aid, which affected Taiwan culturally. Important building projects began to follow European and American modernism and were designed around economical and functional concerns. The Cultural Heritage Preservation Act, passed in 1982, initially did not protect buildings that contained Classical elements designed by the Japanese, because they were built within the last century, at a time when the Japanese had been enemies during the war. Later, some cultural movements helped revive Classical architectural elements, and in 1998 many structures built by the Japanese were officially declared historic. In recent years, Classical architectural elements have increasingly been used to decorate buildings. These include luxurious hotels and residential apartments. The Classical motifs represent financial power and fine taste, which a younger generation of architects would like to convey. Part 5 of this volume addresses the issue of receptions and cross-cultural transfers through oral history and scholarly reflection. It comprises seven essays in which leading scholars either provide overviews of the state of the field or reflect on their personal experience of studying and researching Western Classics in East Asia. In the first chapter, Yang Huang reflects the history of teaching Classical studies in China and the associated difficulties. He first offers a brief survey of Western Classical studies in modern China from the early seventeenth century onward, while concentrating on the twentieth century, when Classical knowledge began to gain wider attention. Huang discusses the historical as well as 

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the personal circumstances which dictated interest in particular aspects of the Classical world and thereby show the ways in which Classical knowledge is appropriated. After the foundation of the People’s Republic of China, Classical studies became part of the university curriculum, but the field has been separated into the disciplines of history, philosophy, and literature. In the meantime, the history of the Classical world provided a test case for the orthodox Marxist idea of a slave society. Beginning in the 1980s, as Marxist ideology began to fade, industry and trade in the Classical world were stressed in order to highlight the different characters of ancient China and the Classical world. Today, as Huang argues, interest in Classical studies is shoring up in the new century, as such studies are found to be relevant to Chinese society in one way or another. In the second chapter, Deogsu Kim offers the reader an overview of studies of ancient Western history (primarily Greek and Roman) in Korea. He retrospectively outlines how ancient Western historical studies have developed over the last fifty years in Korea. Today, 韓國西洋古代歷史文化學會 Hanguk seoyanggodae yeoksa munhwa hakhoe (The Korean Association for the Western Ancient History and Culture) has about fifty leading Korean scholars as regular members. Kim also reviews a selection of influential scholarly monographs and articles on topics such as ancient slave society, Athenian democracy, the reforms of the Gracchi, church history, and Martin Bernal’s Black Athena. To compensate for the selective char­acter of this review, Kim provides the reader with a list of postgraduate thesis titles under the umbrella of the association, which demonstrates the trends and patterns in the study of ancient Western history in Korea today. Providing a wide-ranging overview from history to literature and philology, Jaewon Ahn reports on some structural aspects of Classical studies in Korea. According to Ahn, Seoul National University plays a significant role in Classical education in Korea; its interdisciplinary program on Western Classical Studies grants both MA and PhD degrees. Students receive some foundational training in both Latin and ancient Greek. Yet Korean universities in general offer more Latin than Greek courses in their curricula. Ahn also examines the general character of Western Classical studies in Korea. For him, the reception of Western Classics in Korea is more complex, as scholars have to examine the Chinese translations of Greek and Latin sources before they can study Korean reception. As examples, he cites debates on how to translate humanitas and ars rhetorica into the Korean language, such as Nam Pyong-Chol’s (南秉哲, 1817–1863) introduction to the Chinese text Ming yi tian wen shu (明譯天文書), a Chinese translation of Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos into Korean. Ahn further examines some translations by Jesuit missionaries from the sixteenth to the eighteenth 

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centuries. In his view, these translations include many curious phenomena, which need to be observed within the context of the encounter of civilizations. Ahn argues that some missionary records, such as the Vatican Secret Archive discovered by the medieval Latinist I Deug-Su, can shed light on areas that traditional Korean historiography has neglected. Thus, the study of Western Classics will also enhance the study of Korean history. As the fourth chapter by Byoung Jo Choe impressively demonstrates, the influence of Greek and Roman culture in East Asia has a far reach indeed – in Korea, it is also embodied in the modern legal system. Choe reflects on how Roman law has influenced the modern legal system in Korea. He argues that Roman law is the most significant cultural heritage of Western Classical antiquity, as law is a pervasive facet of any human society. Its impact on Korea began under Japanese colonial rule. During this period (1910–1945), Japan substituted a completely different, Westernized legal system for traditional law. Since then, this system has inevitably served the nation-building process after the foundation of the Republic of Korea in 1948; in Korea, law provides the structural basis of the nation and the constitutive norms of civil society. Particularly in civil law, the Roman legal tradition constitutes the living culture. But the historical role and relevance of Roman law are not always properly valued, partially due to the lack of Roman law specialists. Choe thus asserts that in Korea, the most meaningful heritage of Classical antiquity is comprised of the general legal ideals, concepts, principles, and rules of Roman law. Following the fourth chapter, the next three essays impart personal experiences. In the fifth chapter, Fritz-Heiner Mutschler reflects on his experience of teaching Western Classics in China. Drawing on his time as a ‘foreign expert’ (1988–1992) and professor (2011–2016) of Western Classics in China, he records the situation of Western Classics in China, both twenty-five years ago and at present. He discusses the conditions in academia in particular, but he also touches upon certain developments in the fields of religion, art, and entertainment. Thus, he describes the concrete circumstances under which Chinese students can acquire a certain competence in the Classical languages and literatures of the West as well as in Greek and Roman history and philosophy. To this end, Mutschler presents a number of conspicuous cases of reception of Western literature and art in – partly very different – Chinese contexts and discusses the role men of the church played and are playing in these matters. On the whole, this chapter presents a vivid picture of a surprisingly diversified sociocultural field. As the next chapter documents, experiences similar to Mutschler’s can also be found in contemporary cross-cultural exchanges between Europe and ­Japan. In the sixth chapter, Elizabeth Craik tells her story of teaching Western 

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Classics as a visiting scholar in the Department of Western Classics (seiyo koten) in the Faculty of Letters at Kyoto University from 1997 to 2002. Having taught for some thirty years in the Department of Greek at the University of St. Andrews, Craik found her experience with Japanese higher education altogether intriguing. She is especially interested in the broad divisions of administration, teaching, and scholarship at Kyoto University. As a foreign observer, she was often puzzled by the sociopolitical atmosphere in which her Japanese colleagues work. Despite all the differences, she has great optimism for the study of Western Classics in Japan and believes that ‘scholars might capitalize on their personal awareness of Japanese traditions to explicate comparable Greek and Roman traditions.’ Some of these oral history records might signal that the noble dream of sharing traditions is not yet an easy practice, and the pioneers creating the ­fusion of Eastern and Western traditions often face difficulties caused by the existing cultural biases and the revival of ethnocentric nationalism in East Asia today. Yet in the last chapter of this book, Rui Nakamura informs the reader about a project in which Japanese artists at Tokyo University of the Arts have been recreating the Olympian gods of the Parthenon Frieze in three-dimensional form over the last several years. At this art school, whose history of practicing Classical arts dates back to the Tokyo Fine Arts School founded in 1887, students engage in ‘cast drawing’ of Classical Greek and Roman sculpture, a traditional exercise that was practiced in Europe until the end of the nineteenth century and introduced to Japan in the Meiji era. Although it has declined in importance in Europe, this method remains an indispensable element of training in Japan to the present day. The project of recreating the twelve gods of the Parthenon frieze (as part of the Parthenon Project Japan) is based on a long tradition of cast drawing of Classical sculpture in modern Japanese art studies. The reconstructed Olympian gods were displayed at the ‘Parthenon Now’ exhibition at the British Museum from November 2012 to May 2013. This project, which rests at the juncture of art history, art education, and artistic practices in Japan, broaches new possibilities in Parthenon studies and contributes to a fresh reception of Greek and Roman culture in East Asia. Despite the various dynamic developments in cultural exchanges between West and East as well as ancient and modern, the chapters in this book address two common themes in Classical reception studies: transfers of knowledge and cross-cultural reception. The inclusion of modern East Asia in Classical reception studies not only allows scholars in the field to expand the scope of their scholarly inquiries, but is also a vital step toward transforming the meaning of Greco-Roman tradition into a common legacy for all of human society. For this reason, Receptions of Greek and Roman Antiquity in East Asia is a 

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valuable asset for the global community of knowledge and addresses academic and nonacademic audiences alike. The project out of which this volume grew is the product of several years’ hard work, based on a global scholarly collaboration across the three continents of Asia, Europe, and North America. As the editors of this volume, we aim to transcend the existing disciplinary barriers of reception studies by bringing modern East Asian perspectives into the study of Western Classical traditions. However, we are well aware of the ambitious nature of this pioneering work and the difficulties it entails, as well as of the limits of our interdisciplinary capacities. After all, we are the very first group of scholars who are venturing to engage a research topic on such a grand scale. Fortunately, we have been able to work with an excellent group of globally minded scholars in organizing this volume, soliciting feedback, and asking for advice and support. We would therefore like to express our deep gratitude to the following individuals: John Arnold, Shadi Bartsch, Katie Bilotte, David Damrosch, Elena Giannoulis, John T. Hamilton, Michael Herzfeld, Aki Hirota, Tze-ki Hon, Eun-Jeung Lee, Jie-Hyun Lim, Jiahe Liu, Jinyu Liu, Fritz-Heiner Mutschler, Hiroshi Nara, Lukas Pokorny, Matthias Schemmel, Axel Schneider, Jon Solomon, Franz Winter, and Juping Yang. At various points in this project, they served either as peer reviewers or advisors, and they have all selflessly contributed their help to this project of global scholarship. We would also like to express our special thanks to the conference team including, amongst others, Jan Ole Bangen, Henriette Hanky, Tao Jian, Hujiang Li, Alexandra Stellmacher, and Yuanying Wu, who also helped us keep tons of paperwork flowing across the globe after the conference. Above all, we owe an enormous debt of gratitude to our sponsors for the generous support our project enjoyed from the Fritz Thyssen Stiftung für Wissenschaftsförderung. In particular, we would like to mention Ricarda Bienbeck and Sabine Berchem, who patiently advised us on budgetary matters, as well as Francis International Inc. and Yan P. Lin, who supported the project with a generous donation and spoke at the conference reception. We also thank Dean J. Andy Karafa from the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences at the State University of New York at Fredonia for his support in partially subsidizing the editing costs. Last but not least, thanks also go to Brill, particularly to Tessel Jonquière, Giulia Moriconi, Mirjam Elbers, and Debbie de Wit, as well as to the Center for International Cooperation at the Freie Universität Berlin and its team, directed by Herbert Grieshop, whose responsibilities include the development of international research cooperation. Dr. Grieshops’s constructive recommendations on this project, especially regarding how to further the exchange of scholars between Freie Universität and Peking University, were very helpful. In this regard, our heartfelt thanks also go to Beate Rogler at the Beijing Office of Freie 

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Universität Berlin for informing scholars in China and Hong Kong about our project and increasing its visibility. Without all of these people, we could not imagine the successful completion of this project. ‘Aller Anfang ist schwer.’ As the editors of this book, we understand that the global study of Greek and Roman culture in East Asia is still in its incipient stages. One challenging issue for us as editors has been how to integrate the various citation styles of different disciplinary traditions in East Asia, Europe, and North America. For example, some scholars follow the philological approach and provide excellent overviews of the state of the field, with a special focus on the introduction of primary sources in Chinese, Korean, Japanese, and Latin in the early modern world. Others explore the influence of Greek and Roman antiquity in contemporary East Asia through the lenses of literary translations, visual arts representations, architectural designs, and theatrical performances. As scholars of reception studies today are still searching for a more organic framework within which to include both textual and material primary sources, we believe that effective cultural communication in global scholarship overrides the stylistic need for tidiness at this early stage. In other words, the study of the receptions of Greek and Roman antiquity in East Asia itself is a practice of cultural inclusion, rather than of professional separatism. So naturally the editors have tolerated minor variations in citation styles and have encouraged scholars to speak to each another with open-mindedness and cultural sensitivity. Although we have done our best to integrate various scholarly traditions across a wide range of disciplines, there are still many unresolved issues for both researchers and readers. While acknowledging these insufficiencies, we sincerely hope that this edited volume will serve as both an appreciation of and a continuous endeavor toward realizing the noble dream of establishing a shared legacy of Classical traditions across East and West in the age of globalization.



Part 1 Encountering Traditions: Early Exchanges and Transfers of Knowledge

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Chapter 1 

The Jesuit Mission to China and the Reception of Ancient Greek and Roman Culture in China and Korea Andreas Müller-Lee There is little to add to the descriptions and interpretations of how the Jesuits transferred and communicated knowledge about Europe to China; the state of source materials has not changed and relies mostly on the same Jesuit sources; the main features of the Jesuit Mission to China have been described more or less comprehensively.1 Within the disciplines of the histories of religion and science, interest in the Jesuits formed thematic foci on missions or on the somehow counterfactual (but nevertheless very influential) question of why science did not emerge in East Asia, whereas their ‘humanistic’ or ‘cultural’ influence to China and East Asia seems to be entrusted mostly to Chinese studies or is scattered over a variety of subdisciplines and publications within the humanities. For this reason pieces about the reception of ancient Greek and Roman culture in China and East Asia appear here and there in various publications, but so far there is no real research focus on this topic. The Western standard work Handbook of Christianity in China introduces the translation projects of the Jesuits as well as their use of the Greco-Roman heritage for missionary purposes.2 The summarized consensus of previous research points to the direction that Greco-Roman heritage was part of a picture of Europe developed and propagated by the Jesuits, but it was neither an interest nor an issue in its own right. Scholars such as Bernhard Hung-Kay Luk,3 1 In this chapter, complete citation information for primary sources will be provided in the footnotes. Full bibliographic citations of modern secondary sources are included in the References Cited list at the end of the chapter. 2 See the part about ‘Humanistic Writings’ within the ‘theme’ ‘Apostolate through Books’ by Standaert 2001: 600ff. Along with this work there is furthermore the Chinese Christian Text Database (CCT-Database) at the KU Leuven, ‘a research database of primary and secondary sources concerning the cultural contacts between China and Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (from 1582 to ca. 1840).’ See (accessed June 1, 2018). 3 Luk 1977a. On the basis of this thesis he wrote the following two articles: ‘A Study of Giulio Aleni’s Chih-fang wai chi 職方外紀,’ (1977b), and ‘Aleni Introduces the Western Academic Tradition to Seventeenth-Century China: A Study of the Xixue Fan,’ (1997).  Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_003 ©

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Chen Min-sun,4 Timothy Brook,5 and Ronnie Po-chia Hsia6 have laid the foundation of this understanding with their studies on important early figures such as Matteo Ricci (Li Ma-tou 利瑪竇; 1552–1610; came to in China in 1583), Hsü Kuang-ch’i 徐光啓 (1562–1633), and Giulio Aleni (Ai Ju-lüeh 艾儒略; 1582–1649; came to China in 1611). Others focused more on the philological basis or even translated Chinese writings of the Jesuits into English. The Handbook defines and labels early writings of the Jesuits in which Christian elements were not essential as ‘humanistic writings’ or ‘wisdom literature.’7 Two years after the publication of the Handbook, Nicolas Standaert came up with another contribution on the transmission of Renaissance culture to China in which he continues to set the Renaissance as the primary horizon of education and knowledge of the Jesuits, but also sheds more light on the role of the GrecoRoman heritage within this scope.8 Besides Standaert, there are a number of other members of the Societas Jesu studying the Jesuit mission in China; but, except for the interest in the field, there is almost no reason to suspect a hidden agenda here or elsewhere. What seems problematic with regard to the leading question of this contribution is the indisputable presupposition of an actor’s perspective, which defines a certain structure of the subjects and themes related to the influence of the Jesuits. The perspective of the actors is necessary and important, but it also seems to restrict the views of the issues at stake to the life and environment of the actors and rules out the idea that ancient Greek and Roman culture was also an issue beyond the horizon of Renaissance culture. The actors’ perspective is a privilege of the state of source materials as well as of the clear agenda of the Jesuits as a group, but it is inevitably related to the question of the success and failure of the mission. Depending on one’s point of view, the mission failed or was only partially successful, but this does not mean that the influence of all the tools and methods applied by the Jesuits ceased to be effective with the end of the active mission. One could muse about the question of how the Jesuit mission would have been conceptualized solely on the basis of their publications in Chinese and without most of the information about the actors, but for this 4 Chen Min-sun, ‘Hsü Kuang-ch’i 徐光啓 (1562–1633) and His Knowledge of Europe,’ in Chine et Europe: évolution et particularités des rapports est-ouest du XVIe au XXe siècle, ed. Joseph Dehergne (Paris: Institut Ricci, 1991), 94–106. 5 Brook 2011: 269–293. 6 Hsia 2011. See furthermore his 2007 article and his 2010 monograph. 7 Standaert 2001: 604f. 8 Standaert 2003.



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contribution it is essential to ask whether the study of the Jesuits should be restricted to the lives of its actors or could/should include the textual repercussions of Jesuit writings that are not necessarily connected with the question of the goals or success of the mission. Earlier, as well as contemporary, research already headed in this direction and resulted not only in a few studies on such ‘humanistic writings’ translated into Chinese, but even in English translations of texts such as Chiao-yu lun 交友論 (Discussion on making friends) by Ricci, Erh-shih-wu yen 二十五言 (Twenty-five sayings) by Ricci, or Ta-tao chi-yen 達道 紀言 (Illustrations of the Grand Dao) by Alfonso Vagnone (Kao I-chih 高一志; 1566–1640; came to China in 1605). Especially in the case of Erh-shih-wu yen, the actors’ perspective nevertheless became dominant because of its focus on the question of which pieces of the Greco-Roman tradition were chosen and how important the work was for the goals of the mission; but it did not address the question of which picture of the West it helped to create, nor did it reflect on its early and later reception. A turn to the actual reception of Jesuits writings is much more recent and seems to be an important focus for the Chinese scholar Li Sher-shiueh (=Li Shih-hsüeh) 李奭學 from Taiwan.9

Greco-Roman Culture in Matteo Ricci’s Writings

According to Standaert, the first phase of transmission of Renaissance culture to China is mainly connected with Matteo Ricci and the early active publication work of Jesuits in China.10 Among his works are some of those that the Handbook defines as ‘humanistic writings,’ such as, for example, Chiao-yu lun from 1595, a collection of sayings about friendship from Greco-Roman authors that is very close to the collection Sententiae et Exempla by Andreas Eborensis (1498–1573); Erh-shih-wu yen from 1605, which is mostly a translation and adaptation of the Encheiridion by the Stoic Epictetus; and Chi-jen shih-p’ien 畸人 十篇 (Ten discourses by a paradoxical man/non-conformer) from 1608, which uses a number of Aesop’s fables as exempla for missionary purposes.11 The ‘Greco-Roman lore’ is to a lesser extent also used in his T’ien-chu shih-i 天主 實義 (True meaning of the lord of heaven) from 1603, which is a dialogical cat9

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See, for instance, his 1999 PhD dissertation, his 2005 monograph, his 2009 book chapter, his 2014 article, his 2015 collection of essays, and his 2014 co-authored work with Thierry Meynard, all included in the References Cited list at the end of this chapter. Standaert 2003: 367. Standaert 2001: 604f.

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echism developed for Chinese readers, whereas Chi-ho yüan-pen 幾何原本 (Elements of geometry) from 1607 is a translation of the Elements by Euclid. In contrast to other writings, Chi-ho yüan-pen does not focus on Greco-Roman antiquity, which is introduced in Ricci’s ‘Guide to the Translation of Chi-ho yüan-pen’ (I chi-ho yüan-pen yin 譯幾何原本引) as coming from the ‘more ­recent period of antiquity’ in Europe, and even the name of its author is transliterated as Ou-chi-li-te 歐几里得 (literally ‘Europe-bench-miles/neighbourhood-obtain’).12 The Greco-Roman sources, their titles, or the names of authors are not always given, as in the case of Chi-ho yüan-pen. Previous research has focused mainly on the texts of Jesuit publications and neglected paratexts (prefaces, introductions, etc). From a modern perspective, the texts often overemphasize the role of the reproduction process in China: in the case of Chi-ho yüan-pen, only Ricci is explicitly given as the oral translator (k’ou-i 口譯) and Hsü Kuangch’i as the one who wrote down what Ricci dictated (pi-shou 筆受), but not the original author. In other cases, Ricci and others did not translate in a strict sense, but paraphrased or adapted and therefore appeared in these writings as editors or even ‘transmitters’;13 and if then the prefaces by Chinese collaborators did not sufficiently explain the origin of the sources, the impression on the Chinese side might have been vague but nevertheless pointed to the authorship of Ricci or other Jesuits. In the case of Chiao-yu lun, Ricci appears as the collector or writer (chuan 譔), but next to two prefaces by Chinese writers, the text starts with an explanation of the circumstances of its production. Ricci says there that he was on his way to northern China, probably to find a new place of residence for him and his fellow Jesuits, when he made the acquaintance of a prince and was invited to his palace: When the formalities were over, the Prince offered wine and asked his guests to drink as much as they could. He then moved from his seat and held my hands saying: ‘All gentlemen of virtue and character, when arriving in my land, are requested to become my friends and accept my respect. The Occident is a country of righteousness and brotherhood. May I have the opportunity of hearing a discussion of yours on friendship?’ On my return, I wrote down what I had heard before (on this topic)

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Li Ma-tou, ‘Chi-ho yüan-pen, I chi-ho yüan-pen yin, 4a,’ in T’ien-h­süeh ch’u-han 天學初函, ed. Li Chih-tsao (T’ai-pei: T’ai-wan hsüeh-sheng shu-chü, minkuo 54 [=1965]), 4: 1935. See also Brook 2009: 283. Hsia 2007: 39f.



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and compiled the following treatise Yu-tao 友道 (The Way of Friendship) in one chüan.14 Ricci introduced and even deliberately disguised Chiao-yu lun as a hastily written response to a real meeting and surprised or impressed his audience not only with what he had memorized, but explicitly with the importance of one of the five basic relations of Confucianism in Greco-Roman antiquity. According to Standaert, it remains unclear whether Ricci compiled Chiao-yu lun on the basis of his memory or perhaps had Sententiaa et Exempla in his luggage.15 The depicted circumstances of the creation of this collection might have increased its effect, but one could also argue that it is much more important to conceptualize Chiao-yu lun as part of a strategy to connect to an ongoing discourse and to start an intercultural exchange. As a compilation of Greco-Roman literary heritage, Chiao-yu lun is a product of the Renaissance and served Christian purposes, as has been pointed out by Standaert and others, but the aims of the underlying source and their Jesuit translators and editors should not be misconstrued as what Chinese educated readers read and understood. As a commonplace educational book, Sententiae et Exempla contained knowledge about ancient writers as well as the church fathers; it had literary and encyclopedic purposes, which were an important basis for intercultural exchange, and has served Christian purposes along the same lines as other collections of Stoicism. Chinese educated readers, on the other side, were probably much more interested in the importance of the concept of friendship in European antiquity and the present age, as well as in the fact that the Jesuits tried to present themselves as scholar-officials of a nonChinese civilization on similar grounds – that is, with a long historical tradition and moral values. The relation to a distant European past becomes explicit in the following examples:

14

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Li Ma-tou, ‘Chiao-yu lun 1af,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 299f. For the translation, see Fang 1949–1955: 574f. The translation by Timothy Billings reads as follows: ‘He sat me in the place of the honored guest, and there was much wine and merriment. Then, the prince came over to me, took my hands in his, and said: “Whenever there is a traveler who is a gentleman of virtue who deigns to visit my realm, I have never failed to host him and to treat him with friendship and respect. The nations of the Far West are nations of virtue and righteousness. I wish that I could hear what their discourses on the way of friendship are like.” I, Matteo, thus withdrew into seclusion, and from the sayings of old that I had heard since my youth, I compiled this Way of Friendship in one volume, which I respectfully present as follows.’ Quoted in Billings 2009: 89. Hosne 2014: 195.

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[35:] Among the ancients, friend was a venerated name, but today we put it up for sale and make it comparable to a commodity. [91:] King Li-shan [i.e., Alexander] (an ancient imperial monarch of the Far West) took control of a critical situation by personally entering a great battle – at which moment one of his ministers stopped him saying: ‘This is dangerous! How will Your Majesty be able to save himself?’ The king replied: ‘You protect me from crafty friends and open enemies – these, I can defend myself against!’ [95:] In ancient times, there were two men walking together, one who was extremely rich, and one who was extremely poor. Someone commented: ‘Those two men have become very close friends.’ Hearing this, Dou-fa-de [i.e., Theophrastus] (a famous sage of antiquity) retorted: ‘If that is indeed so, why is it that one of them is rich and the other poor?’ COMMENTARY: That is to say, the possessions of friends should all be held in common. [98:] In Shi-di-ya [i.e., Scythia] (the name of a country in the North) there is a custom that one may be called wealthy only if one has many friends. [99:] Ke-li-so [i.e., Creso] (the name of a king in the West) was an ordinary man who gained a great kingdom. When a wise man asked him what his ultimate aim was in striving to gain a kingdom, he replied: ‘To bestow favors upon my friends, and to take revenge on my enemies.’ The wise man said: ‘It would be better to bestow favors upon your friends and to use your enemies with kindness so as to turn them into friends.’ [100:] When Mo-wo-pi [i.e., the Persian Megabazus or a certain Megapito] (a renowned ancient scholar) cut open a large pomegranate, someone asked him: ‘Master, what things would you like to have as numerously as these seeds?’ To which he responded: ‘Faithful friends.’16 Among the one hundred paragraphs of Chiao-yu lun, these six and two others on Alexander without further explanations point directly or indirectly to a ­European age of antiquity: firstly with regard to a term or concept, secondly in regard to a ruler of antiquity (Alexander the Great, i.e., Li-shan Wang 歷山王, or literally ‘mountain-passing king’; and Croesus, i.e., K’o-li-so 客力所, or liter16

Li Ma-tou, ‘Chiao-yu lun,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 306 and 317ff. For the translation, see Billings 2009: 105 and 129ff. For another translation, see Xu 2011: 392 and 398ff. See also Mignini 2005, ed. Filippo Mignini, trans. Nina Jocher. 

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ally ‘guest-strength-place’), thirdly in regard to a sage (Theophrastus, i.e., Toufa-te 竇法德, or literally ‘tearing-down law and virtue’), fourthly in regard to a scholar (Megapito, i.e., Mo-wo-p’i 墨臥皮, or literally ‘ink-resting-skin’), and fifthly in regard to the name of a kingdom (Scythia, i.e., Shih-ti-ya 是的亞, or literally ‘this-really-Asia’). In the Chinese text Croesus and Scythia are given only as names of a king and a kingdom of the West, without a clear reference to European antiquity. The underlying source of Chiao-yu lun, be it Sententiae et Exempla or what Ricci had memorized, is full of direct and indirect references to the Greco-Roman period; whereas, by contrast, Chiao-yu lun trans­ lates the words of the quotes, but only rarely the contexts and settings. The same applies also to other Chinese writings by Ricci, such as Chi-jen shih-p’ien. Brook therefore judged that ‘no European reader would mistake it for the present, but a Chinese reader might.’17 On the other hand, one could also assume that the educated Chinese reader would have done just that, and not have placed the translated quotes in present or recent history owing to what one would expect from Chinese writings with similar content, recognizing that the structure of names did not follow the current pattern, but rather that these translated names pointed to an earlier period reminiscent, in a way, of Chinese antiquity. The very fact that names are transliterated or even furnished with meaning is in stark contrast to Erh-shih-wu yen, which not only avoided names and local references, but also tried to sinicize its contents. Next to Chiao-yu lun, a few similar and explicit examples could be found in the catechism T’ien-chu shih-i. T’ien-chu shih-i is a dialogue between a Western scholar and a Chinese scholar with a direct missionary purpose. It does not follow a textual model, although it could rely on a certain importance of dialogues for religious and cultural exchange on both sides. T’ien-chu shih-i is of considerable length and probably the most influential of Ricci’s publications, but within its 595 paragraphs, only three directly address Greco-Roman anti­ quity: [126:] In ancient times, in a nation of the West, there were two famous men [sages], one called Heraclitus, and the other Democritus. Heraclitus was always laughing, whereas Democritus was constantly weeping. One ridiculed and laughed at man and the other pitied and wept over him, because they both saw the way he pursued the vain things of this world. [260:] The Western scholar says: In ancient times, in our Western region, there was a scholar called Pythagoras who was a man of uncommon, heroic abilities, but who was not always as artless as he might have been. 17 

Brook 2009: 283.

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He loathed the unrestrained evil-doings of the inferior men of his own day, and taking advantage, therefore, of his personal fame, he created a strange argument to restrain them, insisting that those who did evil were bound to experience retribution when reborn in a subsequent existence: they might be born into a family engulfed in hardship and poverty or be transformed into an animal; tyrannical men would be changed into tigers and leopards; arrogant men into lions; the licentious into pigs and dogs; the avaricious into oxen and mules, and thieves and robbers into foxes, wolves, eagles, and other birds and beasts. The transformation was bound to correspond to the evil done. Other superior men criticized this teaching saying that, although the intention behind it was excellent, there were faults in the teaching itself. There was a true way which could curb evil, so what purpose was served by abandoning the true and following the distorted? [261:] After the death of Pythagoras few of his disciples continued to hold his teaching. But just then the teaching suddenly leaked out and found its way to other countries. This was at the time when Sakyamuni happened to be planning to establish a new religion in India. He accepted this theory of reincarnation and added to it the teaching concerning the Six Directions, together with a hundred other lies, editing it all to form books which he called canonical writings. Many years later some Chinese went to India and transmitted the Buddhist religion to China. There is no genuine record of the history of this religion in which one can put one’s faith, or any real principle upon which one can rely. India is a small place, and is not considered to be a nation of the highest standing. It lacks the arts of civilization and has no standards of moral conduct to bequeath to posterity. The histories of many countries are totally ignorant of its existence. Could such a country adequately serve as a model for the whole world?18 These examples from T’ien-chu shih-i are singular and prove only a limited importance for the Greco-Roman heritage within the early Jesuit writings in China. In contrast to Chiao-yu lun and Erh-shih-wu yen, this dialogue focuses on a description of a Christian system of knowledge which was also valid for the Jesuits themselves. Just as with Chiao-yu lun, T’ien-chu shih-i is introduced as a 18

Li Ma-tou, ‘T’ien-chu shih-i,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 426 and 492ff. For the translation, see Matteo Ricci, The True Meaning of the Lord of Heaven (T'ien-chu Shih-i), ed. Edward J. Malatesta, S.J., trans. Douglas Lancashire and Peter Hu Kuo-chen (Taipei: Ricci Institute for Chinese Studies, 1985), 141 and 241.



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dialogue that actually took place, and on the one hand, it is therefore in­evitable to understand this publication as proof of the necessity of an actor’s perspective. The juxtaposition of Heraclitus (i.e., Hei-la 黑蠟, or literally ‘black-wax’) and Democritus (i.e., Te-mu 德牧, or literally ‘great/virtuous-raising’) is furthermore an example of the influence of the literature and art of the Renaissance and probably has no precursors in earlier times. The construction of its opposition served as proof of a pre-Christian realization of the vanity of life as well as of a precognition of another form of the meaning of life within Christian teachings. Whether or not the Chinese reader could really follow these lines of thought is, however, a different question. The figure of Pythagoras (Pi-t’a-wo-la 閉他臥剌, or literally ‘close-other-resting-cut in two’), on the other hand, has an illustrative as well as an argumentative function in T’ien-chu shih-i, because it not only points to an age before Christianity in Europe, but also parallels, connects, and demarcates Chinese and European contexts. Pythagoras serves as an example of diverse and competing ideas in European antiquity, as was familiar to the educated Chinese reader from Chinese antiquity. It insinuates early contacts between Europe and China via India, given certain similarities between the Pythagorean and Buddhist teachings, and furthermore tries to differentiate between Buddhist and Christian teachings. Judging from later perspectives, this differentiation was rather unsuccessful. To insist on Pythagorean roots in Buddhism made Europe and China more comparable at the expense of subordinating Indian culture and at the same time disguising the fact that Ricci and his fellow Jesuits had not considered Confucianism and Christianity as equals, but identified Confucianism with Stoicism as the basis for a further development toward Christianity.19  Chi-jen shih-p’ien is the last piece of ‘humanistic writing’ by Ricci. The ‘Para­doxical Man’ or ‘Non-Conformer’ (chi-jen) in its title served at least three purposes: it links his work to an established discourse of the strange, a la Chuang-tsu 莊子, within Confucianism; was also meant as a description of Ricci himself; and served as another topic for intercultural exchange.20 It is again structured as a dialogue and therefore closely connected with Ricci as one of the speakers. It is also important to point out that his own words are illustrated with translations and adaptations of fables and allegories from Greco-Roman sources and the Bible. It is only recently that Chi-jen shih-p’ien has been studied as a source for the use of fables and allegories by the Jesuits21 19 20 21



Standaert 2003: 376. Zhang 2008: 31ff. Li 2005 and Li 2009.

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as well as in regard to the reception of Aesop’s fables in China.22 References to a number of Greco-Roman names of places and figures appear in several studies,23 but so far there is neither a systematic approach to the use and coverage of transliteration and translation nor a list of Greco-Roman names in Chinese that could not be easily identified.24 Heraclitus and Democritus appear in Chi-jen shih-p’ien within a very similar quotation as in T’ien-chu shih-i, and Pythagoras is again introduced as an exponent of a theory of reincarnation.25 The proverbial story of Damocles is told as the story of King Dionysius (Wu-ni-hsiao 吾泥削, literally ‘I-mud-scrape’ or ‘I-bigot-seizing territory’) of Syracuse, or in the Chinese version as the king of Sicily (Hsi-chi-li-ya 棲濟裡亞, literally ‘settle-save-inside-Asia’),26 Aesop (O-so-po 阨瑣伯, literally ‘distresspetty-elder’) and his owner Xanthus (Tsang-te 藏德, literally ‘store-virtue’) are introduced,27 and the death of Socrates (Shu-ko-la-te 束格剌得, literally ‘control-pattern-cut in two-obtain’) as well as the tortures of Tantalus (Tan-ta 但大, literally ‘merely-great’) are summarized.28 Some stories differ from what a modern reader would expect, such as, for example, the story about King Midas (Mi-ta 彌大, literally ‘extensive and great’) of Phrygia (Fei-li-ya 非里雅, literally ‘not-miles/neighbourhood-refined’), who is introduced as someone who wanted to conceal his extremely long ears (and not as the one with the golden touch), or as in the case of Solon (Shu-luan 束亂, literally ‘control-chaos’), who is introduced as someone who did not speak at the assembly of Athens (and not as reformer and one of the fathers of Athenian democracy).29 Another ex22 23 24

25 26 27 28 29

Wu 2012. Li 2005. Ch’en 2008. See also Brook 2009, Li 2005, and Li 2015. These names include, for example, So-ko-la-te 瑣格剌得, Ya-ju-hsi-lao 亞入西勞 or Tsang-te 藏德. Chen (2008) confuses So-ko-la-te, i.e., Secundus the Silent, as was suggested in Li (2005), with Shu-ko-la-te 束格剌得, i.e., Socrates, and Tsang-te, i.e., Xanthus (the earlier owner of the slave Aesop), as was suggested in two works by Li (2005 and 2015), with Jadmon (the later owner of Aesop). Brook (2009) is uncertain whether Ya-juhsi-lao is Alexander, because this figure is given by Ricci as ‘someone from my native area.’ Li (2005) suggested instead that Ya-ju-hsi-lao is King Agesilaos II of Sparta. There are also other names that could not be identified. Brook (2009) gives Hsi-chi-li-ya 棲濟裡亞 as Syracuse, whereas Li (2005) identified this as Sicily. Li Ma-tou, ‘Chi-jen shih-p’ien,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 129 and 240. Li Ma-tou, ‘Chi-jen shih-p’ien,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 217. See also Li 2005: 289; and Wu 2012: 177. Li Ma-tou, ‘Chi-jen shih-p’ien,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 187ff. See also Li 2005: 248ff; and Wu 2012: 167. Li Ma-tou, ‘Chi-jen shih-p’ien,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 184f and 277f. See also Li 2005: 141f; and Li 2015: 58. Li Ma-tou, ‘Chi-jen shih-p’ien,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 182f and 177. See also Li 2005: 196; and Wu 2012: 177. 

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ample is Zeno (Tse-nuan 責暖, literally ‘rebuke-warm’) of Citium, founder of Stoicism. Zeno is introduced as head of the academy in Athens (Ya-te-na 亞 德那, literally ‘Asia-virtue-that’) and as someone who was silent at a banquet; when asked for the reason, he answered that ‘Athens has an elder who is able to be silent at a banquet,’30 probably pointing to a story mentioned in the biographical sketch by Diogenes Laertius in which he answered ambassadors of King Ptolemy II Philadelphus.31 These historical figures from Greco-Roman antiquity did not always appear in the contexts a contemporary or Renaissance reader would expect. Ricci adapted them to the ten thematic subdivisions of Chi-jen shih-p’ien, who identified with the ‘Paradoxical Man’ or ‘Non-Conformer,’ another modus ope­randi for intercultural exchange next to that of friendship, as presented in Chiao-yu lun. Chi-jen shih-p’ien and its use of Greco-Roman antiquity would require further study, but for the purpose of this contribution it is only necessary to point out that Ricci continued to transliterate Greco-Roman names of places and figures and tried to choose Chinese characters for them that actually carried an explicit and understandable meaning, as in the cases of Solon, Zeno, or Alexander. The use of transliteration nevertheless goes back and forth between meaningful and phonetic on the one side and probably meaningful or only phonetic on the other. It is furthermore important to point out that in Chi-jen shih-p’ien, Greco-Roman names are integrated in longer sections of narration that often provide parts of their Greco-Roman background. Many of these ­examples are introduced with attributes of historicity or conventionality, and it could be assumed that educated Chinese readers also ascribed the same attributes to the names in the other stories. The Renaissance was of course the primary horizon for Ricci’s ‘humanistic writings,’ but it seems questionable to define the aforementioned first phase only or primarily as a ‘spontaneous diffusion’ of Renaissance culture in China.32 The fact that Greco-Roman antiquity was not only put to use but became more and more visible and understandable as a non-Chinese antiquity indicates ­instead that Ricci deliberately selected elements from this treasure trove and was interested in forming an understanding of it as a non-Chinese antiquity. Whether or not Greco-Roman antiquity was of strategic importance for the mission itself cannot be determined on the grounds of the examples given here, but it seems likely that a basic understanding of this antiquity through memorizable sayings also served as an important condition for an exchange on 30 31 32 

Li Ma-tou, ‘Chi-jen shih-p’ien,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 179. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers, trans. Robert Drew Hicks, vol. 2 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1958), 135 (bk. 7, chap. 1, Zeno, 24). Standaert 2003: 367.

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equal grounds, or even arose from the interests and expectations of educated Chinese readers.

Greco-Roman Culture in the Writings of Giulio Aleni and Other Jesuits

The second phase of the transmission of Renaissance culture to China after Ricci’s death is introduced by Standaert as a growing and more systematic project which again included translations. It lasted until the dynastic transition in the 1640s and ‘was mainly carried out by missionaries from various European countries,’33 but still under the Portuguese Padroado. The scope of the writings broadened from catechistic, ‘humanistic,’ and scientific writings to geography and philosophy, although both topics were already present in the writings of the first phase. Ricci’s world map was well known but could hardly be copied and did not spread widely. Chiao-yu lun and Erh-shih-wu yen, on the other hand, were contributions to philosophy, as were parts of T’ien-chu shih-i or Chi-jen shih-p’ien, but they were not yet introduced and used as somehow coming from or contributing to a discipline with the name of ‘philosophy.’ The subject of geography became a focus in its own right with the publication of Chih-fang wai-chi 職方外紀 (Areas outside the concern of the Chinese imperial geographer) in 1623, a work ‘enlarged and translated’ (tseng-i 增譯) by Aleni and ‘collected and recorded’ (hui-chi 彙記) by the Chinese scholar Yang T’ing-yün 楊廷筠 (1562–1627). Luk described Chih-fang wai-chi as a ‘Renaissance geography’ or ‘world geography,’ but also as ‘much more of a didactic than a realistic work.’34 It is a continuation of Ricci’s world map insofar as it contains maps of the world and the continents and corresponding sections of text, but it is also distinctly different in regard to the proportion and detail of maps and text. As a book Chih-fang wai-chi was easy to publish and to circulate, and probably also much cheaper than the production of maps. In his study Luk does not go so far as to consider the Chinese reception, or at least what an educated Chinese reader might have read in this work: Chih-fang waichi was probably seen as a work in the genre of pseudo-geographies, so-called bestiaries and collections of the strange and curious. The strategy was then – again – to surprise, to circumvent expectations generated by the genre, and to give a more detailed description of the civilized world in the West. Luk, Brook, and Hsia have already pointed to the fact that Chih-fang wai-chi presented a 33 34

Ibid. Luk 1977b: 63 and 76.



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very selected and idealized picture of Europe35 by consciously omitting parts and details that did not concur with the image of a civilization close to Chinese antiquity. Its text without the prefaces is ninety folio or 180 pages in length, and consists of chapters on Western and Southern Asia, Europe, Northern Africa, America, ‘Magellanica,’ and the ‘four seas.’ Each chapter starts with an introduction followed by individual paragraphs on a selected number of countries. The chapter on Europe is – unsurprisingly – much longer in proportion and much more detailed. The Europe presented is not only the one of the Renaissance, but one that has roots in Greco-Roman antiquity and in the Near East. Judea (Ju-te-ya 如德亞, literally ‘as-virtue-Asia’) is allotted its own paragraph and is introduced in regard to its importance for Christianity.36 Greece is introduced as the place of origin of the culture of the West, and even Aristotle (Yali-ssu-to 亞利斯多, literally ‘Asia-benefit-this-much’) is mentioned as a famous scholar of antiquity concerned with the study of matter and principles.37 The largest paragraph of the chapter is devoted to Italy and its capital (Lo-ma 羅 瑪, literally ‘gauze/spread out-agate’), identified as an early center of the Western world. Aleni mentioned ancient heritage, such as the pantheon and the aqueducts, but did not introduce any of the historical figures of ancient Rome. The end of the chapter is devoted to Sicily (altered now to Hsi-ch’i-li-ya 西齊里 亞, literally ‘West-even-miles/neighbourhood-Asia’) and intro­duces Daedalus (Te-ta-lu 德大祿, literally ‘virtue-great-prosperity’) and Archimedes (Ya-erhchi-mo-te 亞而幾墨得, literally ‘Asia-and-almost/how many-ink-obtain’) as examples of historical figures versed in technical matters.38 The introduction to the second chapter is likewise not restricted to the timeframe of the Renaissance. It does not quote historical examples, but Aleni presented a Europe united through a uniform educational tradition and Catholicism. Luk already assumed that the descriptions of the educational system, state, and society must have warmed the Confucian heart and reminded the educated Chinese reader of an idealized Confucian administration.39 The educational system of the Renaissance is further elaborated in Hsihsüeh fan 西學凡 (A summary of western learning), ‘answered and transmitted’ (ta-shu 答述) by Aleni in 1623. Its text without prefaces has a length of only seventeen folio or thirty-four pages and introduces philosophy (fei-lu-so35 36 37 38 39



Luk 1977b: 74; Brook 2009: 288f; Hsia 2011: 795ff. Ai Ju-lüeh, ‘Chih-fang wai-chi,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 3: 1338ff. Ai Ju-lüeh, ‘Chih-fang wai-chi,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 3: 1403f. Ai Ju-lüeh, ‘Chih-fang wai-chi,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 3: 1392ff. See also Zhang and Tian 2010: 189–205. Luk 1977b: 70f.

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fei-ya 斐祿所費亞, but here no longer in the literal meaning of ‘elegant-favour/ salary-place-expend/waste-Asia’ since it is explained in Chinese terms as the discipline li-hsüeh 理學, or ‘study of principles’).40 In connection to this, Aristotle (here slightly altered to Ya-li-ssu-to 亞理斯多, literally ‘Asia-principlethis-much’) is given as an example of the ancient sages of philosophy and further introduced as a teacher of Alexander the Great (here slightly altered to Li-shan Ta-wang 歷山大王, or literally ‘mountain-passing great king’).41 Within the passage on the introduction of philosophy he is, however, not identified as the main figure behind the discipline and its subdisciplines. The first adaptation of part of the Aristotelian oeuvre was published in 1624 by Francesco Sambiasi (Pi Fang-chi 畢方濟; 1582–1649; came to in China in 1610) under the title Ling-yen li-shao 靈言蠡勺 (Humble attempt at discussing matters pertaining to the soul). Aristotle is quoted in the ‘Guide to Ling-yen li-shao’ (Ling-yen li-shao yin 引), but not identified as one of the authors behind that work.42 Ling-yen li-shao was followed by a number of other adaptations and translations by different authors and later resulted in a collection of Aristotle in sixty fascicles by Ferdinand Verbiest (Nan Huai-jen 南懷仁; 1623–1688; came to China in 1659).43 For the second phase of the transmission, Standaert focused on translations in regard to the library brought to China by Nicolas Trigault (Chin Ni-ko 金 尼閣; 1577–1628; came to China in 1610), on the calendar reform, on Aristotelian philosophy, and on religious-devotional writings.44 Here, however, it seems necessary to add another focus not conceptualized in the Handbook: the devotion of the Jesuits to a number of continuations of earlier works. The influential T’ien-chu shih-i was followed in 1628 by Wan-wu chen-yüan 萬物眞 原 (True origin of all things), another dialogical catechism ‘written’ and ‘transmitted’ by Aleni. Another publication (the date is uncertain) with the title T’ien-chu shih-i hsü-p’ien 天主實義續篇 (Continuation of the true meaning of the lord of heaven) was ‘transmitted’ by Diego de Pantoja (P’ang Ti-wo 龐迪我; 1571–1618; came to China in 1597) and Francisco Furtado (Fu Fan-chi 傅汎際; 1589–1653; came to China in 1619), focusing on the topics of T’ien-chu shih-i, but not in form of a dialogue. Another later example, from the period 1707–1720, is Ju-chia shih-i 儒家實義 (True meaning of Confucianism), ‘transmitted’ by Joseph Henry-Marie de Premare (Ma Jo-se 馬若瑟; 1666–1736; came to China 40 41 42 43 44

Ai Ju-lüeh, ‘Hsi-hsüeh fan,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 31. For further analysis of this work, see Luk 1997: 492ff; and Standaert 2000: 293f. Ai Ju-lüeh, ‘Hsi-hsüeh fan,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 1: 42. Pi Fang-chi, ‘Ling-yen li-shao yin,’ in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, 2: 1128. See also Shen 2009: 70ff. Standaert 2001: 606ff. Standaert 2003: 377ff.



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in 1698), again a dialogue, but now on the topic of Confucianism from a Catholic perspective. The Jesuits after Ricci also worked on continuations of earlier ‘humanistic writings,’ such as, for example, Tse-sheng shih-p’ien 則聖十篇 (Ten dis­courses by Tse-sheng [i.e., Vagnone]), ‘transmitted’ and ‘written’ by Vagnone in 1627, which is a continuation of Chi-jen shih-p’ien without the special focus on the strange; Wu-shih yen-yü 五十言餘 (Fifty sayings and more), ‘transmitted’ and ‘written’ by Aleni in 1645, which is a continuation of Erh-shih-wu yen, but now not only drawing on the writings of Epictetus;45 and Ch’iu-yu p’ien 逑 友篇 (Searching for friends), ‘transmitted’ by Martino Martini (Wei K’uang-kuo 衛匡國; 1614–1661; came to China in 1642) in 1661, which is a continuation of Chiao-yu lun. Along with these continuations, the Jesuits also published adaptations and translations, such as, for example, a collection of Aesopean fables under the title K’uang-i 況義 (Morals from comparison) by Nicolas Trigault (Chin Ni-ko 金尼閣; 1577–1628; came to China in 1610) in 1625.46 The aforementioned Vagnone was also very productive and published T’ung-yu chiao-yü 童 幼敎育 (Education of children)47 and P’i-hsüeh 譬學 (Study of comparisons)48 in 1632 and Ta-tao chi-yen in 1636, which is a collection of 355 sententiae from Greco-Roman sources organized according to the principle of the five relationships of man in Confucianism,49 as well as several publications of Aristotelian philosophy.50 In 1674 Verbiest published a continuation of Chih-fang wai-chi under the title K’un-yü t’u-shuo 坤輿圖說 (Illustrated explanation of the entire world), which is interesting because it contains several pictures of animals unknown in China as well as pictures of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and the Colosseum in Rome.51 In 1683 Verbiest presented Ch’iung-li hsüeh 窮理 學 (Study of fathoming principles), a collection of mainly Aristotelian sources, to the Chinese throne and hoped that a part of it could be adopted for the curriculum of the state examination.52 This attempt was unsuccessful. According to Standaert, it represents the third phase of transmission of Renaissance culture and at the same time its end. The distinction between the second and the 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52



Standaert 2001: 605. Li 2009: 79f. Li 1999: 32. Li 2009: 71ff. Falato 2016: 1–12. See also Falato 2015: 137–158. A short description of the academy in Athens in T’ung-yu chiao-yü was translated in Li 2009: 76. Zürcher 1996: 331–359. Li and Meynard 2014. Ta-tao chi-yen is also one of the earliest sources that mentions Homer. See Li 2014: 83–106. Standaert 2001: 607f. Standaert 2001: 810; Walravens 1970: 104. Walravens suggested that these pictures reproduced depictions in etching by the Dutch artist Marten van Heemskerk (1498–1574). Standaert 2001: 608; and Standaert 2003: 389ff.

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third phases is nevertheless unconvincing if seen from the perspective of the reception of Greco-Roman antiquity. The reception of Greco-Roman culture seems closely connected to the interests and efforts of a small number of missionaries, especially those from Italy, and then it is rather those who followed his idea of a broader contextualization of European antiquity. It is furthermore obvious that only the writings of the first phase are rather well studied. More research on ‘humanistic writings’ published after Ricci’s death is needed in order to assess the use and reception of Greco-Roman culture and its relation to the mission.

Jesuit Writings and the Problem of Reception

The question of the dispersion and reception of Jesuit writings is difficult to study, as there are a limited number of written sources. For this reason Standaert focuses instead on the spread of Jesuit texts and eventually posits: The mere fact that a text had been printed does not exclude the possibility that, although a missionary supposed to have done a useful job by translating and publishing a certain text, for various reasons such a work hardly spread. Therefore, for information on the actual reception one has to turn in more detail to the writings by the converts.53 Although it is uncertain how many copies of Jesuit ‘humanistic writings’ in how many print runs were produced, some scholars have pointed to prefaces of these works and interpreted the difference in their dates as an indicator of different print runs.54 This is not fully convincing, since a preface is in the first place an independent piece of writing. It does not necessarily indicate the publishing date of the work the preface was written for. The established approaches usually point to the publication of the collectaneum T’ien-hsüeh ch’uhan (First collection on heavenly studies), published in 1626 by the Chinese scholar and convert Li Chih-tsao 李之藻 (1565–1630), as an indicator of a wider circulation of Jesuit writings. Standaert remarked that it ‘seems to have been relatively wide-spread,’ but did not elaborate on the question of its reception any further.55 T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han incorporated a number of titles from the 53 54

55

Standaert 2001: 631. See, for example, Kim 2006: 3. The situation seems different only for the Chiao-yu lun, of which six editions published between 1596 and 1629 were identified. See Billings 2009: 139f. Standaert 2001: 602. 

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early period, among them ‘scientific writings’ such as Chi-ho yüan-pen as well as ‘humanistic writings’ such as Hsi-hsüeh fan, Chi-jen shih-p’ien, Chiao-yu lun, Erh-shih-wu yen, T’ien-chu shih-i, Ling-yen li-shao, and Chih-fang wai-chi. If one consults Chosŏn Korea in the eighteenth century as a Confucian case of comparison (although with the difference that the Jesuits were not present on the peninsula), it seems equally difficult to judge the spread of the T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han. The only direct proof of reception is the subtitle to Sŏnggyo yoji 聖敎 要旨 (Essentials of the holy teaching) by the convert Yi Pyŏk 李蘗 (1754–1785), which reads: tok Ch’ŏnhak ch’oham Yi Kwang-am chakchu kiji 讀天學初函李曠 菴作註記之 (Yi [Pyŏk, pen name] Kwang-am recording notes reading T’ienhsüeh ch’u-han).56 Standaert then points to Jesuit collections of paratexts, such as Chüeh-chiao t’ung-wen chi 絶徼同文紀 (Records of similar documents about the far frontiers) from 1629, Hsi-ch’ao ch’ung-chen chi 熙朝崇正集 (Collection on the veneration of orthodoxy of [our] Glorious Dynasty) from 1639, and T’ien-hsüeh chi-chieh 天學集解 (Collected explanations on heavenly studies) from the late seventeenth century, which also contain a number of prefaces and introductions to Jesuit ‘humanistic writings.’57 However, the extent to which these collections can also be interpreted as indicators of the reception of the texts they represented is uncertain. Jesuit writings were included in the encyclopedic Ku-chin t’u-shu chi-ch’eng 古今圖書集成 (Complete collection of ancient and contemporary illustrations and writings), finished in 1726, among them Chiao-yu lun and parts of K’un-yü t’u-shuo.58 The library-like imperial collectaneum Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu 四庫全 書 (Complete writings in four repositories), finished in 1784, included twenty Jesuits works, but next to Chi-ho yüan-pen and other technical and scientific writings, only Chih-fang wai-chi and K’un-yü t’u-shuo are examples of ‘humanistic writings.’ Here, inclusion is not necessarily equivalent to availability and reception, although Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu was available in a limited number of places and probably to a limited audience of officials and literati. The inclusion of a given work in Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu was at the same time a form of official approval for the period of the Ch’ing Dynasty (1644–1911). Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu tsung-mu t’i-yao 總目提要 (Catalogue and [critical] summaries of the complete writings in four repositories), published in 1782, discussed thirty-six Jesuit 56

57 58 

Kuksa p’yŏnch’an wiwŏn-hoe, ed., Han’guk-sa 35: Chosŏn hugi-ŭi munhwa (Kwach’ŏn: Kuksa 1998), 95. The Sŏnggyo yoji is a supplement to Manch‘ŏn yugo 蔓川遺稿, the collected writings of Yi Sŭnghun 李承薰 (1756–1801). The manuscript is preserved in the Korean Christian Museum at Soongsil University (Sungsil taehakkyo Han’guk kidok-kyo pangmul-gwan). Standaert 2001: 601ff. Billings 2009: 4. See also Zhang and Miao 2010: 204.

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works, among them ‘humanistic writings’ such as Erh-shih-wu yen, T’ien-chu shih-i, Chi-jen shih-p’ien, Chiao-yu lun, Hsi-hsüeh fan, Ling-yen li-shao, and the whole T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, as well as other titles.59 The fact that all of these works were collected, criticized, and then sorted out was a form of censorship and prohibition, but one can only speculate how effective and far-reaching it was and what the reasons for ignoring so many of the later Jesuit writings were. It is probably much more productive to interpret this information as a difference in the reception of Jesuit writings between those included in T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han on the one hand, and all the later writings on the other. Within the field of catechetical and theological writings, Standaert found it ‘obvious that none of these writings had the same success as T’ien-chu shih-i.’60 Brook, on the other hand, gives Chi-jen shih-p’ien as the most success­ful of Ricci’s writings.61 The success of T’ien-chu shih-i is consistent with the reception of Jesuit writings in Korea, whereas Chi-jen shih-p’ien seems not to have been equally successful, but was obviously also circulating within the academic ­circle of Yi Ik 李瀷 (1681–1763) in the second half of the eighteenth century.62 When Luk studied Hsi-hsüeh fan, he had to point out that the ‘available evi59 60 61 62

Yung Jung 永瑢 ed., Ch’in-ting ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu tsung-mu 欽定四庫全書總目 125, 27bff (Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu edition). See also Luk 1997: 516f; and Billings 2009: 34f. Standaert 2001: 614. Brook 2009: 281. For T’ien-chu shih-i, see Hong et al. 2006: 168. This list of materials does not contain references to the earliest known mentions of T’ien-chu shih-i in Chibong yusŏl 芝峯類說 by Yi Sugwang 李睟光 (1563–1628) and in Ŏu yadam 於于野談 by Yu Mongin 柳夢寅 (1559– 1623), as well as the preface to it written by Yi Ik and the chapter on it in Sŏhak-pyŏn 西學 辨 by Sin Hudam 愼後聃 (1702–1761). Circulating copies of Chi-jen shih-p’ien and Ling-yen li-shao were mentioned in a letter by An Chŏngbok 安鼎福 (1712–1791), a disciple of Yi Ik, to Yu Si 柳賮 (1748–1790), another disciple of Yi Ik. It is necessary to point out that this letter cannot be found in the Sunam sŏnsaeng munjip 順菴先生文集, the edited collection of An Chŏngbok’s writings, but is included only in the unedited collection of his writings; see An Chŏngbok, Sunam pubu-go 覆瓿稿 10, [s. p.] in An Chŏngbok, Sunam pubu-go (Kwach’ŏn: Kuksa p’ŏnch’an wiwŏn-hoe, 2012), 2: 60. On the other hand, An Chŏngbok gives a short quotation from Chi-jen shih-p’ien in section twenty-one of his Ch’ŏnhak mundap 天學問答, which is part of the edited collection of his writings. For a mention of other Jesuit writings (but only one example of ‘humanistic writings’), see another letter from him to Yun Tonggyu 尹東奎 (1695–1773), another disciple of Yi Ik: An Chŏngbok, Sunam pubu-go 5, [s. p.] in An Chŏngbok, Sunam pubu-go (Kwach’ŏn: Kuksa p’ŏnch’an wiwŏn-hoe, 2012), 2: 270. According to the so-called silk letter, the Catholic martyr Kim Kŏnsun 金健淳 (1776–1801), who was aquainted with the converts of Yi Ik’s circle, loved to read Chi-jen shih-p’ien. For the extant different versions of the silk letter, see Yŏ 2003. See also Ch’oe 1997: 238.



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dence is scarce’ (which holds true also for the case of Chosŏn Korea)63 and instead focused broadly on its prefaces, the collectaneum T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, the collection of anti-Christian polemics P’i-hsieh chi 闢邪集 (Collected refutations of heterodoxy),64 and Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu tsung-mu t’i-yao. In the case of Chih-fang wai-chi, Luk did not address the question of reception, but asked instead whether ‘Aleni’s readers [would] have believed in the reality of such an ideal [European] society.’65 He suggested that converts looking for an alternative were the intended audience and might already have accepted ‘the moral superiority of the Jesuits’ Europe [and therefore] they could very well have accepted its social and political superiority as well.’66 Following this argumentation, Brook offers the counterexample of the Chinese scholar Tung Han 董含 (b. 1628), who obviously refused to believe in both the descriptions of Europe in Chih-fang wai-chi and the superiority of Europe.67 Tung Han wrote after the downfall of the Ming Dynasty, when the Chinese realm had to adjust to the new situation under the rule of a foreign imperial family. The Jesuits were then again quite successful at the imperial court as well as in the provinces, and Brook himself therefore pointed to the possibility that the reason for the Tung Han’s polemic against ‘the Jesuits was in fact a covert attack on those who permitted them to enter the country and draw court salaries; in other words, the Manchus.’68 As in the case of Tung Han, Chih-fang wai-chi was also read and discussed on the Korean peninsula,69 but the balance of criticism and admiration was probably set by Yi Ik himself, who wrote in his ‘Postscript to Chih-fang wai-chi’ (Pal Chikpang oegi 跋職方外紀): If we compare the scholars of China with those of other lands, we certainly should find the Chinese to be far superior. Yet these days the 63 64

65 66 67 68 69



Luk 1997: 514. The possession of Hsi-hsüeh fan by converts is mentioned in the so-called silk letter. See Hong 2006: 90. For the Buddhist background of this collection, see Foulks 2008: 55–75. See also the introduction and translation by Charles B. Jones, ‘Pì xiè jí 闢邪集: Collected Refutations of Heredoxy by Ouyi Zhixu (蕅益智旭, 1599–1655),’ Pacific World: Journal of the Institute of Buddhist Studies 11 (2009) (third series): 351–407. Luk 1977b: 74. See also Brook 2009: 289. Luk 1977b: 74. Brook 2009: 290f. Brook 2009: 292. Chih-fang wai-chi was discussed by Yi Ik, Sin Hudam, and An Chŏngbok; its possession by converts is mentioned in the so-called silk letter. See Hong 2006: 164f. This list of materials does not contain a reference to the preface to Chih-fang wai-chi by Yi Ik that might indicate a wider circulation, at least within the circle of Yi Ik. See also Bae [=Pae] 2015: 416.

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scholars from the West surpass them in determination and ability. That foreigners should be so impressive – is not that embarrassing!70  Chiao-yu lun, on the other hand, was broadly read and probably also discussed in China, as is shown by a list of manuscripts and printed books which include parts of it or even the entire text.71 In Chosŏn Korea this text was known early, and Yi Ik himself obviously owned a copy of it.72 Further research is needed to identify additional paratexts to Jesuit writings or different versions of them in the collected writings of scholars and other private writings.73 It might also be worthwhile to reexamine the findings of previous studies on the reception of Jesuit writings by taking into consideration the importance of unedited collections of writings and manuscripts, as was indicated by the example of the scholar An Chŏngbok.

Greco-Roman Culture and the Problem of Response

The question of response to or resonance of the written presentation of GrecoRoman culture is even more difficult to study than the spread and reception of Jesuit writings. Parts of the Jesuit writings were used or quoted in later ­publications, and some writings were up for debate in written discussions or refutations of the Catholic teaching, to which the Jesuits even reacted in some cases with counter-refutations. It is significant that the reaction was different for different groups and agendas. The response of Confucian scholars and officials was rather positive or undecided, but mostly restricted to the works on science and geography or the subject of friendship. Buddhists or scholars with ties to Buddhist or even Muslim congregations responded rather negatively, especially to religious issues that were addressed by the Jesuits. The question is then to whom, for what reasons, and to what extent Catholicism provoked responses or even posed a threat to Confucianism, Buddhism, other religions, and/or Chinese society, and how this is related to the question of response to Greco-Roman culture. 70 71 72

73

Yi Ik, Sŏngho sŏnsaeng chŏnjip, 55: 26a. For the translation by Don Baker, see Peter H. Lee, ed., (1996), Sourcebook of Korean Civilization (New York: Columbia University Press), 2: 118. Billings 2009: 143ff. See also Li 2015: 156. For Chiao-yu lun see Hong 2006: 36. This list of materials contains references neither to slightly altered titles such as Chung-you lun 重友論 in Chibong yusŏl by Yi Sugwang nor to a letter from Yi Ik to Chŏng Hangnyŏng 鄭恒齡 (b. 1700). Yi Ik, Sŏngho sŏnsaeng chŏnjip, 29: 13b. Standaert 2001: 139. 

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Scholars usually explain the responses to Jesuit writings as caused by the openly anti-Buddhist positions of the Jesuits.. Within the section on opponents in the Handbook, Ad Dudink declares the threat Catholicism posed as ‘a matter of interpretation,’74 whereas Erik Zürcher, addressing the question of the general reception of Catholicism from the late Ming until the mid-Ch’ing period, summarized the positions of the opponents of Catholicism as follows: The missionaries are depicted as secret agents in the service of foreign powers who have infiltrated the Chinese elite and even the court. As a doctrine Christianity is said to introduce alien beliefs that undermine both Confucian orthodoxy and Buddhism. As a religious movement it is suspected of operating as a subversive sect aiming at overthrowing the government.75 Zürcher suggested a differentiation of levels of reception and response: the popular and local gentry level, the level of scholars, that of government officials, and that of the emperor and the court. He saw a close interaction between Christianity and indigenous folk religion at the lowest level; Confu­cioChristian synthesis, a certain interest in the scientific part of Western learning, and a critical attitude toward its religious portions at the scholarly level; the questions of ritual duties, law and order, orthodoxy (or better, orthopraxy), and anti-Catholic petitions to lower government institutions at the level of government officials; and finally the close connection between the usefulness of foreign sciences and hope of the conversion of the emperor at the highest level. Direct responses can be found at the levels of government officials and scholars, which is expressed mainly in petitions, polemical writings, and an interest in the non-religious parts of ‘heavenly’ or ‘Western studies.’ The generalized top-down structure described by Zürcher corresponds – of course – neither fully to all the roles of the actors nor to all the conflict lines. For the issue at hand, it is again necessary to shift from an actor’s perspective to a textual perspective and to identify those pieces within the responses to Jesuit writings that reacted to presentations of Greco-Roman culture. Instead of applying categories such as actors or opponents, it might be helpful to ask for forms and types of responses, preferably without binary judgments. A first type of response can be described as unspoken integration of elements of Greco-Roman antiquity in official Chinese knowledge horizons or canons of writings. Two examples of this type are the use of Chih-fang wai-chi or K’un-yü t’u-shuo in the compilation of Ming-shih 明史 (The official history of 74 75 

Standaert 2001: 506. Standaert 2001: 634.

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the Ming), finished in 1739; and Ta-ch’ing i-t’ung chih 大淸一統志 (Comprehensive gazetteer of the Great Ch’ing [Empire]), finished in 1744, as a source for the description of European countries and world geography. Only Ta-ch’ing i-t’ung chih went so far as to include the description of Sicily within the section on Italy and the introduction of Daedalus and Archimedes.76 On the other hand, Aristotle is omitted here in the section on Greece, as are Chiao-yu lun and other Jesuit ‘humanistic writings’ in the catalogue of writings in Ming-shih. The pieces of text that are used are usually given with the author or title of their sources and are therefore a form of quotation, which indicated that the title was available and also an approved part of an official canon of knowledge. It is probably not a coincidence that this integration is consistent with the ‘authorization’ of a number of Jesuit writings in Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu tsung-mu t’i-yao a few decades later. A second type of response can be described as the acculturation of elements of Greco-Roman culture in Chinese scholarly or literary practice. An example of this is a probably less-influential private reference work, which is mentioned in the Handbook as follows:  Zhu yi 朱翼 ‘Aid to [studying] Zhu [Xi]’ (1616), a kind of encyclopedia (leishu) compiled by Jiang Xuqi 江旭奇, contains several quotations from Diego de Pantoja’s (1571–1618) Qike 七克 (1614) and a few from Matteo Ricci’s Jiaoyou lun 交友論 (1595).77 Other examples include the intertwined discourses on friendship by Ricci and Chinese scholars, as in the cases of Chiao Hung 焦竑 (1540–1620), Chu T’ingtan 朱廷但 (m. 1626), and Hsü Po 徐勃 (1570–1642).78 Next to this, the probably less-influential Chu-shih meng-hsün 朱氏蒙訓 (Mr. Chu’s instruction of the young) by Chu Jih-chün 朱日濬 from the early Ch’ing period again used Chiaoyu lun to elaborate on a piece from the Chinese classic Book of Songs.79 Two literary writings of Tung Te-yung 董德鏞 (late Ming period) and Li Shih-hsiung 李世熊 (1602–1686), which were probably also less influential, point to a blend of literary techniques and a transformation of the genre of the fable on the basis of K’uang-i and parts of Ricci’s writings.80 Whereas in the cases of fables it was not necessary to have the Jesuit sources available, the situation was dif76 77 78 79 80

Heshen 和珅 ed., Ch’in-ting ta-ch’ing i-t’ung chih 欽定 423, Hsi-yang 4b (Ssu-k’u ch’üanshu edition). Standaert 2001: 139. Billings 2009: 22, 25ff, and 29ff. Li 1999: 148ff; and Li 2005: 149ff. Li 1999: 68f; Li 2005: 80ff; Wu 2012: 257ff. 

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ferent for Chiao-yu lun, which probably had to be available. The assumption of a lively discourse on friendship, as suggested by Billings and others, that interlinked and redefined the pieces from Chiao-yu lun (which is consistent with its reception in Korea and the Korean interest in the subject of friendship) could explain the reception of Chiao-yu lun and the number of its editions, but the reason for its end in the early or mid-Ch’ing period requires further study. When people stopped talking about the work, there was of course also no further need for available copies of Chiao-yu lun. A third type of response includes all sorts of criticism, refutation, and rejection of Jesuit writings in the form of petitions, discussions, polemical writings, etc. The Confucian scholar and Buddhist layman Hsü Ta-shou 許大受 (fl. 1628) in Sheng-ch’ao tso-p’i 聖朝佐闢 (Assisting the holy dynasty in the refutation [of heterodoxy/Catholicism])81 criticized the lack of the important hsiao 孝 (usually given as filial piety, but it also includes obedience or discipline). And he refers vaguely to a number of titles of Jesuit writings, among them Chi-jen shihp’ien, Hsi-hsüeh fan, and Chiao-yu lun.82 A direct reference to Greco-Roman antiquity can be found in the polemical T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-p’i 天學初闢 (First refutation of the heavenly teaching) by the Buddhist monk Ju-ch’un 如純, who chose nine issues of Jesuit anti-Buddhist criticism and provided a detailed refutation for each, one being the claim of the Pythagorean origin of Buddhism.83 The aforementioned Tung Han wrote only a small piece with the title T’ien-chu chiao 天主敎 ([On] the teaching of the lord of heaven), in which he refers to Aleni and his Chih-fang wai-chi but does not show further interest in GrecoRoman culture.84 Responses of this type refer to issues of conflict and do not require or even avoid the study of Jesuit writings. The fact that almost all these polemical writings were composed by Buddhists or scholars with ties to Buddhism provokes a number of questions, such as why there were no polemic writings from the Confucian side, why Confucian scholars did not react to religious issues, and whether Confucian polemics would have included any reference to Greco-Roman culture. One could try to answer these partly counterfactual questions by pointing to the Chinese approach of control of religious traditions, the influence of the dynastic transition, or the direct conflict of the pope and the Chi81 82 83 84



For Hsü Ta-shou and his Sheng-ch’ao tso-p’i, see Dudink 1993: 94–140. Hsü Ta-shou, Sheng-ch’ao tso-p’i, in Sheng-ch’ao p’o-hsieh chi, ed. Hsia Kui-ch’i (Hsiangkang: Chien-tao shen-hsüeh yüan, 1996), 4: 221f. [Shih 釋] Ju-ch’un, T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-p’i (Fifth of nine questions), in Sheng-ch’ao p’o-hsieh chi, 8: 399ff. Tung Han, ‘Ch’un-hsiang chui-pi’ 蓴鄕贅筆, in Ts’ung-shu chi-ch’eng hsü-pien 叢書集成 續編 96 (Shanghai: Shanghai shu-chü, 1994), 42.

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nese emperor in the rites controversy, which finally lead to the prohibition of Catholicism in China. Another possibility is to consult once more the situation on the Korean peninsula, where the reception of Jesuit writings in the academic circle of Yi Ik caused the first conversion in 1784 and finally a number of persecutions of Catholics and Catholicism beginning in 1801. Yi Ik himself pointed to the connection between Pythagoras and Buddhism in his ‘Postscript to T’ien-chu shih-i’ (Pal Ch’ŏnju sirŭi 跋天主實義)85 and included Aristotle in an entry about the tide at the Euripus Strait between Boeotia and Euboea (O-ou-pai-ya 厄歐白亞, where he mistakenly spelled it as Ni-ou-pai-ya/Ni-gubaeg-a 尼歐白亞). Influenced by the section on Greece in Chi-fang wai-chi, he organized his Sŏngho sasŏl 星湖僿說 (Trifling talks of Sŏngho [i.e., Yi Ik]) in a way similar to an encyclopedia.86 In section twelve of the polemic Ch’ŏnhak mundap (Dialogue on the heavenly learning) from 1785, his disciple An Chŏngbok mentions Heraclitus and Democritus in the context of the argument that Catholicism – like Buddhism – is not concerned with the here and now.87 An Chŏngbok argues in section five of the same text as follows: That the scholars from the West name their teaching after the heaven – already the intention is presumptuous and ridiculous…. When the scholars from the West speak about heaven [it seems] their intention is that they presume that there is nothing more respectful than heaven and that by speaking about heaven none of the diverse teaching would dare to resist. The intention is thus to command the vassals by clenching the son of heaven [i.e., the emperor], and this plan is quite ingenious! [According to] the teaching of our Confucian scholars, sages are established in continuation of heaven and they rule the world as representatives of the heaven’s work. It is not so that to spread order and to command punishment would not originate in heaven, but this is all about the circulation and popularization of the mandate of heaven. Why should a teaching which was named after the heaven necessarily become the holy teaching of the true way?88 An Chŏngbok articulated in this section that the Jesuit mission strategy aimed to dominate all teachings, including Confucianism. The well-known formu85 86 87 88

Yi Ik, Sŏngho sŏnsaeng chŏnjip, 55: 28b. For the translation by Don Baker, see Lee 1996: 133. Yi Ik, Sŏngho sasŏl, [1]: 49b. On the reception of Aristotle in China, see also Wardy 2004: 95. An Chŏngbok, Sunam sŏnsaeng munjip, 17: 14b. An Chŏngbok, Sunam sŏnsaeng munjip, 17: 9b. For the Korean translation by Hong Sŭng­ gyun, see Yang Hongnyŏl et al., Sunam-jip (Sŏul: Minjok munhwa ch’ujin-hoe, 1996–1997), 3: 229. 

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lation by Jesuits and converts in China to introduce the Catholic teaching as pu-ju 補儒 (‘to complement Confucianism’)89 is here turned into the threat of domination and consequently leads to the accusation of heterodoxy (or better, heteropraxy). When An Chŏngbok wrote his polemic dialogue, he was obviously still trying to convince scholars to return to the Confucian path, probably on the grounds that these early converts still understood themselves as Christians and Confucian scholars. The earlier polemic Sŏhak-pyŏn (Discussion on Western learning)90 by Sin Hudam, another disciple of Yi Ik, resulted in the very same accusation, but was not yet concerned with factual conversions. Sŏhak-pyŏn uses T’ien-chu shih-i, Chih-fang wai-chi, and Ling-yen li-shao as its main sources and targets, whereas Ch’ŏnhak mundap refers to or even quotes from T’ien-chu shih-i, Chih-fang wai-chi, Chi-jen shih-p’ien, and other writings, and claims to present an actual conversation. Sŏhak-pyŏn and Ch’ŏnhak mundap demonstrate that Confucian polemical writings did in fact react to religious issues, but it is only the short mention of Heraclitus and Democritus that proves very limited resonance of Greco-Roman culture. These three types of response were persistent and influential in different ways: the unspoken integration of elements of Greco-Roman culture lasted until the end of the dynasty but included only official sources and a limited number of elements, whereas the acculturation of elements of Greco-Roman culture was limited in time and to certain discourses but included many elements from Jesuit presentations of Greco-Roman antiquity. The acculturation of the fable was seemingly discontinued after its initial phase, and it only resumed in the nineteenth century, when new translations and recreations were produced.91 The criticism, refutation, and rejection of Jesuit writings, on the other hand, lasted at least until the mid-seventeenth century and were finally fixed in the judgments about Jesuit writings in Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu tsung-mu t’iyao, but only a limited number of elements were included in this type of response.

Conclusion

In his introductory article to Ta-tao chi-yen, Thierry Meynard presented this work as part of the ‘transmission of Western Classics to China,’ which according to him was an independent part of the missionary agenda and not merely a necessary basis for a successful mission: 89 90 91 

Zürcher 1993: 71–92; Standaert 2001: 628f and 637. Sin Hudam, ‘Sŏhak-pyŏn 西學辨,’ Tunwa sŏnsaeng mun chŏnjip 遯窩先生文前集, in Habin sŏnsaeng chŏnjip (Sŏul: Asea munhwa-sa, 2006), 7: 17–108. Wu 2012: 338.

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The missionaries wrote many treatises as evangelical preparation (preparatio evangelica) for non-Christians. They did not aim at introducing Chinese people to Christian theology, but at introducing them to the humanistic tradition of the West which could be easily accepted. This ‘wisdom literature,’ as Professor Erik Zürcher calls it, appropriating Biblical terminology, consisted of collections of moral maxims and edifying anecdotes.92 There could be no doubt about the role of evangelical preparation, but it is ­ ubious to describe the efforts either of Ricci and his fellow Jesuits of the early d period or of the ones that followed as not aiming to introduce Christian theology. The role of the West’s humanistic tradition, too, seems here rather overemphasized, probably because it was judged from the perspective of Ta-tao chi-yen or other works by Vagnone. As Claudia von Collani summarized it in the Handbook, ‘Italians played an important role’93 in the early Jesuit mission: ‘Educated in Italian humanism, they showed an open-minded attitude towards the foreign culture and tried to accommodate as much as was possible.’94 It is, however, a peculiar coincidence that Italian Jesuits in particular were ­concerned with the introduction and continuation of the accommodation strategy and the translation or production of ‘humanistic writings.’ To differentiate between national educational backgrounds here might be as important for an explanation as including individual biographical data, but it seems obvious that the different interests and tasks of the Jesuits within the China mission also point to differences in missionary approaches as well as to the implicit agreement to continue and enlarge the fields of textual production laid out by Ricci. Standaert and others correctly described the introduction of Greco-Roman culture as part of the introduction of Renaissance culture or humanism, but seemingly underestimated that it also stood for itself or a vague Western antiquity somehow mirroring understandings of Chinese antiquity. Jesuit writings did not present a broad and cohesive picture of Greco-Roman antiquity, but appropriated the ‘Greco-Roman lore’ directly and indirectly for missionary purposes.95 Next to the functional character of Greco-Roman antiquity, one could also argue that it was or became an interest in its own right, insofar as Ricci’s presentations of Greco-Roman culture were continued and even enlarged after his death by his fellow Italian Jesuits. The study of the reception 92 93 94 95

Meynard in Li and Meynard 2014: 109. Standaert 2001: 309. Standaert 2001: 309. Li 1999: 4.



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and use of Greco-Roman culture should therefore neither be restricted to the era of the Jesuit mission nor to Western periodizations of the Renaissance or humanism. Jesuit ‘humanistic writings’ presented Greco-Roman antiquity in different forms, densities, and states of recognizability. Chi-ho yüan-pen represents Greco-Roman heritage in translation, whereas collections such as Ling-yen lishao are at least oriented toward the knowledge horizons of the West or GrecoRoman antiquity. In Erh-shih-wu yen, Chiao-yu lun, Wu-shih yen-yü, Ch’iu-yu p’ien, or Ta-tao chi-yen, pieces from Greco-Roman writings are assembled to fit into the Chinese environment, but usually out of the context of the original source and without any mention of authors or titles. In other examples of ‘humanistic writings,’ Greco-Roman culture is even less important and is merely used to exemplify or refer to other ‘humanistic writings.’ Chi-ho yüan-pen is at least introduced as a piece of writing of Greco-Roman origin, and Ta-tao chi-yen gives a lot of original names and temporal descriptions referring to a certain antiquity in the West within the translated or renarrated pieces from Greco-Roman sources, whereas Erh-shih-wu yen was not (and was also not meant to be) recognizable as an example of Greco-Roman culture.96 The form, density, and recognizability of Greco-Roman culture are furthermore incongruent with its reception or resonance. Only Chi-ho yüan-pen, Chihfang wai-chi, and K’un-yü t’u-shuo were officially authorized, available beyond private circles, and quoted in other official writings. Chiao-yu lun, Erh-shih-wu yen, Ling-yen li-shao, and a few other writings were published in more than one edition and incorporated in the collectaneum T’ien-hsüeh ch’u-han, but only the case of Chiao-yu lun allows for the perception of a broader reception and resonance, owing to its circulating editions, discourse, and incorporation in Ku-chin t’u-shu chi-ch’eng. Chiao-yu lun is, on the other hand, not an example of widely recognizable elements of Greco-Roman culture because it refers to only a small number of original names and uses only a few temporal descriptions. Further research is necessary. Beyond the history of the fable in China or the question of the recognizability of Greco-Roman antiquity in Chinese writings, it would be worthwhile to inquire further into the extent to which premodern concepts of periodization or constructions of antiquity in China or Korea and the West are correlated with Jesuit writings or to what extent, for example, vague references to ‘ancient saints and sages’ of Greco-Roman antiquity could be included in future research. Further research on reception, resonances, and responses in Chinese writings should also focus on partial or punctual 96



Liu 2014: 832f.

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reception and consider, if possible, the differences between edited and published collections of writings and the underlying manuscripts.

References Cited

Bae Joo-yeon [=Pae Chuyŏn] 배주연 (2015). Alp’onso Pa’nyoni (P. A. Vagnoni)-ŭi Tongyu kyoyuk yŏn’gu 알폰소 바뇨니(P.A. Vagnoni)의 동유교육(童幼敎育) 연구 (The study of the 童幼敎育 written by P. A. Vagnoni). Han’guk kojŏn yŏn’gu 한국고전연구 (The Research of the Korean Classic) 32: 389–420. Billings, Timothy (2009). On Friendship: One Hundred Maxims for a Chinese Prince. New York: Columbia University Press. Brook, Timothy (2011). ‘Europaeology? On the Difficulty of Assembling a Knowledge of Europe in China.’ In Christianity and Cultures: Japan and China in Comparison (1543– 1644), ed. Antoni Ücerler, 269–93. Rome: Institutum Historicum Societatis Iesu. Chen Min-sun (1991). ‘Hsü Kuang-ch’i 徐光啓 (1562–1633) and His Knowledge of Europe.’ In Chine et Europe: évolution et particularités des rapports est-ouest du XVIe au XXe siècle, ed. Joseph Dehergne, 94–106. Paris: Institut Ricci. Ch’en Te-cheng 陈德正 (2008). ‘“Chi-jen shih-p’ien” ho “Ch’i-ko” chung te Hsi-la Luo-ma ku-tien wen-hua”’ ‘畸人十篇’ 和 ‘七克’ 中的希腊罗马古典文化’ (Ancient Greek and Roman culture in ‘Ten discourses by a paradoxical man’ and ‘Seven victories’). Li-shih chiao-hsüeh 历史敎学 (History Teaching) 20: 110–11. Ch’oe Sŏg’u 崔奭祐 (1997). ‘Chŏn‘gŭn-dae chŏngt’ong chisig’in-ŭi tae sŏyang insik 전근 대 傳統 知識人의 對西洋 인식’ (Early modern traditional intellectuals’ perceptions of the West). Kuksa-gwan nonch’ong 國史館論叢 (Journal of the Bureau of National History) 76: 225–52. Dudink, Adrian (1993). ‘The Sheng-ch’ao tso-p’i (1623) of Hsü Ta-shou.’ In Conflict and Accommodation in Early Modern East Asia: Essays in Honour of Erik Zürcher, eds. Leonard Blussé and Harriet T. Zurndorfer, 94–140. Leiden: Brill. Dudink, Adrian, and Nicolas Standaert. Chinese Christian Text Database (CCT-Database). KU Leuven, http://heron-net.be/pa_cct/index.php/About/Index (accessed June 1, 2018). Falato, Giulia (2015). ‘Alfonso Vagnone S. J.’s “Tongyou jiaoyu (Child Education)” and its Contribution to the Introduction of Western Learning into Late Ming China.’ Ming Qing Studies: 137–58. Falato, Giulia (2016). ‘The Concept of Friendship in Alfonso Vagnone S. J.’s work “Tongyou Jiaoyu 童幼敎育 (On the Education of Children, c. 1632)”.’ International Commu­ nication of Chinese Culture 3, no. 1: 95–106. Fang, Maurus Hao (1949–1955). ‘Notes on Matteo Ricci’s De Amicitia.’ Monumenta Serica 14: 574–83.



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Foulks, Beverley (2008). ‘Duplicitous Thieves: Ouyi Zhixu’s Criticism of Jesuit Mis­sio­ naries in Late Imperial China.’ Chung-Hwa Buddhist Journal 21: 55–75. Hong Sŏnp’yo 홍선표 et al. (2006). 17 18 segi Chosŏn-ŭi oeguk sŏjŏk suyong-gwa toksŏ silt’ae 17 18 세기 조선의 외국서적 수용과 독서실태 (Actual reception and reading of foreign books in the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Chosŏn dynasty). Mongnok-kwa haeje 목록과 해제 (Catalogue and bibliographic explication). Seoul: Tosŏ ch’ulp’an Hyean. Hosne, Ana Carolina (2014). ‘Friendship among Literati: Matteo Ricci SJ (1552–1610) in Late Ming China.’ Transcultural Studies 1: 190–214. Hsia, Ronnie Po-chia (2007). ‘The Catholic Mission and Translations in China, 1583–1700.’ In Cultural Translation in Early Modern Europe, eds. Peter Burke and R. Po-chia Hsia, 39–51. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hsia, Ronnie Po-chia (2010). A Jesuit in the Forbidden City: Matteo Ricci 1552–1610. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hsia, Ronnie Po-chia (2011). ‘Jesuit Representations of Europe to China in the Early Modern Period.’ In Departure for Modern Europe: A Handbook of Early Modern Philos­ ophy, ed. Hubertus Busche, 792–803. Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag. Kim Sanggŭn 김상근 (2006). ‘Myŏngmal Yesu-hoe sŏn’gyo-sa Mat’eo Rich’i-e taehan saeroun p’yŏngga 명말(明末) 예수회 선교사 마테오 리치에 대한 새로운 평가’ (Rethinking Matteo Ricci, the Italian Jesuit missionary to late Ming China). Sŏn’gyo sinhak 선교신학 (Theology of Mission) 12: 1–21. Kuksa p’yŏnch’an wiwŏn-hoe 국사편찬위원회 (National history compilation committee), ed. (1998). Han’guk-sa 한국사 (History of Korea) 35: Chosŏn hugi-ŭi munhwa 조 선 후기의 문화 (Late Chosŏn dynasty culture). Gwacheon: Kuksa p’yŏnch’an wiwŏn-hoe. Li, Sher-shiueh (1999). ‘Toward a Missionary Poetics in Late Ming China: The Jesuit Appropriation of “Greco-Roman” Lore through the Medieval Tradition of European Exempla.’ PhD diss., University of Chicago. Li Sher-shiueh [=Li Shih-hsüeh] 李奭學 (2005). Chung-kuo wan Ming yü Ou-chou wenhsüeh: Ming mo Yeh-su hui ku-tien hsing-cheng tao ku-shih k’ao-ch’üan 中國晚明與歐 洲文學: 明末耶穌會古典型證道故事考詮 (European literature in Late Ming China: Jesuit Exemplum, its source and its interpretation). Taipei: Chung-yang yen-chiu yüan. Li, Sher-shiueh (2009). ‘The Art of Misreading: An Analysis of the Jesuit “Fables” in Late Ming China.’ In Translating China, eds. Xuanmin Luo and Yuanjin He, 71–94. Bristol: Multilingual Matters. Li, Sher-shiueh (2014). ‘“Translating” Homer and His Epic in Late Imperial China: Christian Missionaries’ Perspectives.’ Asia Pacific Translation and Intercultural Studies 1, no. 2: 83–106. Li Sher-shiueh 李奭學 (2015). Chung-wai wen-hsüeh kuan-hsi lun-kao 中外文學關係論 稿 (Essays on literary relations between China and foreign countries). Taipei: Lienching ch’u-pan shih-yeh kung-ssu. 

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Li, Sher-shiueh, and Thierry Meynard (2014). Jesuit Chreia in Late Ming China: Two Studies with an Annotated Translation of Alfonso Vagnone’s Illustrations of the Grand Dao. Bern: Peter Lang. Liu, Yu (2014). ‘The Complexities of a Stoic Breakthrough: Matteo Ricci’s Ershiwu yan (Twenty-five paragraphs).’ Journal of World History 24, no. 4: 823–47. Luk, Bernhard Hung-Kay (1977a). ‘Thus the Twain Did Meet? The Two Worlds of Giulio Aleni.’ PhD diss., Indiana University. Luk, Bernhard Hung-Kay (1977b). ‘A Study of Giulio Aleni’s Chih-fang wai chi 職方外紀.’ Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies 40, no. 1: 58–84. Luk, Bernhard Hung-Kay (1997). ‘Aleni Introduces the Western Academic Tradition to Seventeenth-Century China: A Study of the Xixue Fan.’ In ‘Scholar from the West’: Giulio Aleni S. J. (1582–1649) and the Dialogue between Christianity and China, eds. Tiziana Lippiello and Roman Malek, 479–518. Nettetal, Germany: Steyler Verlag. Mignini, Filippo, ed. (2005). Über die Freundschaft: Dell’amicizia. Trans. Nina Jocher. Macerata, Italy: Quodlibet. Meynard, Thierry (2014). ‘Illustrations of the Grand Dao: A Book of Rhetoric and Morality in Late-Ming China.’ In Jesuit Chreia in Late Ming China: Two Studies with an Annotated Translation of Alfonso Vagnone’s Illustrations of the Grand Dao, ed. Sher-shiueh Li and Thierry Meynard, 97–182. Bern: Peter Lang. Shen, Vincent (2009). ‘Introduction and Re-writing of Aristotle’s De Anima by Early Jesuits in China’ (Sŏgang taehakkyo ch’ŏrhak yŏn’gu-so nonmun-jip 서강대학교 철학 연구소논문집). Ch’ŏrhak nonjip 철학논집 (Sogang Journal of Philosophy) 17: 51–94. Standaert, Nicolas (2000). ‘The Classification of Sciences and the Jesuit Mission in Late Ming China.’ In Linked Faiths: Essays on Chinese Religions and Traditional Culture in Honour of Kristofer Schipper, eds. Jan A. M. De Meyer and Peter M. Engelfriet, 287–317. Leiden: Brill. Standaert, Nicolas, ed. (2001). Handbook of Christianity in China, Volume One: 635–1800. Leiden: Brill. Standaert, Nicolas (2003). ‘The Transmission of Renaissance Culture in SeventeenthCentury China.’ Renaissance Studies 17, no. 3: 367–91. Walravens, Hartmut (1970). ‘Die Sieben Weltwunder in chinesischer Darstellung.’ Oriens Extremus 17: 101–24. Wardy, Robert (2004). Aristotle in China: Language, Categories and Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wu, Pei-lin (2012). ‘Aesop’s Fables in China: The Transmission and Transformation of the Genre.’ PhD diss., University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Xu, Dongfeng (2011). ‘The Concept of Friendship and the Culture of Hospitality: The Encounter between the Jesuits and the Late Ming China.’ PhD diss., University of Chicago.



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Yŏ Chinch’ŏn 呂珍千 (2003). Hwang Sayŏng paeksŏ-wa ibon 黃嗣永帛書와異本 (Hwang Sayŏng’s ‘Silk Letter’ and its different versions). Seoul: Kukhak charyo-wŏn. Zhang Beichung and Tian Miao (2010). ‘Archimedean Mechanical Knowledge in 17th Century China.’ In The Genius of Archimedes: 23 Centuries of Influence on Mathematics, Science and Engineering, eds. S.A. Paipetis and Marco Ceccarelli, 189–205. Dordrecht, Netherlands: Springer. Zhang Huiwen (2008). ‘Die Begegnung des chinesischen Sonderlings mit dem deutschen Übermenschen. Ein Phänomen der interkulturellen Übertragung. Teil 1.’ Orientierungen 1: 9–36. Zürcher, Erik (1993). ‘A Complement to Confucianism: Christianity and Orthodoxy in Late Imperial China.’ In Norms and the State in China, eds. Chun-chieh Huang and Erik Zürcher, 71–92. Leiden: Brill. Zürcher, Erik (1996). ‘Renaissance Rhetoric in Late Ming China: Alfonso Vagnoni’s Introduction to his Science of Comparison.’ In Western Humanistic Culture Presented to China by Jesuit Missionaries (XVII–XVIII Centuries), ed. Federico Masini, 331–59. Rome: Institutum Historicum Societatis Iesu.



Chapter 2

Reading Classical Latin Authors in the Jesuit Mission in China: Seventeenth to Eighteenth Centuries Noël Golvers When Roman Catholic missionaries arrived in China in the mid-1550s after the first Portuguese discoverers and merchants – and especially following the arrival of one of them, the Italian Matteo Ricci (1552–1611) in the Kingdom of the Middle, reaching Peking in 1601 – Classical Latin literature was introduced to China.1 This is insofar not a cause for surprise, as these Jesuits had received a thorough humanistic education in Western schools, and had often been deeply involved in the cultural life of their mother country before leaving for China. Copies of Latin authors and texts arrived partly in the personal luggage of some of the missionaries – although these can only rarely be recognized, as they did not leave behind traces in the archival sources we have at our disposal – as well as in more systematic and aimed book shipments from Europe, answering to orders (that is, requests, want lists, even ‘catalogues’) sent from the Jesuits in China. As such, these items – as far as they can still be identified in our (incompletely preserved) Western sources – represent the reading patterns and literary preferences of a well-educated readership, embodying at the same time the most remote extension of the Classical literary heritage. Therefore, cataloguing these archival traces and inventorying the currently existing copies of ancient Latin authors is a relevant project, and this not only for its significance in the field of Classical literature and the history of Western printing and editorial history, but also because of its reception in China, through its influence in Chinese productions of the same Jesuits, if not always their Chinese collaborators.

1 In this chapter, complete citation information for primary sources will be provided in the footnotes. Full bibliographic citations of modern secondary sources are included in the References Cited list at the end of the chapter. For a recent general overview of the Jesuit mission in China, see Standaert 2001; for the individual careers of the Jesuit missionaries, see Dehergne 1973. Books and manuscripts composed by the Jesuits in China can be found in Streit 1964. Extant books in Peking are in Verhaeren 1949 (“No...”).

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_004



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Describing this entire field is part of a much larger research project, which intends to map systematically the presence and impact of the entire Western literary production in China within the framework of the Jesuit mission, mainly between ca. 1600 and 1800.2 This resulted so far in the identification of about 1,700 titles known through inventories, want lists, quotations, references, etc., recuperated from Western archival sources, in addition to the 4,100 items mentioned in the actual Beitang catalogue.3 This is not the place to describe in detail the problems regarding the degree of representativity of this catalogue for the pre-suppression Jesuit libraries in China; it may be sufficient to stress that Latin is the language of about 50 percent of the entire Western production in this documentation, which may not be a surprise when seen from the European background. Within this large documentation I isolate here only the editions (commentaries, etc.) of ancient Latin authors and the traces of their real use (references, imitations), including the (limited) Nachleben of these authors in Chinese. Before listing the Latin authors and editions present in China, I must stress the low proportion of these editions within the entire Western book landscape in China, and their position – when compared to books on mathematical ­sciences, the medico-pharmaceutical sector, and church-related items – can best be characterized as marginal. This is certainly because the belles lettres, including the authors of Classical heritage, had generally no direct links with the scientific, missionary, or pastoral programs of the Jesuits in China – with the exception of some ‘scientific’ authors or stylistic models still authoritative in the seventeenth to eighteenth centuries (such as Plinius’ Naturalis Historiae). In this mission – in which the general conditions left no place for much ‘nonsense’ – these authors almost exclusively served to provide some kind of intellectual and aesthetic distraction. Their rather marginal position is also confirmed by measurements in the smaller (private) collections of which we have the inventories, such as those of Diogo Valente (Macau, before 1633),4 Jean-François Foucquet (Beitang, just before 1720),5 and the Peking bishops Policarpo de Sousa (Nantang, before 1757) 2 Golvers 2012b, 2013, and 2015. 3 See Verhaeren 1949. Along general lines, this ‘Beitang’ collection – recycling the name of the pre-1777 French Jesuit residence in Peking, but in fact a new Lazarist creation of the 1860s – integrated large parts of the library of the pre-1777 Portuguese college in Peking, called Xitang, later Nantang, and its branch, called Dongtang, with nuclei of other ancient Jesuit libraries throughout China (Nanking, Hangzhou, Macau, etc.), complemented with new acquisitions from the nineteenth-century European antiquarian book market. 4 See Golvers 2006. 5 See Golvers 2010b.



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and Alexandre de Gouveia (Nantang, before 1808).6 In Valente’s collection – the only one for which we have a complete inventory – I found only seven of about 280 items which could be classified in this section, viz. Caesar (no. 273), Cicero (nos. 112 and 183),7 Horace (no. 286), Martial (nos. 216 and 274), and Sallust (no. 240). On the other hand, in the collection of Jean-François ­Foucquet – established through his own efforts and financial means and which after his untimely departure in 1720 was integrated in the residence library of the Bei­ tang – Cicero is the only name mentioned, while the rest of his library, numbering approximately three hundred European titles was predominantly filled with books on his own scientific projects and idiosyncratic interests. Whereas ancient Latin authors may have been well represented in the Jesuit library (or libraries) of Macau, also as part of the local teaching programs, it is only with Michele Ruggieri and Matteo Ricci that the conditions were fulfilled for the penetration in the Chinese mainland (‘China dentro’). As the few, scattered sources on the holdings of Ricci’s library do not contain Latin au­­ thors, the first who entered China may have been among the books – or the library (‘bibliotheca nostra Sinensis’) – which Nicolas Trigault and Johannes Terrentius (alias Schreck) collected, by purchase and donation, during their ‘tour’ through Southern, Central, and Northwestern Europe in 1616–1618. On these we are rather well informed through Trigault’s report on the first part of this tour (written in Brussels, January 2, 1617), a series of Terrentius letters now in the Fondo Faber of the Biblioteca Corsiniana in Rome, and a series of accounts in the Museum Plantin Moretus (MPM) in Antwerp, concerning systematic purchases they made in the shop of the Officina Plantiniana on December 7–9, 1616, and on January 7, 1617.8 In these (prolific but still incomplete) lists some titles of editions bought in Antwerp are mentioned, viz.: ‒‒ a copy of an unidentified edition of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, in 16°, cum ­figuris and copper plates, in all probability the illustrated edition of Pieter van der Borcht (Ovidii Metamorphoses, Antwerp: Off. Plantiniana, 1591);9 ‒‒ the ‘observations’ on all of Ovid’s texts by Hercules Ciofanus ‘in Ovidium, in 8°,’ i.e., Herculis Ciofani in Omnia P(ublii) Ovidii Nasonis Opera Observationes, also a Plantin edition of 1583; ‒‒ the commentaries of Gaspar Gevartius on L. Papinius Statius, published in Leiden (1616); and 6 7 8 9

For a complete analysis of the library of A. de Gouveia, see Beckmann 1968. The numbers refer to the sequence in my edition of this list in Golvers 2006. Antwerp: Museum Plantin Moretus, Archief 223. Cf. among others Henkel 1930.



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‒‒ the Argonautica of Valerius Flaccus in an Antwerp edition, in 16°, of Ludovicus Carrione. Acquired Latin prose authors included, in addition to Cicero, with the annotations of Fulvius Ursinus, Tacitus, or more precisely his Discorso del Sig(no)re Scipione Amirato, published in Florence, 1594; Vegetius, that is, his De Militia Romana Commentarius in 4°, published in Leiden (Raphelingien); and Boe­ thius, or rather the commented edition of Consolatio Philosophiae of Joh. Bernartius, published in Antwerp in 1607. It is commonly known that these books – according to contemporary Chinese sources mounting to some ‘7,000 items’ – arrived in Macau in 1619, and were shipped to Peking circa 1625, in order to become the basis of a ‘central’ library in the Portuguese college, as a support for an ambitious and comprehensive translation and teaching program in Chinese. In the next decades, with 1800 as the extreme date, this collection, as well as others in the resi­ dences and colleges spread over the Chinese country were further extended, occasionally also with Classical Latin literature (and Greek, in bilingual GrecoLatin editions).

Poetry

Claude Clément, S.J., in his blueprint for a (Jesuit) library (1635) was resolute on the necessity of having Latin (lyrical, epic, elegiac) poetry in a (Jesuit) library, referring in this regard to Carolus Scribanius,10 and this for its affinity to (profane or ecclesiastical) eloquence.11 In the China mission, too, poets were among the authors collected, ever since Nicolas Trigault, as we have seen, which illustrates the implementation of this aspect of Trigault’s own 1617 programmatic letter.12 The series of individual poets, who are still extant in the Peking Beitang collection, opens with T. Lucretius Carus, De Rerum Natura libri VIII, in an Aldine edition from Venice, 1515 (no. 2131), unfortunately without any indication as to 10 11

12



Carolus Scribani(us) (1624), Institutio politico-Christiana (Antwerp), chap. 14, p. 164ff. (with lists on p. 169 and p. 179). Cl. Claude Clément (1635), Musei, sive Bibliothecae tam Privatae quam Publicae Extructio, Instructio, Cura, Usus Libri IV; Accessit Accurata Descriptio Regiae Bibliothecae S. Laurentii Escurialis, Lugduni (Lyon: J. Prost), pp.  359–360. Written from the Jesuit college in Brussels, January 2, 1617: ‘Si varietatem scientiarum [spectas]: praeter humanistas, philosophos … congessi.’

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the readers of it. Significantly enough in the light of the astronomical specialty of the Jesuits of the Portuguese college Xitang (Nantang) in the Astronomical Bureau (since 1644) is the presence of Aratus’ Phaenomena, in an anonymous collective edition of Veterum Poetarum Fragmenta Astronomica, of 1589 (no. 4005),13 the related Aratea of Germanicus and (in all probability) M. Manilius’, Astronomica;14 yet by the lack of book inscriptions it can barely be proven they were read precisely in this context of the Peking astronomical Bureau (Qintianjian) and its European researchers there. Also circulating were copies of the elegiac poets Catullus, Tibullus, and Propertius, through the commentaries of Jean Passerat, Paris, 1608 (no. 2389, a Trigault book),15 and a pleiad of other first-rank poets: ‒‒ Q. Horatius Flaccus, Poemata, edited and commented by Johannes Bond, 1670–1680 (nos. 1831–1833);16 13

14

15 16

Other authors present in the same are Avienus, Cicero, Germanicus, and Hyginus. The work presents itself in the subtitle as ‘opus non astronomiae solum, sed & poeseos studiosis apprime utile’ / ‘a work extremely useful not only for the students of astronomy, but also of poetry’; unfortunately the Chinese provenance of the copy cannot be traced. Aratus’ text was also available in a bilingual edition of J. Lect ([1606] Poetae Graeci Veteres Carminis Heroici, qui extant, omnes [Geneva] [Verhaeren, no. 4032; cp. also 4005]), a copy which was among the Trigault books, and thus available in the Xitang library since about 1625. In the ms. of his Astronomiae Restitutae Mechanica (1676), sub fig. 43, and again in Astronomia Europaea (1680, 1687), pp. 56/57, Ferdinand Verbiest quoted from Manilius’ Astronomica I, vv. 41–42. In addition, he took also two distichs from his Lib. 1 through Bocarro Frances (1619), Tratado dos cometas que appareceram em novembro passado de 1618 (Lisboa), p. 16: one located by Bocarro at the end of his source (in fine), in fact ibid., vv. I, 896–897; and another one ‘mais abaixo’ in the same text, viz. lines I, 906–7(a) (not ‘I, 901’ as the 1938 edition of Verbiest’s (1938), Correspondance de Ferdinand Verbiest, Directeur de l’Observatoire de Pékin (1623–1688), ed. H. Josson & L. Willaert (Brussels: Palais des Académies), p. 98, note 13, incorrectly mentions). In fact, only the quotations in Mechanica Astronomiae Restitutae remain as potential proofs of the presence of a copy of this text in the Xitang library; although no other physical trace of it is preserved, this assumption is not improbable, in view of the topic and the influence of the poem. For Propertius’ allusions in the mid seventeenth-century authors Martino Martini and Michael Boym, see infra. A copy of Horace was also in the personal collection of Diogo Valente (Macau, 1633: ‘Poetae [ms.: Portae] Horatii. Duplex tomus similis’: sic in the inventory of this private library in J(esuitas na) Asia (abbr. JA) 49-V-11, f° 123r. / Madrid, Real Acad. Hist., Leg. Jes. 21, 9 / 7236, f° 739r. edition not identifiable). Echoes of Carmina 2.1 and 3.1.4 are in François de Rougemont (1673), Historia Nova Tartaro-Sinica (Leuven: Hullegaerde), p. 170 (composed in Canton, ca. 1667): compare ‘quam item pericolosae & graves (ut ille [Hor.] quondam canebat) Principum amicitiae’ with both textual passages of the Horace model; small textual 

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‒‒ P. Vergilius Maro, Opera, in the editions of Nicolaus Heinsius, Amsterdam, 1672 (no. 3051); Johannes Minelli, Rotterdam, 1681 (no. 3052); Carolus Ruaeus, S.J., Paris, 1729 (no. 3053); and an edition ‘ad usum scholarum Veronensium,’ Verona, 1738 (no. 3054);17 ‒‒ P. Ovidius Naso, with editions of the Opera by Heinsius, Amsterdam, 1647 (no. 2360, a copy assigned in the 1730s or 1740s by Carlos de Resende, S.J., to the Zhengding fu mission); also the second volume of Schrevelius’s edition of the Metamorphoses and Ibis, Leiden, 1661 (no. 2362); and the edition of

17



echoes from the Epistulae / Ars Poetica (v. 5 [‘sed risum teneatis amici’] and 72 [‘et ius et norma loquendi’]) are in Ferdinand Verbiest (N. Golvers, ed. [2017]), Letters of a Peking Jesuit. The correspondence of Ferdinand Verbiest, SJ (1623–1688). Revised and Expanded, Leuven Chinese Studies, 35 (Leuven: Ferdinand Verbiest Institute), 846 and 170, respectively, the former also in a letter of Tomás Pereira, of 1693 (cf. Louis Filipe Barreto, ed. (2011), Tomás Pereira. Obras, 2 vols. Lisbon: Centro Cientifico e Cultural de Macau), p. 674); some reference to the Sermones I is in the Praefatio of Francesco Brancati, Responsio Apologetica, ms. in B(iblioteca) V. E(manuele II), Roma, FoGes. 1250/5, f° 323v. (not repeated in the printed edition). Bond’s edition is among the most frequently reprinted editions of Horace; it may be of some interest that it was not Heinsius’ edition that was circulating. As for Virgil: echoes of the Georgica I are from Francesco Brancati (A(rchivum) R(oma­ num) S(ocietatis) I(esu), Jap.Sin. 143, f° 70v.; Shanghai, 1650), more precisely I, vv. 276–77a (‘alios alios’ for present ‘alios alio’; ‘felices’ for ‘felicis’; taken from Marzio Galeotti). In Peking, Adam Schall von Bell, in an apologetic context as well, quotes from bk. 1, 418–22 (cf. Apologia [1652], in JS 143, f° 101r., albeit with some older readings: v. 419: ‘tanta’ for ‘densa’). In the French residence Beitang, Jean-François Foucquet (between 1710 and 1720) quotes unusually long fragments concerning apiculture from the fourth book of the Georgics in the ms. of Propylaeum Templi Veteris Sapientiae (B(ibliotheca) A(postolica) V(ati­ cana) Borg. lat., 566, f° 747r. / v.). From the Bucolica, there are only four verses of the fourth eclogue (vv. 4ff.), of which the Messianic interpretation fits, in (the ms. of) Joachim Bouvet, Specimen Sapientiae Hieroglyphicae (JS IV, 5, p. 175; the only ‘variant reading,’ compared to modern editions, is cyclorum instead of saeclorum). As for the Aeneïs, Brancati quoted bk. 4, vv. 457–458, in his Responsio Apologetica, written during the Canton detention (ms. BVE, FoGes. 1250 / 5, f° 382r. / print [Paris, 1700], II, p. 7/8; but wrongly referred to bk. 2; therefore perhaps a reference from memory). In Peking, Verbiest, in the ms. of his Mechanica (1676), sub fig. 42, recalled the words of the Rutulian King Turnus (XII, 21): ‘atque omnes metuentem expendere casus.’ Ten years later, in 1686, another – polemic – letter by the same contains a small (proverbial?) fragment from Lib. I, 26: ‘manet alta mente repostum’ (Verbiest 2017: 706). Finally, from the French residence in Jiujiang (Jiangxi Prov.) stems De Prémare’s extremely laudative appreciation of Christian Mentzel’s tentative Chinese lexicon, which appeared in the 1685 issue of the Miscellanea … Academiae Naturae Curiosorum…; it is expressed in Vergilian terms, borrowed from Aen., VI, v. 143 and 800–805 (JS 183, f° 110r/v.: 10 October 1723).

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Georgius Walchius, Leipzig, 1731 (no. 2361, from the Portuguese college in Peking);18 ‒‒ M. Annaeus Lucanus, with an edition of De Bello Civili, annotated by Grotius and Farnabius, Amsterdam, 1669 (no. 2128, a copy from the Nantang);19 ‒‒ M. Valerius Martialis, Epigrammata, Leiden (?) 1670 (?) (no. 2199);20 18

19

20

I found traces of Ovid reading in China in Joachim Bouvet (JS IV, 5, esp. pp. 52–53), who inserted long fragments of Metamorphoses, Lib. 1, in the ms. of his Specimen Sapientiae Hieroglyphicae, to be identified as Met. I, 127b – 153; I, 187ff.; I, 325–327. Exactly the same fragments are in his ms. Supplementum seu Confirmatio Demonstrationis 1719 prolatae, etc. (B(ibliothèque) n(ationale de) F(rance), N. acq. Lat. 1174, f. 164r. / 164v.), albeit with more ‘variant readings’; consequently a copy was in the French library of Peking. Heroides, II.44 is quoted in Verbiest 2017: 394 (1681: the so-called Responsum Apologeticum), while Bouvet in the aforementioned text (p. 172/173) has a distich from the ‘Letter of Sappho to Phaon,’ viz. Heroid., XV, vv. 35–36. Remedia Amoris, vol. 1, 91 (‘sero medicina paratur’) appear in a letter of Tomás Pereira of 19 April 1690 (cf. Barreto 2011: 344), whereas vv. 131–32 are quoted in the aforementioned 1681 apologetic work of Verbiest, albeit with a variant reading which points to the Heinsius edition of 1629–1661 (Verbiest 2017: 388): ‘Temporis ars medicinae fere est. Data tempore prosunt // et data non apto tempore, vina nocent’. (Ver­ biest’s variant reading of the initial words as ‘Temporibus medicina valet’ stems from Heinsius’s edition, and goes back to the reading of a ms. in BnF, Cod.lat. 8460 from the thirteenth to fourteenth centuries, etc.) For another relevant Ovidian reminiscence in Verbiest’s letter of 1676 to the Russian czar Alexei Mikhailovich (1629–1676), referring to his ‘exile’ and the subsequent progressive loss of knowledge of Latin, that ‘golden’ language, see my remarks in Golvers 1992, and 2017. The Ovidian echoes in Verbiest reflect his own humanistic background as a pupil of Sidronius Hosschius, S.J., his former teacher (‘magister olim meus Metamorphosim Ovidianam nobis praelegens identidem inculcabat’ / ‘Once my teacher, when reading for us the Metamorphoses of Ovid, inculcated in us the same’: Golvers 2017b: 171) and his Ovidian Genethliacon (cf. also Smeesters 2011: 400–456). There are further Ovidian echoes in Martino Martini (1655), Novus atlas Sinensis a Martino Martinio, Soc. Iesu descriptus et serenmo. Archiduci Leopoldo Guilielmo Austriaco dedicatus (Amsterdam: Joh. Blaeu), p. 116: a line of Epist. ex Ponto (4, 3, 35: “Omnia sunt hominum tenui pendentia filo”) combined with a line from Tristia (5, 8, 18: “Et tantra ­constans in levitate sua est”) both illustrate the uncertain character of all human un­der­ takings. On Ovid’s reception in early modern European culture, see Wilkinson 1955; ­Martindale 1988. Some superficial reference (no quotation) in the preface of F. Brancati, Responsio Apologetica, ms. in BVE, FoGes. 1250 /5, f° 321v (Omitted in the 1700 printed edition of Paris: Pepié). Another copy was in the private library of Diogo Valente (Macau, 1633); cf. the inventory in JA 49-V-1, f° 122r. / Madrid, Real Acad. Hist., Leg. Jes. 21, 9 / 7236, f° 738v. and 739r. Unfortunately we do not know whether it was a copy of one of the ‘expurgated’ editions (prepared by, among others, Andreas Schott, S.J., Andreas Des Freux / Frusius, S.J., and Emond Auger, S.J.). A line from Martialis’ Liber Spectaculorum (1, 8: “Unum pro cunctis fama



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‒‒ P. Papinius Statius, Silvae, Thebaïs and Achilleïs, an edition with various commentaries, Leiden, 1671 (no. 2868, from the Nantang); and ‒‒ Ausonius, Opera, in an edition of Joseph Scaliger, Leiden, 1612 (no. 901). A collective edition was that of Petrus Brossaeus, Corpus omnium veterum poetarum Latinorum, Lyon, 1603 (no. 1128, also brought by Trigault). These text editions are accompanied by some evidence for the presence of poetical chrestomathies – that is, ‘prosodies’ and others: see Bento Pereira, Prosodia in vocabularium bilingue (al. trilingue) Latinum (Castellanum) et Lusitanum, of which no less than seven copies can be traced (nos. 2408–2414)21 – that is, editions between 1674 and 1741, of which only no. 2414 has an individual inscription, referring to Policarpo de Sousa, owner of some poetical editions, and two others having been assigned to the ‘Chinese vice-province’ (nos. 2409 [‘Este prozodia e da V(ice) Prov(inci)a da China’] and 2411). In addition, I traced copies of ‒‒ Hendrik (de) Smet, Prosodia Hendrici Smetii, Medicinae D(octoris) promtissima, quae syllabarum positione & diphtongis carentium quantitate, solâ veterum poetarum auctoritate, adductis exemplis demonstrat, Lyon, 1617 (no. 2762, copy with an unclear donation formula referring to 1671); ‒‒ Giambattista Riccioli, Prosodia Bononiensis, Venice, 1674 (no. 2591, from the Nantang); ‒‒ D. Level, Thesaurus prosodicus seu Voces Omnes Latinae, aut Latinitate Donatae, suis ad Quantitatem Notis accurate distinctae, Paris, 1675 (no. 2036); ‒‒ Petrus J. Sautel, S.J., Lusus Poetici Allegorici, sive Elegiae oblectandis animis & moribus informandis accomodatae, Prague, 1684 (no. 2675, since 1722 the property of Florian Bahr poeta, i.e., pupil of the poesis class, and future Indipeta);22 and ‒‒ Paul Aler, Gradus ad Parnassum, Amsterdam, 1716, 1752 and 1772 (nos. 757– 759, the first with the stamp of Policarpo de Sousa); Prosodia della lingua Latina of Ferdinando Porretti, Padua, 1744 (no. 3414).23

21

22 23



loquatur opus”), which the author applied to the Colosseum, was transferred by Verbiest (2017: 493) to apply to the Great Wall – quite a relevant and creative recuperation. Cf. Almeida 1967; Verdelho 1982. This prosodia was among the favorite targets of L. Antonio de Vernei’s attacks against the ‘classical’ Jesuit education in Portugal: see Marquês de Pombal (2008), Compéndio historico da Universidade de Coimbra, ed. Manuel Ferreira Patricio (Porto: Campo das Letras), p. 71. Cf. Golvers 2012b: 321. For the sake of completeness, I add here Placido Spatafora, S.J., author of a Prosodia italiana, overo l’arte con l’uso degli accenti nella volgar favella d’Italia, with three small treatises at the end, among them one on Latin prosody (no. 3485).

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See for further aspects (such as mythography, etc.): ‒‒ Jean Tixier, al. Johannes Textor, Epithetorum Joh(annis) Ravisii Epitome … ­Eiusdem Synonyma Poetica, Antwerp, 1569 (no. 2970);24 ‒‒ Natale Conti, Mythologiae, sive explicationis fabularum libri X, Frankfurt, 1588 (nos. 1381–1382, the former copy with the owner’s mark of Bonjour-Fabri, the latter brought by Trigault from Douai); ‒‒ Proclus, Chrestomathia Poetica, interprete Andrea Schotto, Hanau, 1615 (no. 4040, from the Trigault books); ‒‒ Pierre Gautruche, S.J., Historia poetica ad faciliorem poetarum … intelligentiam, Trnava, 1709 (no 1664); ‒‒ Vincenzo Cartari, Imagines Deorum, Mainz, 1687 (no. 1217, from the French residence in Peking);25 ‒‒ Thomas Gale, Opuscula Mythologica, physica et ethica, Graece et Latine, Amsterdam, 1688 (no. 4021, from the French Jesuits in Peking); and ‒‒ Antoine Banier, La mythologie et les fables expliquées par l’histoire, Paris, 1738 (no. 60, from the same French residence). These instruments in particular suggest that the reading of (Neo-)Latin poetry was not purely receptive – a matter of consumption or intellectual distraction – but also had incited to forms of active emulation. Proofs of Jesuit Latin compositions in China, composed either in Peking or elsewhere in China, are available, signed by Adam Schall, Filippo de Marini, Giandomenico Gabiani, Antoine Thomas, and Jean-François Foucquet, among others.26 24 25

26

McFarlane 1976. I recognize a reference to Cartari in a letter of Giacomo Filippo Simonelli of August 31, 1729 (JS 180, f° 272r.), but this refers to a copy he had seen in Europe, not in China: ‘Vidi ego etiam in Europa librum, qui adhuc exstabit in domo meâ paterna, satis magnum. Non memini auctoris (!), sed tituli, qui hic est: “Imagini de’ Dei degli Antichi,” in quo et Idolorum figurae excusae videntur, et earum inclusa illis symbolis significatio enucleatur / ‘Also in Europe I saw a book of rather large size which will still exist in my father’s house. I do not remember the author, but the title is “Imagini de’ Dei degli Antichi,” in which one can also see the etching(s) of the idols, and in which an explanation is given of the meaning contained in these symbols.’ In fact, there are no direct testimonies of Cartari in China; he was also the main source of Cesare Ripa, Iconologia (cf. ed. Sonia Maffei, [Einaudi Ed.], p. 75 etc.), but curiously enough this too is not mentioned anywhere. See Adam Schall, Historica Relatio, pp. 315–316, 327, and 361 (proofs of Schall’s compositions; for the latter see JS 143, f° 38r. [20 October 1651]); Giandomenico Gabiani in Incrementa, p. 471; Antoine Thomas in Jesuit Missions in Japan, no. 14; Filippo Marini in J.J. Schütte, Documentos del ‘Archivo del Japon’ en el Archivo Historico Nacional de Madrid (1978–1979), 105–6; Jean-François Foucquet in BAV, Borg.lat. 565,f° 26r.; 48r. – 54 and 57–67



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Of the ancient fabulists the Roman authors Phaedrus and Avienus are mentioned, in combination with the pseudo-Homeric Batrachomyomachia: a copy of the 1729 edition, ‘cum adnotationibus Davidis Hoogstratani’ (Patavii: exp. Jos. Ponzellii), and its 1734 reprint (Napoli, 1734) are present in the Beitang collection (Verhaeren, nos. 2438–2439: no provenance).27 Ancient Latin dramaturgy was accessible in editions of ‒‒ T. Maccius Plautus, Comoediae XX superstites, [Wittenberg,] 1612 (no. 2488);28 ‒‒ P. Terentius Afer, Comoediae sex, ed. Minelli, Rotterdam, 1702 (no. 2932; property of Inacio de Sousa [† 1734]); and ‒‒ L. Annaeus Seneca, Tragoediae, ed. by Farnabius, the latter in three copies (no. 2744 [ed. Leiden, 1657, once in the Biblioteca Braydense in Milan, later in Jinan fu], no. 2745 [ed. Amsterdam, 1665, before it arrived in China in the college library of Casale Montefeltro]; no. 2746 [ed. Amsterdam, 1678, from the Nantang college in Peking]). These were obviously pieces for ‘armchair reading,’ as the conditions of the mission in China – which lived, at least in principle, a strategically ‘hidden’ existence – did not allow the transfer of the Jesuit theater tradition to China.29

27

28

29



(all poetical fragments, most in dactylic hexameters; s.n., s.1., s.d., of which it remains uncertain whether they were written in China or after his return to Europe). Purely proverbial is the echo of Fabulae I, 1, in the 1669 letter of Gabriel de Magalhães, when ironically describing the unexpected (and unwelcome) meeting at the same table of two adversaries, viz. the Western astronomical experts – in an unstable position and temporarily released from jail – and their mighty, official Sino-Manchu opponents, who were ‘accused’ by the former of incompetence (cf. Verbiest 1938: 138): ‘Veyo o jantar (e a nos puzerão com o adversario, Lupus et Agnus, em huma meza) que acabado se ornou a disputar’; this is, of course, only a reading reminiscence, not a proof of intense Phaedrus reading in China. A reference to Poenulus, p. 332, is in a letter of Tomás Pereira, of May 16, 1689 (cf. Barreto 2011: 289): ‘Quod novi Patres saepissime congerunt, et post aliquos annos recognoscunt ‘se oleum et operam perdidisse’’; in fact, the expression has a long tradition in Latin literature (Cicero, etc.) and can be considered as ‘proverbial’ (cf. Tosi 1991: no. 472). With the possible exception of some rare (?) presentations in Macau: see the testimony on a Jesuit piece presented in the Macau Jesuit college in 1637 and attended by Peter Mundy in (1919), The Travels of Peter Mundy, in Europe and Asia 1608–1667. Vol. III Part I. Travels in England, Western India, Achin, Macao and the Canton River, 1634–1637, ed. R. Carnac Temple (London: Hakluyt Society), pp. 274–275.

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Prose Literature

Among the Classical Latin prose authors the palm of primacy has – apart from Augustine – M. Tullius Cicero, in the contemporary sources from China currently called ‘Tullius’ (nos. 1279–1283),30 and this for a broad spectrum of his 30

Extant copies of Cicero’s collected works are n° 1279 (1661) and 1280 (1687); also in Diogo Valente’s library (Macau, 1633): JA 49-V-11, f° 120v. / ‘Ciceronis Opera Omnia.’ Unspecified ‘Opera (omnia?) Ciceronis’ – in an undefined edition – are also listed by J.-F. Foucquet among the books in his private room in the Beitang residence, which he left there on his departure for Europe in November 1720: cf. C(ongregatio) P(ropaganda) F(ide), SRC, Ind. Or. -Cina, 15, f° 381r. The presence of the different genres and individual texts can be mapped in the following synopsis:  1. The philosophical works: apart from n° 1282 (Lambin), Opera Philosophica, are mentioned by J.-F. Foucquet, in CPF, SCP, Indie Orientali, SRC, 15, f° 396v. ‘Opera Ciceron(is) Philosophica, 1 vol., in-8° vieux.’ For the individual philosophical texts, the evidence is diffuse: 1.1. Laelius sive De Amicitia: probably the main source of M. Martini’s Chinese ‘De Amicitia’ (2nd rev. ed. 1661), from a copy on hand in Hangzhou; for the identification of the passages imitated, cf. Giuliano Bertuccioli, (1998), Martino Martini, S.J. Opera Omnia, dir. F. Demarchi, vol. 2. (Trento: Università degli Studi di Trento), passim; 1.2. De Divinatione, lib. 1: quoted in 1652 in Peking by A. Schall, Apologia, in JS 143, f° 98v. f° 115r. The same text was also quoted by Jacques Lefaure in Canton, 1669 (in the ms. de Sinensium Ritibus, ms. in BVE, FoGes., 1250/3, f° 172r. / print [Paris, 1700], p. 143/4), and used there by F.X. Filippucci, in 1686 or slightly later, in the ms. of De Ritibus Sinicis (BVE, FoGes. 1248 / 3, f° 265r.). In Verhaeren, the text of De Divinatione is present in no. 1282, i.e., the edition of Cicero’s Philosophica (t. 2 and 3) (Paris: J. Dupuys, 1573) which includes de Divin., libri 1–2; 1.3. De Natura Deorum: mentioned in general terms in the ms. of Confucius Sinarum Philosophus (BnF, Ms. lat., 6277 / 2), on f° 6v., § 127; repeated ibid., on f° 253v., § 212. I found a more precise reference in the ms. of Filippucci’s De Ritibus Sinicis (Canton, 1686 or shortly thereafter): ‘Cicero De Natura Deorum sanctitatem sic definit: “Sanctitas est scientia colendorum Deorum,” etc.’ (BVE, FoGes. 1248 / 3, f° 177r.), from De Natura Deorum, I, 116; finally, this same text was also consulted/mentioned by J.-F. Foucquet, in his ms. Propylaeum Templi Veteris Sapientiae (Beitang, Peking, 1718–1720), in BAV, Borg.lat., f° 730v. (‘Lib. 1’); 1.4. De Re Publica: in the same context of the ms. of Confucius, Couplet (§ 127) quotes Cicero: ‘cum is de sole principe planetarum agens dixit et sano sensu dixit: ‘sol mens mundi et temperatio’’; this adagium stems in fact from De Re Publica, VI, 17; 1.5. De Senectute: cf. the Chinese translation planned (made? published?) by François de Rougemont, according to Aegidius (Gilles) Estrix, Elogium P(at)ris F(rancis)ci Rougemont, in ARSI, Flandro-Belgica, 70, II, p. 1045 (see Golvers 1999: 459); it suggests at least that de Rougemont had a (personal?) copy at his disposal in Changshu; 1.6. De Legibus: see Prospero Intorcetta, Testimonium de Cultu Sinensi (Canton, 1668: ms. BVE, FoGes. 1326, f° 91v.; cf. print [Paris: Pepie, 1700], p. 246), who quotes from it: ‘est igitur homini cum Deo [cognatio et] similitudo; quod cum ita sit, quae tandem esse potest proprior certiorve cognatio?’; the passage is identified as De Legibus, L. 1, 25; 1.7. Tusculanae Disputationes: mentioned once by Intorcetta,



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work. We know from at least one explicit testimony from Jean-François Foucquet that reading and rereading Cicero was a practice of refining his own personal style in his (abundant) Latin letter compositions,31 as one knows the

31



in Canton, 1668 (Ms. of Testimonium de Cultu Sinensi, in BVE, FoGes. 1326, f° 91v.); 1.8. ‘Tullius, de univ(erso)’: in J.-F. Foucquet, Propylaeum Templi Veteris Sapientiae (1718–1720), in BAV, Borg.lat., 566, f° 756v. (twice); i.e., a reference to Cicero’s philosophical dialogue Timaeus sive de Universo.  2. The rhetorical works: 2.1. Of the theoretical treatises on eloquence, the following are mentioned: 2.1.1. De Oratore, lib. II.159 [38], in Francesco Brancati, Responsio Apologetica, ms. in BVE, FoGes. 1250 / 5, f° 356r. (Canton, 1669)/ print [Paris, 1700], p. 147); 2.1.2. De Inventione, II, 161: cf. again Brancati, Responsio Apologetica, ibid., f° 335r. / print [Paris, 1700], I, p. 50; 2.2. Of the speeches (‘Orationes’) themselves: several parts (including duplicated parts) of a supposedly complete edition of all the speeches seem to have been available in the library of Diogo Valente (Macau, 1633), according to the inventory in Madrid, Real Acad. Hist., Leg. Jes. 21, 9 / 7236, f° 738r.: ‘Cicero, Orationum vol. 2um et 3ium, aliud (?) 2um volum(en), aliud vol(umen) 3, aliud 3ium par. volum. is pi (?)’; I could not identify this (these) edition(s). Of the individual speeches, only some are quoted by title, viz.: 2.2.1. De Domo suâ: quoted in Canton, 1669, both by J. Lefaure, De Sinensium Ritibus, BVE, FoGes., 1250/3, f° 205r. (i.e., p. 291 of the printed edition [Paris: Pepie, 1700]), and by F. Brancati, in Responsio Apologetica (ms. in BVE, FoGes., 1250 / 5, f° 382r. / print [Paris: Pepie, 1700], II, p. 7/8): ‘curia sedes ac templum publici consilii,’ a quotation instead found in the dictionary of Calepinus; 2.2.2. Pro Archia Poeta (chapter 8.18): quoted in or after 1686 by Filippucci in his ms. De Ritibus Sinicis (BVE, FoGes. 1248 / 3, f° 177r.), apparently from a copy in Canton; 2.2.3. Pro Caelio: id., ibid.: ‘quia idem Cicero in oratione pro Caelio assserit: “Si Matrem familias, secus quam Matronarum sanctitas postulat, nominamus,” etc.’; taken from Pro Caelio, XIII, 32; 2.2.4. Philippica (XII.5): mentioned in the ms. Praefatio of the Responsio Apologetica of F. Brancati (ms. BvE, FoGes. 1250 / 5, f° 323r.; omitted in the printed edition); 2.2.5. Pro Milone: some superficial reference in the Praefatio of F. Brancati, Responsio Apologetica: ‘Nam in defensione, quis ambiget ait Cicero pro Milone’ (ms. in BVE, FoGes. 1250 /5, f° 321v.; not in the printed edition).  3. As for the Correspondence apart from n° 1281 (Epistulae ad familiares, Padua, 1589), Jean-François Foucquet, when leaving Peking for Europe in 1720, mentioned in the aforementioned passage (CPF, SCP, Indie orientali, SRC, 15, f° 396v.) Ciceronis Epistulae ad Atticum, side by side with the aforementioned philosophical works (cf. supra, sub 1), as among the ‘least indispensable’ books (his ‘2nde classe’), with a brief indication (and explanation) of his purpose: ‘Comme i’écris en latin, ces livres m’aident’; apparently Cicero was read and studied here as a stylistic model; unidentified edition. The part of Cicero in this respect is clearly formulated by Foucquet when he lists his desiderata of books to take from China to Europe in 1720 (CPF, Ind.or. – Cina del 1720, SRC, 15, f° 396v.: ‘Apparatus in Ciceronem, Epistolae Ciceronis ad Att(icum); Opera Ciceron(is) Philos(ophica) 1 vol. In 8° vieux; [in the margin] comme i’écris en Latin, ces livres m’aident’). The ‘Apparatus in Ciceronem’ is Alexander Scot’s Apparatus / Latinae Locutionis / in usum Studiosae Iuventutis / olim per Marium Nizolium / ex M.T(ulli) Ciceronis / Libris collectus /

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most important communication instrument between Europe and China, in regard to reporting, exchanging scholarly information, and decision making.32 To the same purpose, C. Plinius Secundus, Epistolae, (Paris): Exc. Paulus Stephanus, 1601 (no. 2489, from the Hangzhou college library),33 and Renaissance letter books, such as Manutius and Poliziano, were also used. Other chrestomathies to facilitate and stylize the composition of Latin texts, especially letters, were ‒‒ Jan Voellus, Generale artificium orationis … componendae – De ratione conscribendi epistolas, Cologne, 1597 (no. 3065, from Trigault); ‒‒ Orazio Tursellini, Libellus de particulis Latinae orationis, Rome, 1648 (no. 2981); ‒‒ An anonymous Abrégé des particules de Tours, contenant ce qui est de plus difficile & de plus necessaire pour composer correctement en latin, Rennes, 1737 (no. 8); and ‒‒  Selecta Latini sermonis exemplaria, Lisbon, 1800 (no. 2736). Manuals for Latin expressions (‘sermo’) were the following: Johannes Godschalcus, Latini sermonis observationes per ordinem alphabeticum digestae, Cologne, 1545 (no. 1711); Latini sermonis exemplaria e scriptoribus probatissimis ad

32

33

et nunc denuo auctior factus (Lyon, 1588); the most conclusive argument for this identification is a short reference in the 1718–1720 ms. of Foucquet’s Propylaeum Templi Veteris Sapientiae, where he refers, with regard to the antiquarian theonym Veiovis, to this source: ‘Vide Nizolium seu Alexand(rum) Scot(tum) in Apparatus (sic) Latinae Dictionis’ (BAV, Borg.lat. 566, f° 903v.); other references are in BAV, Borg.lat. 565, f. 523. Ciceronian influence was also working through the dictionaries of Calepino and Nizolius, which were largely based on his work. I found evidence for the presence in Canton (1686 or shortly thereafter) of Nizolius’s Thesaurus Ciceronianus (a.o. Venetiis: apud D. Nicolinum, 1591) in Filippucci’s ms. of de Ritibus Sinicis: ‘ut manifeste patet apud auctores a Calepino et Nizolio [q.v.] citatos’ (BVE, FoGes. 1248 / 3, f° 157r.). It is of course impossible to confirm in each case the origin of the Ciceronian reference; more than once, the aforementioned quotations from letters and philosophical texts give, in their proverbial nature and short structure, the impression of having been taken from a dictionary or lexicon of the type described s.v. Nizolius. On the place of epistolography in the structures and internal communication of the Society of Jesus, see Giard and Romano 2008; for a description of the practice within the Chinese vice-province, see Golvers 2012a. ‘Epistolae Plinij’: among J.-F. Foucquet’s ‘private’ books left behind in the Beitang residence upon his departure for Europe in November 1720 (CPF, SRC, Ind.Or. – Cina, 15, f° 381v.). Other epistolary authors in Foucquet’s collection included Cicero and the humanist authors Manutius and Poliziano.



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Christianae iuventutis usum olim collecta, Lisbon, 1761 (no. 1991). One model was M.A. Muret, Orationes et epistulae … in usum scholarum selectae, Venice, 1771 (no. 2290, from A. de Gouveia). (Para-)rhetorical texts: also read were Apuleius, Apologia, with the commentaries of V. Scipio Gentilis, edited in Hanau, 1607 (no. 1674, a copy ‘expurgated’ in accordance to the Index Expurgatorius of Spain);34 Panegyricae orationes antiquis imperatoribus, Venice, 1700 (no. 2375, with texts of especially Pliny; Latinus Pacatus; Mamertinus; Nazarius; Eumenius; Ausonius, etc.); Valerius Maximus, Factorum et dictorum memorabilium libri novem, Venice, 1565 (no. 3013, from the Trigault books); and Quintilianus, De Institutione oratoria, Padua, 1736 (no. 2532). Of ancient Latin (para-)philosophical texts only Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura (described supra as a poetical production), and some treatises of L. Annaeus Seneca35 and Boethius, can be traced back, the latter in a ‘comprehensive’ edition of all his works, arrived as part of the Trigault books: Opera Omnia, Basel: Ex Off. Henricpetrina, [1570] (no. 1075); the commented edition of Boethius’ 34

35



A copy of Apulée was also in J.-F. Foucquet’s luggage when he left Peking in 1720: cf. BAV, Borg. lat., 565, f° 157. According to a parallel list in CPF, SRC, Ind.Or. -Cina, 15, f° 395r., it was one of the books he regarded as indispensable for the continuation of his scientific projects (together with, among others, Plotinus; Philo; Plato; Iamblichus, Vita Pythag(orae); Ficinus, in Platonem; Patricius, Pythagorica et Platonica, etc.). The same Apulée was also in his hand luggage when he departed from Canton to Europe in November 1722: see the list of books ‘dans un coffre de bord, 2 coffres de cuir, ma caisse de sapin’ (ibid., f° 157; October 20, 1722). Which of Apuleius’ titles is meant is not specified, but probably the book which best suited Foucquet’s ‘esoteric’ interests was that on the Isis cult, De Iside et Osiride; less probable is the Pseudo-Apuleius title Asclepius, an important title in the field of alchemy. During the Canton detention (esp. in 1668/1669), some quotations could prove there was some direct access to (part of) his work in Canton: F. Brancati quotes from Seneca’s De beneficiis in his Responsio Apologetica: ‘Propterea dixit Seneca [Lib. 8, De Benef.]: ‘Ingratus est, qui beneficium accepisse negat, qui dissimulat, qui non reddit, ingratissimus omnium, qui oblitus est’ (ms. BVE, FoGes. 1250 / 5, f° 343r. / print [Paris, 1700], I, p. 82); the reference to Liber 8 in the margin should – after a check of the editions – be corrected to lib. 3. In the same Canton context, Prospero Intorcetta refers to Seneca’s Epistolae, more precisely to ‘C. de poenis (?) Epist. 96’ (to be corrected in 95, 33): ‘Homo est res sacra’ (in the 1668 ms. of his Testimonium de Cultu, now in BVE, FoGes. 1326, f° 91r/v.; cf. print [Paris, 1700], p. 246). Because of their lapidary (laconic) character, these two quotations are not strong testimonies for the availability of the whole text, and they may have been found in some collection, such as Calepinus or Nizolius. In addition, Seneca is one of the authors on Herdtrich’s wish list (Canton, 1670): ‘Opuscula P(at)ris Drexelii et Senecae P(hi)losophi.’ Also, Martino Martini quotes several passages of Seneca’s work in his Chinese treatise ‘On Friendship’ (2nd, rev. ed. 1661), probably from a copy available in the library of the Hangzhou residence; on this treatise, see infra.

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Consolatio Philosophiae of Joh. Bernartius, published in Antwerp in 1607 and bought on December 7, 1616, by the same Trigault-Terrentius in the Officina Plantiniana (cf. supra)36 is apparently lost now. Quite conspicuous is also the presence of some scientific and in particular technological authors (texts), in various fields; the latter – and their Greek, Hellenistic counterparts circulating in China in a sixteenth-century Latin translation (such as Archimedes; Aristotle, Heron; Pappus, etc.) – were read for their intrinsic value, that is, as fully relevant and useful texts, offering information which was applicable in the manifold and various commitments entrusted to the Jesuit missionaries by the Chinese authorities and the emperor: ‘in variis operibus publicis.’ Maybe I should mention here in the first place the continuous success of C. Plinius Secundus Maior (23/24–79), a Roman encyclopedic author, whose Naturae Historiarum Libri XXXVII was present – that is, was consulted and quoted – as an authoritative source in Peking until the end of the eighteenth century. A first copy to our knowledge (now lost) arrived ca. 1625 in the library of the Portuguese college Xitang as part of the Trigault layer; this was afterward replaced / ‘updated’ with a copy of the more recent Hardouin edition, mentioned in 1732 by Antoine Gaubil in the parallel French residence: ‘Ils (les Portugais) … font donc venir … les Curiosi Naturae, tout Kirker, Schott, Aldrovandi, Plin(ius) Harduini.’37 The French Beitang received this edition in 1726,38 while J.-F. Fouc36 37 38

‘1 (copy) Boetius per Bernartium (sic) 8° – st(uyvers) 14.’ Renée Simon (1970), Antoine Gaubil Correspondance de Pékin 1722–1759, Etudes de philologie et d’histoire 14 (Geneva: Droz), 336–337; cf. 339. ‘Pendant le cours de cette année, on a receu Aldrovand, Lebrun, Pline du P(ère) Hardouin, les experiences de Toscane, etc.’ (cf. Gaubil on 10.XI.1726, in Simon 1970: 133); it is unclear whether this refers to the first or the second edition. A testimonium at the end of the mission’s history confirms that at that time, the Beitang had a copy of the two Hardouin editions, i.e., the first of 1685, in 5 vols, in-4° (Paris: F. Muguet) and the second, of 1723 (Paris: Typis A.-U. Coustelier), in 2 vols, in-fol.: see P.-M. Cibot, in his letter of 5.XI.1769 from Peking to G. Brotier in Paris: ‘J’ai eû occasion cette année de consulter Pline (nous avons ici les deux editions du p. Hardouin) sur quelques plantes et je les ai trouvées décrites très exactement, mais défigurées dans nos botanistes modernes qui prétendent bien les mieux connoitre, je ne vois personne ici qui puisse vous rendre le service que vous demandez. Si votre Révérence cependant l’entreprend après son Tacite, je tacherai d’y suppléer et de lui procurer des observations, explications, notices etc., sur les articles les plus curieux. Mais comme Pline embrasse tout, il faudra me marquer à peu près ce qui fera le plus de plaisir’ (pub. by H. Cordier in Revue de l’Extrême-Orient, III, 1887, p. 262). From this passage, we learn that the authority of Plinius in botanics was still accepted as late as the last decades of the eighteenth century; unfortunately, I do not know which plants are meant. On the other hand, the same passage demonstrates that Cibot in Peking was collaborating in searching



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quet found another one in 1721 in Canton, viz. one of the first Hardouin editions, in five volumes, published in Paris (s.n., 1685), which he preferred to leave in Canton upon his departure for Europe: ‘Pline, du P. Hardouin, vol. 5, in4°.’39  Techn(olog)ical authors who were consulted in contemporary editions represented the field of agriculture, architecture, military affairs, and jurisprudence, while medical authors are the most conspicuous absentees. For agriculture, I may refer to some comprehensive editions and anthologies, such as the anonymous Artis Rusticae Methodus (Basel, 1576; no. 891), and Rei rusticae auctores Latini veteres (including M. Porcius Cato, M. Terrentius Varro, L. Columella, and the Late Antique Palladius), Heidelberg, 1595, both brought by Trigault to China (no. 1347). Among the individual authors I refer especially to Columella (first century ad), with long fragments from De Re Rustica, Lib. 9 (on the bees), quoted by J.-F. Foucquet in his ms. of Propylaeum Templi Veteris Sapientiae, composed in Peking (Beitang, 1718–1720).40 In the field of architecture, the absolute reference point – despite many other contemporary (esp. Italian) authors such as Palladio, Serlio, etc. – remains Vitruvius’ De Architectura. This text was already in the 1620s available in Peking in two editions (1567; 1586), as part of the Trigault-Terrentius books in the Xitang college, as the two extant copies (Verhaeren, no. 3056 and 3057) demonstrate.41 Shortly thereafter Adam Schall von Bell used in the same college the same text – and almost certainly one of these copies – during the composition of his Apologia (1652), referring more precisely to book 1, at the occasion of a geomantic discussion with Francisco Furtado, S.J. (1589–1653).42 In the passage

39 40 41

42



out materials for Brotier’s edition of Plinius, which appeared in London (Valpy), from 1826 onward (‘C. Plinii Secundi Naturalis Historiae Libri XXXVI ex Editione Gabrielis Brotier cum Notis et Interpretatione in Usum Delphini’); on Brotier’s mss. of this edition, see the BnF, Ms. lat. 10226–10227. The extant copies in the Beitang all stem from the French Jesuits in Peking (‘PP. Gallor. SJ Peking’) and represent both the first (no. 2491) and the second editions (no. 2492), which exactly fit the situation described by Cibot in 1769. BAV, Borg. lat., 565, f° 593r.; confirmed in CPF, Indie orientali – Cina del 1720. SRC, 15, f° 397r° [‘Catalogue des livres qui m’estoient venus de France, et que ie laisserai a Canton’]. cf. BAV, Borg.lat. 566, f° 747v.; on Columella’s reception in the early modern age, cf. ­Maestre Maestre 1997: 263–322. Despite this, the identification of ‘Weiduo’ in the text of Terrentius’ Qiqi tushuo as ‘Vitruvius’ seems far less probable than its identification as Guido (Ubaldi): for the former identification, see H. Verhaeren, B(ulletin) C(atholique) (de) P(ékin), 34, 1947, pp. 185–186; and J. Needham, S(cience) (and) C(ivilization in) C(hina), 4.2, p. 215 (chap. 10), 216 (chap. 28), 218 (chap. 49); for the identification as Guido, see F. Jäger, Asia Major, N.F., I.1 (1944), p. 86, note 3. JS 143, f° 128r.

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to which Schall is alluding, Vitruvius addresses the different types of soil and their impact on the building of new cities;43 this was, of course a question of the highest technological importance, but I wonder whether Schall will not have thought on the Chinese preoccupations with the geomantic conditions of a building. Quite revealing for the ‘position / prestige’ of Vitruvius as a professional textbook still at the end of the seventeenth century was a copy of the very first (and only?) book on architecture the French Jesuits had taken from France to China in 1685; this appears, at least, from the request from Jean de Fontaney, S.J., addressed to the Marquis de Louvois (Ningbo, 1687), to send him additional books on architecture: ‘Nous avons Vitruve, mais on en demande qui parle en detail de toutes les parties du batiment.’44 Likely this was a copy of the French edition (translation) by Claude Perrault (1613–1688), of which two copies are still extant, viz. nos. 701–2, the latter with the stamp ‘CSJP,’ referring to the Nantang library. Afterward it was completed along with several other books, such as the commentary and terminological explanations by Bern. Baldi (Augsburg, 1612; nos. 922–923; 3056–3057). Of the military authors, Frontinus, Aelianus Tacticus, and Vegetius are edited by Modius – Stewechius, in Scriptores Bellici, Cologne, 1580 (no. 2273), and continued or completed by Petrus Scriverius, (Leiden), 1607 (no. 2726). Their presence in China is the consequence of the military aspect in the Jesuit curriculum, which included college courses on architectura militaris and ballistics. Apart from that, military and certainly ballistic matters were relevant to the Jesuits in China, since their personal involvement, in the 1620s, in the technological equipment of the Ming army (Adam Schall), and later, since the 1670s, of the Manchu-Chinese artillery against the ‘Three Feudatories’ during the so-called ‘San fan-War’ (Ferdinand Verbiest).45 The technical domain of ancient Roman jurisprudence is only represented by Rittershausen’s edition of the Ius Iustinianeum (no. 2601). A last important group of prose authors are Latin historians: ‒‒ C. Iulius Caesar (-Hirtius) circulated in several editions, viz. that of Frankfurt 1575, with the extensive commentaries of Hendr. Glareanus, Fulvius

43 44 45

See Architectura, Lib. I, chap. 4, 9, etc.; see the commentaries of Ph. Fleury, in his edition in the Coll. Univ. France [Budé], ad Vitruve, I, p. 130. Cf. M(issions) E(trangères de) Paris, 497, p. 39. See the pictorial description of his gun production in chapter 15 of Astronomia Europaea (Dilingae, 1687), 61–68.



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‒‒ ‒‒ ‒‒

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Ursinus, etc. (s.n.; no. 1175), and that of Ingolstadt 1611 (Typogr. A. Sartorius; nos 1174); both stem from the Portuguese college Xitang in Peking.46 Titus Livius was present in the edition of Janus Gruterus (Frankfurt, 1612; brought by Trigault-Terrentius; see no. 2119); the Tacitus edition of Justus Lipsius was already bought in Antwerp in 1616 but is lost now, and the extant editions are other: one combined edition with Velleius Paterculus by Charles Aubert (Paris: P. Chevalier 1608; no. 897) – also from the Trigault books, and one by Amelot de la Houssaie (Amsterdam: M. Charles Le Cene, 1731; no. 666); Justinus’ Epitome from Pompeius Trogus (Paris: Cramoisy, 1654: no. 1890); L. Annaeus Florus, De Romanorum Gestis L. IV (Evora: Typographia Acade­ miae, 1671; no. 1615) and from Late Antiquity, a copy of Cassiodorus, Historia Tripartita, in one binding with Nicephoras (no. 2327).

Other materials on Roman history were present in a school anthology with the text of Quintus Curtius Rufus, Sallustius, and Suetonius (Evora, 1740; no. 1595), and at least one ancient antiquarian author, viz. Aulus Gellius (Venice, 1556; no. 900).

…

The most important question now is, to what extent these texts were only ‘sleeping books’ on the shelves, or were actually used, read, and assimilated, as part of the reading patrimony of the Jesuits during their stay in China, and for one or other external project. A first answer is the quotations themselves, which are to be found in the texts they produced there for a European public, especially the most precise and literal ones among them. One should, indeed, distinguish between quotations made on the spot and reading reminiscences from the personal reading ‘baggage’ of each individual Jesuit, who received a thorough humanistic education in the Jesuit colleges, where memory capacity was intensively trained. These remote reading reminiscences emerge especially in a whole series of Latin adagia, expressions and half verses scattered over the – often multilingual – correspondence with Europe, as such a logical emanation of the multilingual communication among the Jesuits themselves. While in the labyrinth 46



Outside Peking, we know of at least one copy, viz. that of the private library of Diogio Valente, bishop of Macau († 1633): ‘Iulii Caesar(is) Comment(ariorum) tomus duplex similes’: JA 49-V-11, f° 122v. / Madrid, Real Acad. Hist., Leg. Jes., 21, 9 / 7236, f° 739r.

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patchwork of reading memories, which constitute their compositions, most reminiscences are from more or less contemporary authors, the references or allusions to Classical Latin authors are mostly limited to the literary ‘embellishment’ of the presentation. However, this allusive play can in several cases be creative, when ancient quotations are adapted to a ‘sinological’ context. A most remarkable example concerns Ferdinand Verbiest – in his youth producing himself Ovidian poetry as we have seen before – who described his feelings of cultural isolation in China in Ovidian terms, adapting a verse from Epistulae ex Ponto, and substituting the ‘Chinese’ terms for the original ones: the original ‘Nam didici Getice Sarmaticeque loqui’ (Pont., 3,2, 40) becomes thus: ‘Tartaream didici Barbaricamque loqui.’47 Martino Martini offers a similarly adapted allusion in his epoch-making Novus Atlas Sinensis (Amsterdam, 1655) – an allusion shortly later imitated by Michael Boym in his Flora Sinensis (Vienna, 1656), when presenting China as the compendium and synthesis of all the earth’s natural treasures and resources, by adapting Propertius’ Laudes Italiae (Eleg. 3, 22,17–18): the original distich: Omnia Romanae cedent miracula terrae. Natura hîc posuit, quidquid ubique fuit becomes thus a ‘praise on China’: Omnia Sinensi cedent miracula terrae Natura hîc posuit, quidquid ubique fuit.48 But although these and some other examples prove the ‘assimilation’ of ancient Latin literary culture also in China, Latin literature gets its most outspoken impact in reminiscences, quotations, etc., from Latin authors in their Chinese works, produced by the Jesuits and their Chinese ‘assistants,’ and in translations – of whatever degree – of Classical Latin models. This is a largely unstudied terrain, and I must limit myself here to the few examples, which are explicitly mentioned in our sources, or were already the object of more systematic studies. In chronological terms the first possible example may already date back to the ‘Father’ of the China Mission, Matteo Ricci (Chin. Li Madou), and his treatise Jiaoyou lun (Peking, 1601), ‘On Friendship.’ Despite the title and its obvious 47 48

For more observations on this Ovidian echo, see the bibliography supra, note 7. For these examples and the exact circumstances, see Golvers 2010a.



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Ciceronian reminiscences, the research on its sources could not indicate an ancient source, and the text emerges most probably as a patchwork of loci communes, collected from one of the many editions of Andreas Eborensis, Sententiae et Exempla ex Probatissimis quibusq(ue) Scriptoribus collecta, et per locos communes digesta, and probably other humanistic sources;49 Ricci’s ancient sources are thus at most very indirect. The same topic was resumed by Martino Martini, in his treatise Qiuyou pian (1661).50 Further, this is a patchwork of ‘maxims’ on the theme of friendship, collected from very different sources: here at least several Latin authors could be identified as source authors, among whom – obviously – Cicero has the primacy with at least fifteen located passages, combined with others from Seneca, Juvenal, Livy, Horace, Ovid, etc., and many Greek and humanistic authors as well.51 The only similar example concerns François de Rougemont’s project – probably never realized, but at least significant on the level of intentions – to ‘translate’ Cicero’s De Senectute; this we know in fact only through a reference made by Aegidius (Gilles) Estrix, in his Elogium P(at)ris F(rancis)ci Rougemont:52 ‘Si Deus … vitam concedat et Superiores permittant, videor mihi versurus Sinice librum Ciceronis de Senectute. Puto placiturum haud secus quam librum de amicitia’ / ‘If God … concedes me the life and the Superiors give me the permission, it seems me to be convenient to translate into Chinese Cicero’s book on the old age. I think (this book) will please (the readership), just so as (his) book on friendship did.’ It suggests at least that de Rougemont had a (personal?) copy at his disposal in Changshu, and was convinced of a positive reception by a public of Chinese literati; the Stoic ideas expanded by Cicero were at least compatible with the Confucianist attitude toward older people.

…

As a first conclusion of this bibliographical investigation on the presence and ‘impact’ of ancient Latin authors in China, a small nucleus of ‘canonical’ authors is identified and located, and the references traced back from the contemporary (mostly manuscript) sources. This presence is far smaller than that

49 50 51 52



Mignini 2005: 15–19; Redaelli 2007. For the editions, etc., see the C(hinese) C(hristian) T(exts) database. See the most recent commented edition – which systematically pays attention to the ‘source question’ – see Bertuccioli 1998: 179ff.; cf. pp. 179–183, and the lists on pp. 293–298. ARSI, Flandro-Belgica, 70, II, p. 1045 (see Golvers 1999: 459).

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of Latin Bible quotations,53 and even than that of references to early Christian Latin authors (with a major presence of Augustinus, Tertullian, and Lactantius remaining outside our scope here). Before taking them as direct evidence for ‘active’ reading, for both distraction (as poetry or dramaturgical productions) or learning (as the technological authors), a certain ‘vivid’ consultation emerges in the many (proverbial or not) Latin phrases and semi-phrases scattered as interjections over the European texts they composed (albeit together with Latin Bible citations). As for the penetration of similar textual reminiscences in the Chinese texts they composed – a logical prolongation of their practice with the Western texts – the actual state of the research succeeded only in identifying a series of ‘maxims,’ almost all of ‘moral’ significance, in treatises with revealing titles such as ‘On Friendship’ and ‘On Elderness,’ no ancient authors being translated as such; the bilingual intertextuality between Latin and Chinese literary texts seems therefore, in the actual state of research, to have been very limited, despite the deep humanistic convictions of the Jesuits. A better, more comprehensive representation of this picture of the Classical presence in China would include the ancient Greeks (mostly appearing in bilingual editions or Latin translations) as well as Neo-Latin authors.

Bibliography

Almeida, Justino Mendes de (1967), ‘Lexicografos Portugueses da lingua latina. 3. A pro­sodia de Bento Pereira’, Revista de Guimarães 77: 5–12. Beckmann, Joseph (1968), ‘Bischof de Gouvea von Peking (1771–1808) im Lichte seiner Bibliothek’, Euntes Docete 21: 457–479. Dehergne, Joseph (1973), Répertoire des Jésuites de Chine de 1552 à 1800, Bibliotheca Instituti Historici S.I., vol. 37. Rome: Institutum Historicum S.I. Do Espirito Santo, Arnaldo, and Cristina Costa Gomes (2017), ‘Presença dos Classicos nas cartas de Tomás Pereira, SJ (1646–1708),’ in A Literatura Classica ou os Classicos na Literatura. Presenças Classicas nas Literaturas de Lingua Portuguesa, coord. C. Pimentel and P. Mourão, 93–106. Lisbon: Campo da Comunicação.   Giard, Luce, and Antonella Romano (2008), ‘L’usage jésuite de la correspondance: La mise en pratique par le mathématicien Christoph Clavius (1570–1611),’ in Rome et la science moderne entre Renaissance et Lumières, ed. A. Romano, 65–119, Collection de l’Ecole française de Rome, 403. Rome: Publications de l’École française de Rome.

53

Particularly frequent, for instance, in Giandomenico Gabiani, Incrementum Sinicae Ecclesiae (Vienna, 1673), and the letters of Tomás Pereira (Barreto 2011).



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Golvers, Noël (1992), ‘The Latin Youth Poetry of Ferdinand Verbiest,’ Humanistica Lova­ niensia 41: 296–304. Golvers, Noël (1999), François de Rougemont, S.J., Missionary in Ch’ang-shu (Chiang-nan). A Study of the Account Book (1674–1676) and the Elogium, Louvain Chinese Studies 7. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Golvers, Noël (2006), ‘The Library Catalogue of Diogo Valente’s Book Collection in Macau (1633). A Philological and Bibliographical Analysis,’ Bulletin of Portuguese/ Japanese Studies 13 (December): 7–43. Golvers, Noël (2010a), ‘From Propertius’s Laudes Italiae (Romae) to 17th-Century Jesuit “Laus Sinarum.” A New Aspect of Propertius’ Reception,’ Humanistica Lovaniensia 59: 225–233. Golvers, Noël (2010b), ‘“Bibliotheca in cubiculo”: The Personal Library of (Especially Western Books of) J.-F. Foucquet, S.J., in Peking (Beitang),’ Monumenta Serica 58: 249–280. Golvers, Noël (2012a), “‘Savant correspondence” from China with Europe in the Seven­ teenth–Eighteenth Centuries,’ Journal of Early Modern Studies 1, no. 1: 21–41. Golvers, Noël (2012b, 2013, 2015), Libraries of Western Learning for China. Circulation of Western Books between Europe and China in the Jesuit Mission (ca. 1650–1750). Vol. 1, Logistics of Book Acquisition and Circulation; Vol. 2, The Formation of Jesuit Libraries; Vol. 3, Of Books and Readers, Leuven Chinese Studies, 23, 26, 32. Leuven: Ferdinand Verbiest Institute. Golvers, Noël (2015b), ‘Asia’, in Oxford Handbook of Neo-Latin Studies, eds. Sarah Knight and Stefan Tilg, 557–573. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Golvers, Noël (2017), ‘“Sprachnot” as Part of the Existential Situation of the European Jesuit Missionaries in China (Seventeenth–Eighteenth Cent.),’ in Chinese Missionary Linguistics, eds. D. Antonucci and P. Ackerman, 93–108. Leuven: Ferdinand Verbiest Institute. Henkel, Max Dittmar (1930), ‘Illustrierte Ausgaben von Ovids Metamorphosen im XV. XVI. und XVII. Jahrhundert,’ Vorträge der Bibliothek Warburg 6: 56–144. Jäger, Fritz (1944), ‘Das Buch von den wunderbaren Maschinen. Ein Kapitel aus der Geschichte der chinesisch-abendländischen Kulturbeziehungen,’ Asia Major 1: 78–96. Maestre Maestre, José Maria (1997), ‘Columela y los Humanistas,’ in Estudios sobre Columela, ed. J.M. Maestre Maestre, et al. Cádiz: Ayuntamiento de Cádiz – Catedra Adolfo de Castro – Universidad de Cádiz. Martindale, Charles, ed. (1988), Ovid Renewed: Ovidian Influences on Literature and Art from the Middle Ages to the Twentieth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.



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McFarlane, Ian D. (1976), ‘Reflections on Ravisius Textor’s Specimen epithetorum,’ in Classical Influences on European Culture AD 1500–1700, ed. Robert R. Bolgar, 81–90. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mignini, Filippo (2005), Matteo Ricci: Dell’Amicizia. Macerata: Quodlibet. Needham, Joseph (1954–2016), Science and Civilization in China. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Redaelli, Margherita (2007), Il mappamondo con la Cina al centro. Fonti antiche e media­ zione culturale nell’opera di Matteo Ricci, S.J. Pisa: ETS. Smeesters, Aline (2011), Aux rives de la lumière: la poésie de la naissance chez les auteurs néo-latins des anciens Pays-Bas entre la fin du XVe siècle et le milieu du XVIIe siècle. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Standaert, Nicolas (2003), ‘The Transmission of Renaissance Culture in SeventeenthCentury China,’ Renaissance Studies 17, no. 3: 367–391. Standaert, Nicolas, ed. (2001), Handbook of Christianity in China, vol. 1: 635–1800. Handbook of Oriental Studies, section four, vol. 15: China. Leiden: Brill. Streit, Robert (1964), Bibliotheca Missionum: Fünfter Band: Asiatische Missionsliteratur 1600–1699, 2nd ed. Rome: Herder. Tosi, Renzo (1991), Dizionario delle sentenze latine e greche. Milan: BUR Rizzoli. Verdelho, Telmo (1982), ‘Historiografia linguistica e reforma do ensino: A propósito de trés centenarios; Manuel Alvares, Bento Pereira e Marqués de Pombal,’ Brigantia 2, no. 4: 358–367. Verhaeren, Hubert (1947), ‘Wang Tcheng et la mécanique,’ Bulletin Catholique de Pékin 34: 178–189. Verhaeren, Hubert (1949), Catalogue de la Bibliothèque du Pé-t’ang. Peking: Imprimerie des Lazaristes. Wilkinson, L.P. (1955), Ovid Recalled. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.



Chapter 3

History and Reception of Greek and Latin Studies in Japan Ichiro Taida In Japan, we have roughly a four-hundred-year history of Classical studies, beginning with its introduction by European missionaries. Because of this lengthy history, we now have a vibrant and well-established society of Classical studies in Japan. The Classical Society of Japan promotes Classical studies nationwide. Founded in 1950, the association currently has over five hundred members, the majority of whom are Japanese university professors who teach Western Classical languages, literature, history, and philosophy, in addition to other subjects. Thus, I introduce the chronology of related events, from the first peda­gogical instruction by European missionaries to the efforts of Japanese scholars wishing to study and cultivate Classical studies within Japan. I will also describe how Greek and Latin studies have been received in Japan over the past four centuries. Classical studies in Japan began in the sixteenth century, when Christian missionaries first arrived and began to teach Latin as part of the curriculum in mission schools.1 Fr. Francis Xavier, a Jesuit missionary, is credited with introducing Christianity to Japan in 1549. At first, Western missionaries openly indoctrinated the Japanese people into the Christian faith, but they thought it would become much more effective if the Japanese were themselves to propagate these ideals among their own people.2 Therefore, the Society of Jesus began to build missionary schools, known as seminarios, to train the indigenous Japanese missionaries. The society asked Nobunaga Oda,3 who was the most influential lord at the time, as well as an avowed Christian named Harunobu Arima, to provide land for the building of the schools. These Japanese lords made great efforts to protect Christian sectarians in their midst. In 1580 the first seminario was constructed in Arima’s southern territorial holdings in Kyushu, and another one was built next to Oda’s castle in Azuchi in central Japan. 1 I described in detail Latin education by Jesuits in Japan in my former article (Taida 2017). The part on Jesuit education in this article is based on my former paper. 2 Shinmura and Hiiragi 1993: 31. 3 Nobunaga Oda hated Buddhists; thus, he protected Christians to safeguard his own interests.

 Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_005 ©

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The Latin language was taught in the seminaries since it was the official language of the Catholic Church. It was reported that in a seminario, local students studied Latin for five-and-a half-hours every weekday as well as on Saturday mornings.4 A Portuguese priest, Father Luis Frois, was surprised at how fast Japanese students learned Latin, remarking that they learned in three or four months what a comparable European student spent three years to master.5 In 1582, the four best students were sent to the Pope in Rome. In 1590, they brought a printing machine with them on their return to Japan. Using the imported printing machine, the seminario printed a Japanese translation of Aesop’s Fables, which was followed by publication of the Christian edition Esopono Fabvlas in 1593. It was written in the Roman alphabet and printed along with 平家物語 (Heike Monogatari [The Tales of the Heike Clan]) and 金句集 (Kinkushu [A Collection of Wise Sayings]). These works were probably edited by the Japanese Jesuit Cosme Takai.6 Only one copy of this book remains extant, and it is kept in the British Library.7 This Esopono Fabvlas is the first example of a translation of Western Classical literature into the Japanese language. The fables, though not related to Christianity, were chosen for translation because they were easy to understand and included good teachings.8 At the beginning of the seventeenth century, another edition of the translation of Aesop’s Fables was published. Titled 伊曾保物語 (Isoho Monogatari [The Tales of Aesop]), it was written in Japanese characters, both kanji and kana. Nine different editions of the 伊曾保物語 were printed up until the midseventeenth century. In 1659, an illustrated edition, which was easier to read, was published, and the 伊曾保物語 became more popular as a result.9 The 伊曾保物語 differed from the Esopono Fabvlas in many significant ways: for example, editions varied in narrative style and in the stories they contained.10 Originally, Jesuit missionaries had brought a German-Latin translation of Aesop’s Fables (edited by Heinrich Steinhöwel) and then translated it into Japanese around 1580. The Esopono Fabvlas and the 伊曾保物語 were drawn sepa4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Matsuda 1979: 45–46. Frois 1977: 99. Frois sometimes admired Japanese students for learning Latin very well. Cf. Frois 1979: 203, 230; and Frois 1980: 166–167, 235. Loureiro, 2006: 144. For the translators of Esopono Fabvlas, see also Otsuka, 1971: 317, and Shinmura and Hiiragi 1993: 209. Muto 2000: 330. For the translators of Esopono Fabvlas, see also Otsuka 1971: 317; and Shinmura and Hiiragi 1993: 209. Hamada 2010: 59; and Muto 2000: 330. Muto 2000: 332–333. Muto 2000: 336.



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rately from the original text, accounting for the many differences between them.11 A Latin grammar book written in Japanese and a Latin-Portuguese-Japanese dictionary were printed as well. Although the Society of Jesus order also published language-learning books in India, Brazil, Africa, and elsewhere, it was deemed that the Japanese missionaries’ publications were the best in both quality and quantity. Maruyama cited several reasons for this particular distinction.12 First, while several languages were used ostensibly in other countries, only one language was used consistently in Japan. Thus, it was easy for missionaries to continue to produce publications in Japan. Second, the groundwork necessary for the spread of publications had already been laid. Many educated Japanese people could read and write; hence, books were in demand. Moreover Japanese paper was of good quality; Japan had a long, well-developed tradition of woodblock printing, and it was common for devotees to make a handwritten copy of a sutra (Buddhist scriptures). Third, missionaries required publications in order to preach, and then to proselytize, the Christian faith. There were few experienced interpreters in Japan, so Christian missionaries had to study the Japanese language thoroughly if they were to succeed. They used their own dictionaries and translations that they printed themselves to learn Japanese; therefore, they improved the published materials for the benefit of their own learning. Further, owing to the suppression of Christianity and the persecution of the faithful in Japan, missionaries had to teach Christianity secretly; so, books were therefore necessary for clandestine instruction and observance. When missionaries crafted their translations, sophisticated and learned Japanese were there to assist them. This fact is clearly evident from the following translation:13 ‘Ego sum via, et veritas, et vita. (Jo., 14, 6. [I am the way, the truth, and the life])’ was translated to mean ‘Vareua core michi nari, macoto nari, jumiŏ nari (「我はこれ道なり、真なり、寿命なり」).’ The word vita was translated into jumiŏ, although inochi would be more commonly used. Jumiŏ was chosen instead because the repetition of ‘M’ (michi … macoto … jumiŏ) corresponded to the alliteration of ‘V’ (via … veritas … vita) in the original Latin text. Moreover, the repetition of nari, a declarative clause or sentence ending in ancient Japanese language, also corresponded to the alliteration of ‘V.’ This single

11 12 13



Muto 2000: 328–329. For the relationship between the Esopono Fabvlas and the 伊曾保物 語, see Endo 1993: 1–5. Maruyama 2000a: 17–20. For the translation, see Maruyama 2000b: 63.

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example illustrates how literate and careful the Japanese assistants were in trying to represent the original works in translation. The Latin education in the seminarios quickly improved as high-quality Latin grammar books and dictionaries were printed. Father Alessandro Valignano (who had been appointed Visitador or personal delegate to all Jesuit missions in the far East) developed the set standards of Latin language instruction by employing teachers who were already fluent in both Japanese and Latin. It is said that Japanese students held conversations in Latin, composed Latin poems, and even performed a show in Latin.14 Later, the Tokugawa government (Bakufu) rejected the entire notion of Christianity and formally closed the country to such decidedly foreign influences in 1641. During this period of self-imposed national isolation, only China and Holland were allowed to have limited trade with Japan. The idea of isolation was so extreme that the Japanese government confined the Dutch expatriates to the small island of Dejima in Nagasaki Harbor. As a result, Japanese scholars were immediately separated, and effectively segregated, from the ongoing academic activities of their Western counterparts. At that time, only a few Japanese could actually read in Western languages.15 Later on, in 1720, the government loosened the restrictions they had chosen to impose earlier. The eighth Tokugawa shogun (supreme dictator of Japan), Yoshimune Tokugawa, wanted to use mathematics and astronomy to establish a reliable calendar for use in his court. He knew that Western academic knowledge was both requisite and available for this purpose, and he thus lifted the ban on the import of Western books that were not directly related to the practices of Christianity. Subsequently, 蘭学 Rangaku, which literally means ‘Dutch learning,’ became popular in Japan.16 Some Japanese scholars who learned Rangaku tried to read Latin at that time. For example, Ryotaku Maeno, who was famous for producing the first Japanese translation of a Western medical book, was asked by the Tokugawa Shogunate to translate some Latin poems that were written alongside illustrations.17 The original Latin text was Ioannes Stradanus’s Venationes Ferarum, Avium, Piscium, Pugnae Bestiariorum & Mutuae Bestiarum, which was first

14 15 16 17

Harada 1998: 33–37. Keene 1969: 12–13. Keene 1969: 13–15. Working together with other Japanese scholars, Maeno’s most famous achievement was to translate the Dutch medical book, Anatomische Tabellen. The Japanese version is named Kaitai Shinsho 解体新書 and was published in 1774.



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published in Antwerp around 1580,18 and Maeno’s translation was called 西洋 画賛訳文稿 (Seiyo Gasan Yakubunko [The translations of the captions of the western pictures]).19 He translated nine poems, each of which consisted of between two or four lines. Maeno translated the poems with some difficulty and only with the aid of a trusted Latin-Dutch dictionary.20 At the time, he did not know the proper conjugations of the verbs in use or about the declensions of nouns, because he did not have a Latin grammar book available for his immediate use. Therefore, Maeno looked up each and every word found in the poems by using the headwords in the dictionary. If a word in the poem was the same as a headword, he adopted the latter’s meaning. Otherwise, he looked up the word which was similar to the word in the poem without any regard to proper grammar, and he guessed the overall meaning of the verses accordingly.21 When Maeno attempted his translation, he copied the Latin verses out by hand. There were many differences between the original Latin lines and those that were in Maeno’s own hand. He copied the original sentences, changing some words and following accounts in his dictionary. In the preface of the Latin translation, he stated, ‘The Latin verses in this book are captions of pictures. When I compared them with my Latin dictionary, many words are different from the words in the dictionary. When I rejected the original words and adopted the dictionary words, I put a red dot.’22 An existing example provides a ready comparison taken from the two versions.23 The original text reads: ­‘Surdescit sonitu ad petras e gurgite piscis | Ascendit, millo capitur molimine in vundis.’ Maeno’s text was: ‘Surde scit sonitus ad petras e gurugite piscis, | Ascendis mille capitur molimine in vundis.’ Maeno divided Surdescit into Surde and scit and added a small ‘e’ after scit, because the verb surdesco (‘to be deaf’) was not included in his dictionary’s text but surde (‘deafly’) and scite (‘skillfully’) were included. According to his method, he changed sonitu into sonitus (putting a dot under ‘-us’), probably because sonitus (‘resounded’) was a headword in his dictionary, and the dot meant that Maeno changed the original word himself. He changed Ascendit into Ascendis, probably because he did not 18 19 20

21 22 23



For the original text, see Keene 1969: 234 n.36; and Harada 2000: 162–166. I am writing another article in which I discuss Maeno’s translation of the Latin texts in detail. Iwasaki (1996: 188) considered that Maeno’s dictionary was Dictionarium Latino-Belgicum, which was published by Benjamin Jaques and Samuel Hannot in 1699. However, according to Harada (2001a: 57), Maeno’s source dictionary was Lexicon Latino-Belgicum novum, which was edited by Samuel Pitiscus and published in 1725. Iwasaki 1996: 184–189. Maeno 1779: 3; Oitakenritsu Sentetsu Shiryoka 2009: 70. For the differences between the two versions, see Harada 2000: 170.

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understand that ascendit is the singular third-person form of ascendo (‘go up’), and the ending of the singular second-person form, ‘-is,’ was written next to the headword ascendo. He changed millo into mille (‘thousand’) because millo was not included in his dictionary; therefore, he chose to substitute a similar word, mille. The Latin lines literally translate: ‘A fish becomes deaf by the sound reaching the stones, and it floats upwards. Then it is easily caught in the waves.’ However, Maeno translated these lines into a Chinese verse,24 which means: ‘From the bank, a fisherman throws a net, but it seems difficult to catch fish. There is a hole at the bottom of water. He then hits a stone at the water’s edge. It echoes in the holes in water. Fish gladly float up to the surface wave.’ It is obvious that the translation is far from accurate. In addition to changing words from the original text, there are other reasons why Maeno ended up with such a patent mistranslation. First, there was a misprint in the original text; millo should have been nullo, which was corrected in the subsequent edition of the original book.25 Second, he translated capitur as ‘a fisherman,’26 but capitur is capio’s (‘capture’ / ‘catch’) third-person passive voice; this error was created probably because fishermen were depicted in the illustration. Third, he did not understand to which words the prepositions ad, e, and in belonged.27 Maeno confessed that he did not understand the verses very well: ‘This caption used metric language, and it was a kind of poem. It included connotations, and it was hard to explain them with my superficial knowledge…. It was hard to translate the verses into proper language. Most of my comments were mere conjectures that were perhaps inadequate. It was very difficult to comment on the verses correctly.’28 Another example of the popularity of Rangaku studies is Tadao Shizuki’s29 translation of Engelbert Kaempfer’s essay, wherein he translated two lines of a Latin poem into Chinese verses: Hic segetes, illic veniunt felicius uvae; India mittit ebur, molles sua thura Sabaei.

24 25 26 27 28 29

瞻彼澗潭 漁者施爵 難哉難哉 水底之窟 撃石于隩 其声孔韽 於物魚躍 水 面之瀾. Harada 2000: 170. Maeno 1779: 9; Oitakenritsu Sentetsu Shiryoka 2009: 73. Meano 1779: 9–11; Oitakenritsu Sentetsu Shiryoka 2009: 73. Meano 1779: 7, 10–11; Oitakenritsu Sentetsu Shiryoka 2009: 72, 74. As regards the explanation about Shizuki, I depended on Harada 1999: 122–134.



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此有饒禾稼 彼有美蒲萄 印度出象牙 沙巴産名香

The Chinese translation follows: ‘Here are good harvests; over there are beautiful grapes. India produces ivory, and Saba produces incense.’ Shizuki correctly translated the Latin lines into Chinese verses. Moreover, Shizuki said in his commentary that the first line was from Virgil’s poem, and Saba was in happy Arabia. This information is also known to be correct. Although Shizuki only had a Latin-Dutch dictionary on hand, and he did not know Latin grammar, his correct translation was due in large part to the explanations found in his dictionary. The explanation of seges (‘harvests’) was as follows: ‘Hic segetes veniunt, illic felicius uvae. Virg. Hier groeit of wast het ­koren, en daar de druiven beter.’ The first sentence of the explanation was almost the same as Shizuki’s first line, and then it was translated into Dutch. It must have also been useful for Shizuki’s translation into Chinese. The notes also indicated Virgil as the putative author, which is probably the primary source for Shizuki’s commentary. As regards the second line, ‘India’ and ‘Ebur’ were the headwords located in his dictionary. It seemed easy to infer that mittit is a modified form of mitto, but it seemed more difficult to infer that thura is the declensional form of thus, which means ‘incense.’ How did Shizuki know to translate it correctly? His dictionary explained Sabaei as follows: ‘Sabaei, orum. Valer. Flacc. De Sabbeërs. Een volk in’t gelukkig Arabie. Sabaeus, a, um. Virg. In’t gelukkig Arabie groeyende. Van wierook sprekende.’ From the last phrase of the explanation, Van wierook sprekende (‘speaking of incense’), he could infer that thura meant ‘incense.’ Moreover, his note ‘Saba was in happy Arabia’ in his commentary was probably also derived from this particular explanation (see gelukkig Arabie). Similar to Maeno and Shizuki’s interest, some Japanese scholars were drawn to Latin study.30 In the mid-nineteenth century, the great Western powers forced Japan to open its doors, marking the end of its national isolationism. The Edo period ended, and the Western-leaning Meiji period began. Ancient Greece was one of the main subjects in Western studies in Japan during this transitional period.31 For example, Choei Takano briefly introduced the history of Greek philosophy in his 西洋学師ノ説 (Seiyou Gakushi no Setsu [A study on western philosophers]), published in 1835.32 Ryukei Yano wrote a political novel, 経国 30 31 32



E.g., Ranshitsu Tsuji (1756–1836), cf. Watanabe 1996: 8; and Keisuke Ito (1803–1901), cf. Sugimoto 1988: 119–120, 126, 262–263. Wanatabe 1996: 303. Wanatabe 1996: 302.

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美談 (Keikoku Bidan [Admirable tales of political history]), in 1883–1884, which

was based on the history of ancient Thebes in Greece. The book was about the people of Thebes who wanted democracy and fought against Sparta, and it influenced the democratic movement in Japan during the Meiji era. Yano referred to many Western books about Greek history: for example, George Grote’s A History of Greece (1869), John Gillies’s The History of Ancient Greece (1820), etc.33 Moreover, Socrates and Plato were sometimes introduced as originators of Western philosophy.34 Takataro Kimura published Japanese translations of all works of Plato in 1903–1911, which comprised the first complete works of Plato in Japan.35 His translation made a significant impact on Japanese intellectuals.36 Some Japanese people started to learn the ancient Greek language in order to appreciate the original source materials better. Amane Nishi, a politician and philosopher in the Meiji period, who went to Holland in 1862, understood some Greek.37 In addition to Naibu Kanda and von Koeber (who will be mentioned again in this chapter), some foreign teachers in Japan taught Greek. For example, Henry St. George Tucker, the founder and president of Rikkyo University, taught Greek at the university from 1906 onward.38 Joseph Cotte, the founder of the famous language school, Athénée Français, arrived in Japan in 1908 and taught Greek and Latin at Tokyo Imperial University. In those days, according to Harada,39 many Japanese people also started to learn Latin in three ways. First, missionaries returned to Japan and tried to spread Christianity. They began to teach Latin and published a Latin-Japanese dictionary and a book of Latin grammar.40 Second, medical students studied Latin to understand medical and disease terminology. In the preparatory department of medicine at Tokyo Imperial University, foreign teachers taught Latin, using Western textbooks and dictionaries. The first Latin textbook edited by a Japanese, Kinichiro Takahashi, a professor of medicine, was published in 1898.41 In addition, dictionaries of medical terms focusing on Latin vocabulary 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Yano 1965: 8. Notomi 2011: 67. Kimura’s translation was the retranslation of B. Jowett’s The Dialogues of Plato (3rd ed., 1892). He also referred to other English and German translations. Cf. Notomi 2011: 73–74. Notomi 2011: 76. Wanatabe 1996: 303. Negishi 2001: 24–25. Harada 2001b: 59–62. E.g., Petitjean 1870 and Petitjean 1877. Takahashi 1898.



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were published several times.42 Third, students of literature and philosophy learned Latin. In the departments of philosophy, history, linguistics, English, and German at Tokyo Imperial University, Latin was a required subject, which was taught by Naibu Kanda. A historical reference provides some background information about Kanda. Genboku Ito was a student of Philipp Franz von Siebold, a German physician who taught Western medicine in Japan. Ito opened the Zogedo (the Dutch school) in 183343 and taught Dutch studies to Takahira Kanda. Kanda became a teacher of the Kaiseijo, a school for Western studies built by the Tokugawa government. He wanted to adopt one of his students, but that student turned out to be the eldest son in the family, who had to carry on the family name; thus, Kanda adopted this student’s younger brother, Naibu, instead.44 When the Japanese government sent the Iwakura Mission to the US in 1871, Naibu Kanda, at the age of fourteen, accompanied them. His father thought that English would become more important than Dutch, so he wanted his son to study the language and decided to let him go to the US Aside from English, Naibu Kanda studied Greek and Latin at Amherst High School and College.45 In 1879, he returned to Japan and taught Greek and Latin at Tokyo Imperial University until 1893,46 and it was in this latter year that the prominent professor Raphael von Koeber came to Japan from Germany. The Japanese government had established a new educational system and invited many teachers, including von Koeber, from Western countries to instruct Japanese students. He had studied philosophy and obtained a doctoral degree from Heidelberg University in Germany.47 At this time, he received an offer from Tokyo Imperial University to teach philosophy for a three-year term. He initially rejected the job offer, but upon his friends’ encouragement, von Koeber later decided to come to Japan, arriving in 1893.48 Several reasons prompted von Koeber’s decision. He was one of about three thousand professors the Japanese government invited during the Meiji period.49 Von Koeber’s first reason for coming to Japan must have been that he did not have a permanent job in Germany. Rumor has it that it was a common ex42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49



E.g., Kanno 1877 and Ema 1881. Cf. HP of Chiyoda City Tourism Association, http://kanko-chiyoda.jp/tabid/700/Default. aspx (accessed 15 Feb. 2018). Showa Women’s University, Kindai Bungaku Kenkyushitsu 1978: 19–20. Showa Women’s University, Kindai Bungaku Kenkyushitsu 1978: 21–22. Showa Women’s University, Kindai Bungaku Kenkyushitsu 1978: 26. Watsuji 1962: 11–12. Watsuji 1962: 14; and Kubo 1951: 31–32. Umetani 1968: 57.

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perience among invited professors that success had eluded them in their native countries.50 The second reason must have been the substantial salary given to invited professors, which was sometimes even higher than that of a Japanese government minister or of the president of Tokyo Imperial University himself.51 Von Koeber taught philosophy at Tokyo Imperial University, and there he laid the foundation for Classical studies in the Japanese academy. He also taught Greek and Latin as a volunteer. He believed these languages were essential to the understanding of European culture and insisted on their absolute necessity for his students.52 Von Koeber taught with passion, and his students studied very hard. Young students tried to absorb and understand Western culture, religion, and philosophy, and particularly admired Germany, which Japan chose as a role model for its Westernization plans.53 Von Koeber was also a good academic role model for his students. As such, he taught at Tokyo Imperial University for almost twenty-one years, never taking long holidays to visit his own country.54 He stopped researching and devoted himself fully to the practice of education.55 He loved his students, and he was very popular among them. The famous novelist and professor of English Literature at Tokyo Imperial University Soseki Natsume said, ‘If you asked who the most sophisticated teacher in the College of Letters is, 90% of the students would name von Koeber. Respected so much, he is interested in Japanese students and has continued to teach philosophy for 18 years. He does not leave Japan because of his love for the students.’56 In July 1914, upon completion of his final contract, von Koeber decided to go home to Germany. The ship he was to sail on was scheduled to leave Yokohama, Japan, on August 12th. On June 28th, however, the Austrian prince was killed in Sarajevo, thus triggering the onset of the First World War in Europe. As von Koeber waited in the Russian consulate of Yokohama for his ship to depart, a friend advised him to wait until the end of the war before setting sail. Thus, von Koeber decided to extend his stay at the Russian consulate. At first he thought the extension would only last a few days; but, in the end, he did not return to Europe, and chose instead to remain in Japan for the next nine years.57 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

Umetani 2007: 173–179. Umetani 1968: 92–97. Nishida 1923: 33; and Kubo 1951: 32–33 Shimajiri 1995. Kubo 1951: 33–34. Shimajiri 1993: 17. Natsume 1994: 465–466. For the unfulfilled return of von Koeber, see Kubo 1951: 119–120.



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Von Koeber was single, and he lived in Yokohama with one of his students, Masaru Kubo. Unfortunately, he fell seriously ill from a kidney disease and died of complications related to renal failure in 1923. It is interesting to note that when von Koeber first became critically ill, initially a student came to nurse him back to health. The student was Shigeichi Kure,58 who subsequently became the first chairperson of the Classical Society in Japan. Because of von Koeber, countless Japanese students studied Classics. He was undoubtedly the most influential instructor of Classics to have matriculated from the West to teach in Japan. Since his death, Classical education in Japan has been mainly organized by Japanese professors, although sometimes Western professors have given their able assistance. Classical studies has continued to develop and expand in Japan. Students now have the opportunity to learn Greek and Latin at many universities, especially the University of Tokyo, Kyoto University, and Nagoya University, where there are independent Classics departments. Many books about Classics have also been published in Japanese. Kyoto University is widely involved in a project to publish translations of the existing Greek and Roman canon in its entirety. Furthermore, the Classical Society of Japan, which began in 1950, holds a conference and publishes an annual journal. In 2011, the first volume of Japan Studies in Classical Antiquity (JASCA) was published by the society, and all of the articles found in this journal have been written in English. From the sixteenth century to the beginning of the twentieth century, Japan had only seen imported Classical studies derived from Western countries. Now many Japanese scholars keep up with their Western counterparts in Classical studies. It is hoped that Japanese-sponsored academic activities will make significant contributions to the field of Classical studies in the global arena of higher learning.

References Cited

Ema Synki 江馬春熈, ed. (1881), Youwa Yakumei Jirui 洋和薬名字類 (A Medicinal Dic­ tionary in Latin, German, English & Japanese). Tokyo: Maruzen. Endo Junichi 遠藤潤一 (1993), Isoho Monogatari Dainishubon no Honkoku to Honbun Kenkyu 伊曾保物語第二種本の翻刻と本文研究 (A study on the second edition of Isoho Monogatari). Tokyo: Kazama Shobo. Frois, Luis (1977), Frois: Nihonshi フロイス 日本史 (Historia de Japam), vol. 1, trans. Kiichi Matsuda 松田毅一 and Momota Kawasaki 川崎桃太. Tokyo: Chuokoronsha. 58



Kubo 1951: 175.

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Frois, Luis (1979), Frois: Nihonshi フロイス 日本史 (Historia de Japam), vol. 10, trans. Kiichi Matsuda 松田毅一and Momota Kawasaki 川崎桃太. Tokyo: Chuokoronsha. Frois, Luis (1980), Frois: Nihonshi フロイス 日本史 (Historia de Japam), vol. 12, trans. Kiichi Matsuda 松田毅一 and Momota Kawasaki 川崎桃太. Tokyo: Chuokoronsha. Hamada Sachiko 濵田幸子 (2010), ‘Isoho Monogatari to Edojidai ni okeru sono Juyo ni tsuite 『伊曾保物語』と江戸時代におけるその受容について’ (The Isohomonogatari and its reception in Japanese in the Edo Period), Bukkyo University Graduate School Review Compiled by the Graduate School of Literature 佛教大学大学院紀要文学研究 科篇 38 (March): 57–71. Harada Hiroshi 原田裕司 (1998), Kirishitan Shisai Goto Migeru no Ratengo no Shi to sono Insatsusha Zeisho Migeru wo megutte キリシタン司祭後藤ミゲルのラテン語の詩とその 印刷者税所ミゲルをめぐって (De vita utriusque Michaelis Iaponis, unius qui saeculo XVII versus scripsit Latinos et alterius qui tum eos typis mandavit in libro Manilae edito). Tokyo: Kindai Bungeisha. Harada Hiroshi (1999), ‘Sakokuron no Yakusha Shizuki Tadao no Ratengo Jisho 『鎖国 論』の訳者志筑忠雄のラテン語辞書 (De dictionario Latino quo usus est Shizuki Tadao grammaticus Iapo),’ Studies in Language and Culture (Osaka University, Graduate School of Language and Culture) 大阪大学言語文化部言語文化研究 25: 119–142. Harada Hiroshi (2000), ‘Maeno Ryotaku Seiyo Gasan Yakubunko no Ratengo Genten 前 野良沢『西洋画賛訳文稿』のラテン語原典’ (De carminibus Latinis quae saeculo XVIII o interpretatus est Maeno Ryotaku grammaticus Iapo), Studies in Language and Culture (Osaka University, Graduate School of Language and Culture) 大阪大学言 語文化部言語文化研究 26: 149–178. Harada Hiroshi (2001a), ‘Maeno Ryotaku no Ratengo Jiten to Kinsei Nihon Yunyu Ratengogaku Shoshi 前野良沢のラテン語辞典と近世日本輸入ラテン語学書誌’ (The Latin dictionary used by Maeno Ryotaku and other dictionaries and grammar books concerning the Latin language, imported to Japan between 1603 and 1867), Bulletin of the Japan-Netherlands Institute 日蘭学会会誌 26, no. 1: 37–59. Harada Hiroshi (2001b), ‘Tsuda Mamichi to Mitsukuri Rinsho no Ratengo Gakusho 津田真道と箕作麟祥のラテン語学書’ (Latin grammar books of Mamichi Tsuda and Rinsho Mitsukuri),  Journal of Western Studies Itteki (Tsuyama Archives of Western Learning) 津山洋学資料館洋学研究誌『一滴』 9: 15–76. Iwasaki Katsumi 岩崎克己 (1996), Maeno Ranka 2: Kaitai Shinsho no Kenkyu 前野蘭化 2─解体新書の研究 (Ranka Maeno 2: A study on Kaitai Shinsho). Tokyo: Hei­­bonsha. Kanno Torata 菅野虎太, ed. (1877), Raten Shichika Jiten 羅甸七科字典 (Lateinisch-Japa­ nisches Vocabularium fuer Medicin und Naturwissenschaften). Tokyo: Eirando. Keene, Donald Lawrence (1969), The Japanese discovery of Europe, 1720–1830, 2nd ed. Stanford: Stanford University Press.



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Kubo Tsutomu 久保勉 (1951), Koeber Sensei to Tomoni ケーベル先生とともに (Fol­lowing Professor Koeber). Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Loureiro, Rui Manuel (2006), ‘Kirishitan Bunko: Alessandro Valignano and the Christian Press in Japan,’ in Revista de Cultura 19 (July): 134–153. Maeno Ryotaku 前野良沢 (1779), Seiyo Gasan Yakubunko 西洋画賛訳文稿 (The trans­ lations of the captions of the Western pictures). Tokyo (For the page number of this book, I follow the number of page provided by Harada [2000: 151]). Maruyama Toru 丸山徹 (2000a), ‘Xavier to Rodriguez: 16·17 Seiki Jesuskaino Gengo Kenkyu ザビエルとロドリゲス─ 16·17世紀イエズス会の言語研究─ ’ (Xavier and Rodriguez: A study on language of the Society of Jesus in sixteenth and seventeenth centuries), Bulletin of the Nanzan Centre for European Studies 南山大学ヨーロッパ研 究センター報 6 (March): 15–27. Maruyama Toru (2000b), ‘Koten toshiteno Kirishitan Bunken – Sono Gogakusho ni tsuite 「古典」としてのキリシタン文献 ―その語学書について ’ (Christian documents as Classics: Focusing on language books),  News Letter, Reconstruction of Classical Stu­dies ニュースレター『古典学の再構築』 8 (November): 59–65. Matsuda Kiichi 松田毅一 (1979), ‘Kirishitan no Gakko キリシタンの学校’ (Christian schools), in Tanpo Daikokai Jidai no Nihon 探訪大航海時代の日本 (Japan in the Age of Discovery) vol. 6, 41–52. Tokyo: Shogakukan. Muto Sadao 武藤禎夫, ed. (2000), Manji Eiribon Isoho Monogatari 万治絵入本 伊曾保 物語 (An illustrated book of Isoho Monogatari). Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Natsume Kinnosuke 夏目金之助 (1994), ‘Koeber Sensei ケーベル先生’ (Professor Koeber), in Soseki Zenshu 漱石全集 (The complete works of Soseki Natsume), vol. 12, 461–466. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Negishi Soichiro 根岸宗一郎 (2001), ‘Zhou Zuoren to H.S. Tucker: Rikkyo Daigaku ni okeru Girishago Gakushu to Girisha Bungaku·Kirisutokyo tono Deai 周作人と H·S·タ ッカー：立教大学におけるギリシア語学習とギリシア文学・キリスト教との出会い’ (Zhou Zuoren and H.S. Tucker: Learning Greek at Rikkyo University and meeting Christian literature and Christianity), Monthly Journal of Chinese Affairs 中国研究月報 55, no. 4 (April): 20–29. Nishida Kitaro 西田幾多郎 (1923), ‘Koeber Sensei no Tsuikai ケーベル先生の追懐’ (A remembrance of Professor Koeber), Shiso: Special Edition in Memory of Professor Koeber 思想：ケーベル先生追悼號 (August): 32–33. Notomi Noburu 納富信留 (2011), ‘Kindai Nihon ni okeru Plato “Politeia” no Juyo (Jo) 近 代日本におけるプラトン『ポリテイア』の受容 (上)’ (The reception of Politeia of Plato in modern Japan, vol. 1), Shiso 思想 1042 (February): 64–93. Oitakenritsu Sentetsu Shiryokan 大分県立先哲資料館, ed. (2009), Oitaken Sentetsu Sosho Maeno Ryotaku Shiryoshu 大分県先哲叢書 前野良沢 資料集 (The document collection of Ryotaku Maeno), vol. 2. Oita, Japan: Oitaken Kyoiku Iinkai.



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Otsuka Mitsunobu 大塚光信, ed. (1971), Kirishitanban Esopo Monogatari キリシタン版エ ソポ物語 (Christian edition of Esopono Fabvlas). Tokyo: Kadokawa Shoten. Petitjean, Bernard, ed. (1870), Lexicon Latino-Iaponicum. Rome: Typis S.C. de propaganda fide socio eq. Petitjean, Bernard, ed. (1877), Praelectiones linguae latinae. Nagasaki: Typis Seminarii. Shimajiri Masanaga 島尻政長 (1993), ‘Meijiki no Seiyo Shiso: Koeber Rainichi Hyakunen ni Omou 明治期の西洋思想：ケーベル来日100年に想う’ (Western thought in the Meiji Period: One hundredth anniversary of Koeber’s visit to Japan), Ryukyu Nippo 琉球日報 (June 9), 17. Shimajiri Masanaga (1995), ‘Koeber to Deshitachi: Sugureta Shisoka no Nagare (Jo) ケーベルと弟子たち：‘優れた思索家’の流れ 上’ (Koeber and his students: The stream of brilliant philosophers, vol. 1), Okinawa Times 沖縄タイムス (July 6). Shinmura Izuru 新村出 and Hiiragi Genichi 柊源一, eds. (1993), Kirishitan Bungakushu 2 吉利支丹文学集 2 (Christian literature series 2). Tokyo: Heibonsha. Showa Women’s University Kindai Bungaku Kenkyushitsu 昭和女子大学近大文学研究 室 (1978), Kindai Bungaku Kenkyu Sosho 近代文学研究叢書 (Book series of modern literature), vol. 23, 3rd ed. Tokyo: Showa Women’s University Kindai Bunka Kenkyujo. Sugimoto Isao 杉本勲 (1988), Ito Keisuke 伊藤圭介 (Keisuke Ito), 2nd ed. Tokyo: Yoshi­kawa­koubunkan. Taida Ichiro (2017), ‘The earliest history of European language education in Japan: Focusing on Latin education by Jesuit missionaries,’ Classical Receptions Journal 9, no. 4 (August): 566–586. Takahashi Kin’ichiro 高橋金一郎 (1898), Raten no Mage Taii らてんノ曲ゲ大意 (Declen­ sions of Latin words). Okayama: Watanabe Sozaburo (or Munesaburo). Umetani Noboru 梅渓昇 (1968), Oyatoi Gaikokujin 1: Gaisetsu お雇い外国人1：概説 (Invited foreigners 1: An introduction). Tokyo: Kashima Shuppannkai. Umetani Noboru (2007), Oyatoi Gaikokujin: Meiji Nihon no Wakiyakutachi お雇い外国 人─明治日本の脇役たち (Invited foreigners: Supporting actors of Meiji Japan). Tokyo: Kodansha. Watanabe Masahiro 渡邉雅弘 (1996), ‘Nihon ni okeru Girishagaku·Romagaku no Ryunyu·Ishoku·Juyo to Tenkai no Bunkenshi (1): Kirishitan Jidai kara Showa 20-nen made no Chosaku Bunken Nenpyo 日本におけるギリシァ学・ローマ学の流入・移植・ 受容と展開の文献史 ( 一 )― 切支丹時代から昭和二十年までの著作文献年表 ―’ (A bibliographic history of influx, transplantation, reception, and development of Greek and Roman studies in Japan [1]: Chronological table of bibliography from the Christian Era to 1945), Review of Social Sciences (The Society of Social Sciences of Aichi Kyoiku University) 愛知教育大学社会科学論集 35 (June): 299–377.



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Watsuji Tetsuro 和辻哲郎 (1962), ‘Koeber Sensei ケーベル先生’ (Professor Koeber), in Watsuji Tetsuro Zenshu 和辻哲郎全集 (The complete works of Tetsuro Watsuji), vol. 6, 1–39. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Yano Ryukei 矢野龍渓 (1965), ‘Keikoku Bidan: Zenpen 經國美談 前篇’ (Admirable tales in political history: 1st vol.), in Nihon Gendai Bungaku Zenshu 3: Seiji Shosetsushu 日本現代文学全集3：政治小説集 (The complete works of Japanese modern literature 3: Political novels), 5–84. Tokyo: Kodansha.





Part 2 Receiving Texts: The Travel of Tropes and Literary Fusions

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Chapter 4

Translating and Rewriting Western Classics in China (1920s–1930s): The Case of the Xueheng Journal Jinyu Liu Ever since the Jesuits introduced Aristotle and other Greco-Roman ‘wise men’ (xian, sheng, mingshi) to the Chinese literati in the 1600s, Greco-Roman antiquity, especially Greek antiquity, has enjoyed enshrined status as the fountainhead of Western learning in China. The promotion of Greek rationalism, political thoughts on ideal constitutions, and patriotism by such leading intellectuals as Liang Qichao (1873–1929) in the late Qing period further enhanced the status of Greek antiquity.1,2 Among the Chinese intellectuals of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the greatness of Greek culture required no defense or proof. Yet very few translations of Plato and Aristotle’s works were available in Chinese, either vernacular or Classical, until after the anti-traditionalist and anti-imperialist May Fourth Movement in 1919.3 Notably, it was the Xueheng group, pejoratively labeled a ‘fake antique’ and regressive school by the May Fourth iconoclasts who led the New Culture Movement, that represented the most intense exploitation of Greco-Roman antiquity, especially with respect to Greek philosophy and ethics, in Republican China. My central question is precisely why and how the Xueheng group made use of Western Classical material. Founded in Nanjing in January 1922 and lasting until July 1933, the Xueheng journal (The critical review) was the first to serialize the complete translation of five dialogues by Plato,4 published as a book in 1934 by the National Institute for Compilation and Translation; Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics in eight 1 I am grateful to Roger Ames, Yung-chen Chiang, Tamara Chin, Peter Connor, Xin Fan, Yucong Hao, Lydia Liu, Fritz-Heiner Mutschler, Tara Perkins, Almut-Barbara Renger, Axel Schneider, Weiwei Shen, Peter Zarrow, Jingling Chen, and the anonymous reviewer for their helpful suggestions, comments, and questions. 2 Chen 2009: 73–76. 3 In 1920, Wu Xianshu provided the first Chinese translation of Plato’s Republic. 4 Socrates’ Apology (Xueheng 3), Crito (Xueheng 5), Phaedo (Xueheng 10 and 20), translated by Jing Changji; Symposium (Xueheng 43 and 48) and Phaedro (Xueheng 69 and 76), translated by Guo Binhe.

 Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_006 ©

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installments,5 published as a book in 1933 by the Commercial Press; and Cicero’s On Old Age.6 The Xueheng journal also published a number of articles on the Greek spirit (jingshen) and Greek and Roman legacies, literature, religion, philosophy, and art. Wu Mi (1894–1978), a founding member, key contributor, and long-term editor of the journal, for example, wrote two long articles on the Homeric epics and Hesiod’s poems, respectively, as the first two chapters of A History of Greek Literature.7 Wu also provided an extensive bibliography of 121 titles published in English between 1858 and 1921 for the study of ancient Greece and Rome.8 Despite the extensive and growing scholarship on Xueheng, however, the rich Greco-Roman material in Xueheng has only recently received treatment in any depth in scholarly discussions on either the way Xueheng appropriated this material or the impact of Greco-Roman Classics on Chinese intellectual history. In a dense article exploring modern Chinese conservatism, Axel ­Schneider classifies Wu Mi as a ‘Classicist conservative’ who developed ‘a mixture of Confucian and Platonic elements with strong Western terminological overtones’ in the area of metaphysics. Schneider points out that Wu emphasized ‘the relevance of eternal, universal ethical standards for achieving a good life,’ but, unlike Chen Yinke, was less concerned with issues of national identity.9 Haun Saussy sees the Xueheng uses of the Classics, both Western and Chinese, as offering an alternative norm against the ‘commercial and technological discourses of modernity,’ and thus contributing to complicating the narration of modernity.10 Du Xinyuan uses Wu Mi’s essay on the Homeric epics as an example to illustrate the moralizing orientation in Wu’s conceptualization of the history of literature. For Du, both Zhou Zuoren, a highly influential intellectual in Republican China, and Wu Mi used Greek culture to boost confidence in Chinese culture.11 Building on these discussions, this chapter argues that the Xueheng investment in Greco-Roman material constituted an important form of participation in the intense post-May Fourth discourses on the role of the Chinese past in national salvation, formation of new culture, Westernization, and modernization. Far from being an endeavor isolated from the China-related material in 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Xueheng 13, 14, 16, 20, 30, 32, 50, 59, translated by Xiang Da, with book 2 translated by Xia Chongpu. De senectute, Xueheng 15, translated by Qian Kunxin. Xueheng 13 and 14. Wu Mi, Xueheng 6, 7, 11. Schneider 2010 (first published in 2005): 7234–7235. Saussy 2010: 258–267. Du 2011.



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the journal, the translation and discussion of Western Classical antiquity constituted an integral component in the Xueheng construction of a polemic against the radical cultural movement in China that treated the Chinese past as a burden. Specifically, I demonstrate how the Greco-Roman material served four closely interconnected functions for the Xueheng group: (1) establishing Xueheng’s scholarly authority in the foundation of the Western tradition to facilitate critiquing what the Xueheng scholars perceived as misrepresentations or erratic understanding of the Western tradition; (2) identifying and, more importantly, actively constructing common transcending values in both the Chinese and the Western antiquities; (3) promoting a universal culture based on the Arnoldian definition of culture as ‘the best of what has been thought and said in the world’; and (4) arguing against both an iconoclastic approach to the Chinese tradition and Westernization modeled after the modern West, or what the Xueheng scholars perceived as the degenerate stage of the West. I will substantiate these arguments with close textual and linguistic analyses of the Xueheng translations – or rather rewriting – of the Greek texts, which have heretofore not been attempted. It is by no means my intention to assert homogeneity among the writers, translators, and scholars associated with the Xueheng journal.12 Within the network of core contributors, however, Wu Mi certainly had more influence in the publication and editing process. The translation of Plato’s dialogues, for example, was taken up at Wu Mi’s suggestion, and the writers who contributed the most in the area of Western antiquity, such as Jing Changji, Miao Fenglin, Guo Binhe, and Xiang Da, also tended to be Wu Mi’s personal friends. In January 1921, about a year before the Xueheng journal was founded in Nanjing, Wu Mi, while studying at Harvard under Irving Babbitt and Charles Hall Grandgent, among others, published an article titled ‘Old and New in China’ in the English language journal Chinese Students’ Monthly. Purported to be a review of Grandgent’s book titled Old and New: Sundry Papers (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1920), the article was in fact a tirade against the ‘irrational cult of the new’ that seemed to Wu to be a prevalent disease in China. Criticizing the tendencies to identify ‘the West with the idea of the New’ and ‘assign everything Chinese to the contemptible category of the old,’ Wu complained that few of us have ever come across the names of Plato, Aristotle, Thomas Aquinas and Pascal; few of us have known that there are two great 12



For the diverse groupings within the Xueheng contributors, see Schneider 2010: 7223– 7224.

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traditions – the Classical and the Christian – which constitute the essence of Western civilization.13 Similar sentiments and expressions could also be found in the ‘Statement of the Xueheng’14 and many other places in the journal. Despite the juxtaposition of the Classical and the Christian traditions, however, the Xueheng journal’s attention to the Western Classical tradition far overshadowed that of Christian works or scholarship in Christianity. From the very beginning, the incorporation of the Greco-Roman material in Xueheng was not only closely intertwined with the dialectics of old and new, and the debates concerning China and the West, but also constituted a polemic against what they perceived as a radical but at the same time superficial cultural movement in post-May Fourth China. Following Babbitt, Grandgent, and Paul Elmer More, Wu Mi and his Xueheng friends saw Greek civilization as the true civilization of the West, while regarding the modern West as a degenerate or barbarized version of the West corrupted by Rousseauian romanticism and Baconian utilitarianism. Sharing Babbitt’s criticism of both materialism and blind belief in science and technology as forces of progress, the Xueheng scholars saw a corrective function in introducing Greco-Roman culture – that is, translating and discussing Greco-Roman material was to provide the Chinese audience with the ‘true’ civilization and the ‘best’ of the West and therefore would better enlighten the Chinese. For Wu Mi and his friends, qualitatively, ‘best’ is defined by humanism, the essence of which is harmony, balance, and proportion, which, in Wu’s mind, were precisely what characterized the national spirit of the ancient Greeks.15 The Jesuits, Liang Qichao, and contributors to the contemporary Short Story Magazine (1921–1932) all introduced Greco-Roman material to supplement what they perceived to be missing or suppressed in the Chinese tradition. In contrast, the Xueheng incorporation of Greco-Roman material ran parallel and complementary to the inquiries into Chinese antiquity that reevaluated the indigenous moral and cultural force and called for a rational rather than a selfdeprecating attitude toward the ancient legacy of China. The journal made a strong statement emphasizing the equal importance of ancient Chinese and Western European antiquities when the images of Confucius and Socrates graced the first issue. Along with Wu Mi, Liu Yizheng (1880–1956) – one of the founding members, author of the opening statement of the Xueheng journal, 13 14 15

Wu 1921a: 199. Xueheng 13: 2–3. Wu and Wang 1993: 62. See, similarly, Wu 1925: Greek spirit is jianpu (simplicity), junping (balance), and jiezhi (moderation).



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the most prolific contributor to the journal, and an esteemed Chinese historian – contributed significantly to shaping the intellectual landscape of the journal. The way Liu approached Chinese history was innovative for his era in several ways. Rather than offering dynastic histories, Liu was one of the earliest scholars to adopt the Western tripartite periodization of history – ancient (shanggu), medieval (zhonggu), and recent (jinshi).16 Yet Liu was not simply conforming to a universal pattern of history or simple linear model of historical progression. Liu observed, for example, discordance between the development of wenyi (arts and literature) and national strength or power, as well as between material progress and ethics.17 History was, therefore, a complex pro­ cess, where ‘modern’ did not necessarily connote ‘more advanced’ or ‘better.’ Liu characterized the history of China as centering around li, and advocated the rule of li, which, for him, had the benefit of ruling through consensus rather than coercion, as well as through a participatory mode rather than bureaucratic control.18 Liu’s – in fact, the Xueheng – definition of li was far from limited to ritual, but rather inclusive, meaning ‘a body of social customs and etiquette, a system of ethical values, and a set of cultural institutions that gave meaning to human relationships,’ as aptly summarized by Hon.19 The historical development of customs, rituals, institutions, scholarship, art, education, economy, and so on was painstakingly traced in Liu’s A History of Chinese Civilization,20 a monumental work critically acclaimed and commonly recognized as the founding work of that genre.21 Liu shared reverence for Confucius with his Western-trained fellow Xueheng contributors, such as Mei Guangdi, Wu Mi, and Tang Yongtong, seeing him as the ‘heart of Chinese culture.’ According to Liu and his colleagues, contrary to the claim of the iconoclasts, Confucianism was neither the cause of despotism in the past nor the root of the problems in modern China. It was the failure of the Chinese to follow Confucius’s moral teachings on ren (kindness), yi (justice), cheng (honesty), shu (forgiveness), xue (education), xiaoti (filial piety and brotherly love), and the general gangchang (social order and constant virtues) that had led to the many maladies in society.22 Liu attached special sig16 17 18 19 20

21 22



Hon 2004a; Macintyre 2011: 508–599. See also Macintyre 2011: 515; Schneider 2011. Hon 2004b. Hon 2004a: 529. Liu 1924a and 1924b. Although commonly referred to as History of Chinese Culture by scholars nowadays, the English title, as provided in the journal, for the eighteen installments was A History of Chinese Civilization. The book version has been republished many times. See, more recently, Liu and Cai 2001. Hu 1933: 1. See, e.g., Liu 1922.

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nificance, therefore, to shanggu (the ancient), which for him ended at the collapse of the Han Dynasty, for it was during that period when China formed its culture in isolation and laid the autochthonous foundation for Chinese institutions and culture for the future. Among the Xueheng scholars, the term gu (ancient/antiquity) carried the meaning of the foundational, defining, and revered stage of Chinese and Western cultures. Terms such as Classicism and Classic were translated as guwenpai (ancient literature school) or guxue (ancient learning). Liu himself, as well as other Xueheng contributors such as Zhang Qiyun, had a tendency to only apply words such as gudai or gu to shanggu. While the key contributors to Xueheng shared a common reverence for and attachment to the Chinese past, especially the remote past, the Xueheng outlook was by no means retrospective but prospective. Not only did Liu quote Sima Qian’s maxim ‘Narrating the past, thinking of the future’ approvingly, he also repeatedly warned against enslaving ourselves to the ancient sages. Nor did the Xueheng scholars envisage the Chinese cultural system as closed or parochial where change or foreign influence had no place. Quite the contrary, the Chinese culture as an open system was extensively explored in Liu’s The Dissemination of Chinese Culture and A History of Chinese Civilization. Both of these works highlighted the racial mixture in Chinese history and the interactions between Chinese culture and foreign cultural elements on one hand, and the assimilative power of the ever-evolving Chinese culture on the other, with the general goal of understanding the development of Chinese collective identity against such openness.23 Differences between Liu and his Western-trained colleagues, nevertheless, existed. In particular, Liu was more keen in foregrounding the particularity or uniqueness of the Chinese culture, as represented in such virtues as yielding (rang), which seemed to him to be absent from Western culture. For Liu, it was precisely the particularities of Chinese culture – especially the emphasis on human relations (renlun) and ethics rather than religion – that underlined the value of Chinese culture in the global context and justified its pro­­pagation in the West.24 In contrast, the Xueheng contributors who wrote on Western antiquity had a general tendency to suppress rather than showcase the differences between ancient China and the ancient West. To a great extent, Greco-Roman material, especially Babbitt and his friends’ humanistic approach to this material, provided a lens through which the Xueheng scholars, especially those educated in the West, revisited the Chinese tradition. At a lecture at Tsinghua in 1925, Wu Mi explicitly stated: ‘Greek culture is closest to the Chinese national 23 24

Xueheng 7, 8, 10, 11, 16; Liu and Cai 2001; Hon 2004a and 2004b. Liu 1924b: 4.



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essence. Studying Greek culture can effect the Chinese compatriots (guoren) to believe (xinyang) in the best civilization from the Chinese antiquity.’25 The Xueheng journal itself provides an enticing case of the interaction between the discovery of ‘landscape’ (as exteriority) and the discovery of the interior. From very early on, Wu Mi developed a comparative approach to Classics that focused on highlighting the commonality between the thought of the ­ancient Chinese and Western sages – it was an approach that would have important impact on the Xueheng selection of materials and translation strategies, as well as commentary practices. As early as 1915, Wu wrote after reading W.W. Benn’s History of Ancient Philosophy that Greek philosophy prioritized moral excellence and deemphasized material benefits, took pleasure in the right Way (dao), and promoted being free from worry and content with one’s lot. For Wu, all of these were in agreement with the principles of the ancient Confucianists (xianru) but seemed rather different from modern Western thought.26 In a term paper titled ‘The Political Thought of Confucius and Mencius as Compared with Plato and Aristotle’ that he wrote at Harvard in 1921, Wu Mi advocated using comparative study as a way to promote the understanding of ‘the unity of human nature, the continuity of history, the permanent value and the cosmopolitan applicability of true great wisdom.’27 In Wu Mi’s opinion, Plato was most similar to Confucius and Mencius with respect to both historical circumstance and aspiration.28 Prevalent throughout the Xueheng journal, the comparative approach was not limited to comparing the Platonic and Aristotelian teachings with those of Confucius and Mencius, but Buddhism and Taoism were often included.29 Following the Chinese commentary tradition, the Xueheng translators and writers would often use paratextual spaces (prefaces and in-text annotations in smaller fonts, in particular) to note and discuss shared ideas between the ‘traditional’ elements in Chinese culture and Greco-Roman thought. Jing Changji, for example, included a long quote from the Buddhist Wuliangshoujing (Sutra of limitless life) to prompt the ­au­­dience to imagine the beautiful afterlife abode (eis oikēseis kallious) re­­served for those purified by philosophy and living without their bodies, which 25 26 27

28 29



Wu 1925. Wu and Wu 1998: 440. Wu 1921b: 3. The paper was written for a course on European political theories, taught by Charles Howard McIwain. Wu Mi also forwarded it to Babbitt on April 24, 1921 (also cf. Wu and Wu 1995). Wu 1923b: 21; Wu 1925: 2. See, e.g., Guo 1932.

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Socrates says is indescribable in Phaedo 114c.30 Jing also referred to Zhuangzi’s The Grandmaster as a suitable footnote to Socrates’ calmness in the face of death.31 While these comparisons may seem fragmentary and even random, Wu Mi’s long essay ‘My View of Life’ represents a systematic effort to create a hybrid moral philosophy32 containing elements from the Platonic doctrine of ideas, Aristotelian ethics, Confucian moral teachings, and Babbittian humanism. Wu Mi believed in the coexistence of the Platonic ‘Absolute or Pure Ideas’ and ‘Appearances or Illusions,’ the latter being the varying, transitory, and imperfect manifestations of the former.33 Buddhism, Taoism, Christianity, or Islam, therefore, were no more than local forms or representations of the same idea of religion in different cultures, with the gods being various embodiments of ‘the most Perfect Being.’ For Wu Mi, the main purpose of religion is ultimately ‘humility’ rather than charity/philanthropy (boai). As to the relationship between religion and morality, Wu held that ‘only those with inner humility have self-control (keji), without which moral achievement is impossible. Humility is the foundation (ben) of religion; keji is the origin of morality (daode). Religion is in fact auxiliary to morality.’ Following Babbitt, Wu approached the issue of morals as rooted in the dualism of human nature, which ‘has both good and evil; is both good and evil; and can be both good and evil.’ Referring to Miao Fenglin’s work on Mencius and Xunzi, Wu Mi claimed that the dualism advocated by Plato and Aristotle also found an echo among the ancient Chinese sages. Such dualism would necessarily cause constant strife between ‘Reason’ and ‘Impulses or Desire’ in man, which means that in moral practices one would have to apply ‘Exercise of the Inner Check,’ ‘Inner Check,’ or ‘Will to Refrain,’34 guided by ‘The inner principle of Decorum’ – all Babbitian terms – or li. According to Wu, to achieve justice, three principles should be followed: (1) discipline and observance of propriety (kejifuli), (2) loyalty and forgiveness (zhongshu), and (3) mean (zhongyong). The comparative approach to the ancient Chinese and Greco-Roman tra­ ditions, and the emphasis on the compatibility and hybridity of the two tra­ ditions, were sustained and reinforced by the linguistic and cultural strategies of the Xueheng translations. There are at least two main aspects of these 30 31 32 33 34

Jing 1923: 41–42. Jing 1923: 45. Schneider 2010. Wu 1923b: 7–8. The capitalized English terms were provided by Wu Mi himself in the original text. See also Wu and Wu 1998: 79 (October 5, 1919). Wu 1923b: esp. 9–12, 15.



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strate­­gies, the combination of which amounted to a ‘rewriting,’ in André ­Lefevere’s term, of the Western Classical texts. On one hand, the Xueheng translators actively used translation as a medium to construct similarities and compatibility between the ancient Chinese and Western cultures by using such key terms from the Confucianism lexicon as li, zhongyong, yi, shan, de, and keji and occasionally from Taoism and Buddhism to render key terms in Benjamin Jowett’s translation of Plato’s dialogues and J.E.C. Welldon’s translation of Aristotle’s Ethics, which were the main source texts for the Xueheng translations of Plato and Aristotle (see table 4.1). On the other hand, these key terms were set in complex linguistic and textual contexts, which had the effect of deterritorializing the key concepts in both Chinese and Western Classical traditions by endowing them with a universality that transcended geographical, temporal, linguistic, and cultural boundaries. It would be an oversimplification to say that the Xueheng translators were simply making the Greek thinkers speak the language of Confucius. Although the use of Classical Chinese instead of vernacular Chinese was one of the reasons why the Xueheng journal was disparagingly attacked as regressive by the New Culture iconoclasts, the insistence on the vitality of Classical Chinese was far from the whole story of the Xueheng attitude toward language. One of the stated missions of the Xueheng journal was to ‘create a modern Chinese prose style, capable of expressing new ideas and sentiments, yet retaining the traditional usage and inherent beauty of the language.’35 The prose in Xueheng, including the prose translations of the Greek and Roman texts, can indeed be characterized as intentionally experimental, as indicated by the uses of numerous double-syllable words; neologisms such as benti, juedui, shijue, zidong, and so on; phonetic translations of foreign words; and even words in foreign languages. I would suggest seeing the incorporation of foreign words and phonetic translations as indicating the self-imposed limits of the Xueheng intention to sinicize all the elements in the source texts. Such self-imposed limits can also be seen in the fact that not all the key Confucian vocabulary was mobilized to translate the Greek texts. In comparison with shan, de, zhongyong, li and so on, ren, one of the core Confucian virtues and acknowledged as such by the Xueheng scholars, was infrequently used in the Xueheng translation. Nor was any standardization imposed on lexical choices. Yong (bravery) and guogan (the state of being courageous and resolute), for example, were both used to translate courage.

35



See the English index page of most of the issues. See also ‘A Statement by the Critical Review,’ Xueheng 13: 3.

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Table 4.1 The Xueheng translations of select key terms in the English versions of Platonic and Aristotelian works.

zhongyong 中庸, zhonghe 中和, zhongjie 中節, zhongdao 中道 li 禮 wuli 無禮 shan 善 junzi 君子 shanren 善人 shanren 善人, youdezhe 有德者 xiaoren 小人 zhengdang 正當, heli 合理 de 德, dexing 德行 jinde 进德, xiushen 修身 liy i 禮義, youde 有德 guayu 寡欲 jiezhi 節制 zizhi 自制, jieyu 節欲 zongyu 縱欲 fangdang 放荡 yi 義, ren 仁, zungui 尊贵 rongyu 榮譽, jingli 敬禮, li 禮, liyi 禮義 youjiezhide 有節制的 guogan 果敢, yong 勇 fu 福 gongping 公平 leshan 楽善 kangkai 慷慨 gaohong 高宏 heai 和藹 youai 友爱, lun 倫 gang 剛 rou 柔 yi 佚 e惡

mean

honor, virtue, improvement, customs, way, decorum indecorous good the good, the liberal man, gentlemen, person of refinement the good the virtuous men the inferior right virtue, excellence, the moral state virtue and improvement virtuous self-controlled continent temperate incontinent, excess licentious, intemperate noble honor moderate courage blessed, happiness justice liberality magnificence highmindedness gentleness friendliness endurance, steadfastness soft effeminate wicked, evil, vice



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In order to assess the effect of the Xueheng translations, it is important to take a closer look at how the nexus of concepts in the source texts is transmitted. As Antoine Berman acutely points out, ‘The signifiers in themselves have no particular value, that what makes sense is their linkage, which in fact signals a most important dimension of the work. Now, all of these signifiers are augmentatives, appropriately enough.’ If the networks of the signifiers ‘are not transmitted, a signifying process in the text is destroyed.’36 The transformative effect on the source texts could be achieved not only by which terms in the Classical Chinese word bank were chosen to carry the weight of key terms and concepts in the source texts, but also by how the chosen Chinese terms were deployed in the translated texts, and how connections were made between these terms in translation. To illustrate this point, I use the generous distribution of li and zhongyong/zhonghe/zhongjie/zhongdao in the Xueheng translations as examples.  Li and the associated expressions were extensively used to render a wide range of terms such as honor, virtue, improvement, customs, way, decorum, and so on in the source texts. In Phaedo 115c, for example, Jing Changji translated Crito’s question to Socrates about in what way (tina tropon) they should bury him as ‘By which li, master (zi), would you like to be buried?’37 Not only is it reminiscent of the conversation style between Confucius and his disciples, but it also added a formal tone to the Platonic text. Similar examples also abound in Guo Binhe’s translations, which deserve particular attention, especially since he was one of the very few Chinese translators who had received any training in ancient Greek. His translations were generally considered to have been done from the Greek original,38 an impression – a somewhat misleading one – that the publisher of the 1934 book edition of The Five Dialogues of Plato encouraged by claiming in the ‘Preface’ that these translations were checked against various English versions and the Greek original and double-checked by Wu Mi. Guo’s translation was in line with Wu Mi’s translation theory, which preferred paraphrase as the perfect middle ground (zhongdao) between metaphrase (literal translation) and imitation.39 Emphasizing perfect understanding of both languages and the artistic conception of the original text, this approach nevertheless left ample room for rewriting. In Guo’s translation of Plato’s Symposium (187), ‘composition of songs or the correct performance of arts and meters composed already, which later is called education,’ was trans36 37 38 39



Berman 2004: 285. Jing 1923: 42–43. Zi is an honorary appellation for a man, here referring to Socrates. Luo 1934, quoted in Mao 1934; Li 1946: 98–99. Wu 1923a: 26.

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lated as liyue (ritual/propriety and music). Pausanius’ comment (183d) that whether male-male relationships ‘are honourable (kalon) or whether they are dishonourable (aischron) is not a simple question. They are honourable (kalon) to him who follows them honourably (kalōs prattomenon), dishonourable (aischron) to him who follows them dishonourably (aischrōs)’ became ‘it is not easy to determine whether this practice was appropriate or not. If it follows li (chuzhiyili) it is appropriate. If it is contrary to li (chuzhifeili), then it is inappropriate.’40 Pausanius’ concluding remarks in Symposium 185a–b were densely packed in Confucian vocabularies in Guo’s translation, which can be back-translated literally into English as follows: He who seeks a sincere friend for moral improvement (jinde) will not be disappointed even if not successful. This is because he aims at propriety and righteousness (liyi); no good is greater than this (shanmodayan). The lover and the beloved alike aim at self-cultivation (xiushen). This is noble and pure love, which benefits themselves and the country. As for other loves, they are vulgar, inferior, and not worth mentioning. This was a much more compact and condensed version of Jowett’s translation, which Guo must have read and which was generally faithful to the original Greek text:41 And on the same principle he who gives himself to a lover because he is a good man, and in the hope that he will be improved by his company, shows himself to be virtuous, even though the object of his affection turns out to be a villain, and to have no virtue; and if he is deceived he has committed a noble error. For he has proved that for his part he will do 40

41

The first quotation is Jowett's translation (Jowett 1892, 1: 553). The transliterated Greek words in the brackets are added by me. The second quotation is a literal translation of Guo's Chinese translation. See Xueheng 43: 11. Jowett 1892, 1: 555. Guo did not specify which edition of Jowett's translation he used, although there is no doubt that Jowett's translation of Plato's dialogues was a main source for Guo as well as the other translators of Plato for the Xueheng journal. Not only did Guo and Jing refer to Jowett's The Dialogues of Plato (see, e.g., Guo and Jing 1934: 'Introduction' [by Guo], 4; ‘Apology’ [by Jing], 2), but some of the texts that Jowett inserted in his translation were also preserved by the Xueheng translators (e.g., Sym. 174b; Jowett 1892, 1: 543; Guo). Wu Mi mentioned both the 1871 edition and the 1892 edition in his ‘Select bibliography on Western literature’ (Wu 1922). As far as the examples used in this chapter are concerned, Jowett’s translations in both the 1871 edition and the 1892 edition were consistent.



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anything for anybody with a view to virtue and improvement, than which there can be nothing nobler. Thus noble in every case is the acceptance of another for the sake of virtue. This is that love which is the love of the heavenly goddess, and is heavenly, and of great price to individuals and cities, making the lover and the beloved alike eager in the work of their own improvement. But all other loves are the offspring of the other, who is the common goddess. Guo’s translation amounted to a rewriting of the Platonic passage in at least two main ways. First, in all of the aforementioned examples, the criteria for what is honorable, proper, noble, good, and virtuous were shifted to li, which Wu Mi also used to translate ‘the inner principle of Decorum’ in Babbitt’s writings.42 Since li was considered firmly grounded in ritualized, authenticated convention and tradition, the generous distribution of li in Guo’s translation, even in places without the authority of the original texts, added social convention and ethical tradition as important dimensions to the Platonic concepts of good (kalon) and virtue, but at the same time downplayed or sidelined pleasure as a defining element of these concepts and the aesthetic side of kalon in the Platonic conception.43 Second, the emphasis of li as the fundamental criteria seems to have guided Guo’s decision on what to accentuate and what to omit, condense, curtail, or modify in Plato’s texts. It seems, for example, that Guo intentionally chose not to translate Pausanius’ comment on how the noble love is heavenly because it is the love of the heavenly goddess, and how all other loves are the offspring of the common goddess. Omissions like this have the effect of diminishing any mysterious or religious aspect of the Platonic text. More important, the linkage between love (eros), good/noble (kalon), virtue (aretē), and heavenly goddess (tēs ouranias) was modified to that between virtue (de), propriety and righteousness (liyi), good (shan), moral cultivation (xiushen), and love (ai). Liyi was introduced here as a universal regulating principle and a commendable goal for love. Guo specified the purpose of translating Plato’s works as showing the fundamental significance of reason and moderation for Plato in order to dispel misunderstandings of Plato as a supporter of naturalism, among others.44 Far from simply transmitting the Platonic thoughts, however, translation became a site where arguments were integrated and embedded. 42 43 44



Wu 1923a: 16. For the Platonic concept of kalon, see, e.g., Irwin 1995: 37–38; Hobbs 2000: 155; Sheffield 2006. Guo 1933: 6.

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The word zhongyong, which frequently appears in the Xueheng translations and writings, also represents an active use of translation for constructing compatibility between Greek and Chinese antiquities. Although zhongyong was a common translation for the (Aristotelian) mean (to meson), and vice versa, in the first half of the twentieth century,45 the Xueheng translators went further in using zhongyong, zhonghe, and zhongjie interchangeably to translate mean, law of measure, moderation, gentleness, and a variety of other related words and phrases including sanity in the Greco-Roman texts as well as in Babbitt’s works. By equating zhonghe with sanity, Xu Zhen’e was making a strong statement that sanity was the embodiment of zhonghe, which in turn was the only means for maintaining sanity. Zhonghe became both the means and the end. This approach was in agreement with the general perception of the essence of Aristotle’s ethics in Xueheng, that is, ‘virtue is a mean state aiming at the mean,’ as quoted by Miao Fenglin in his essay on the Greek spirit.46 In the Xueheng texts, closely connected and overlapping with zhongyong/zhongjie/zhonghe/ zhongdao were the virtues of zizhi, jiezhi, and keji, which were used to translate such words and phrases as self-control, temperance, inner control/check, moderation, and discipline in both the Greek texts and Babbitt’s works. Keji was also sometimes used to translate humility.47 It should be noted, however, that not all the expressions indicating moderation were translated into zhongyong or similar words. Virtuous and modest in Welldon’s translation of Aristotle’s ­Nicomachean Ethics (bk. 3, chap. 9), for example, were simply translated as ­reasonable. In this case, a positive evaluation of these virtues substituted for direct translation of these terms, reflecting the fact that the equation between ­reasonable and virtuous/modest was embedded in the translator’s thought process. By hosting the Aristotelian concept of mean (to meson) with a nexus of closely connected vocabularies from the Confucian repertoire and subsuming a variety of Aristotelian terms into zhongyong/zhonghe/zhongjie/zhongdao, the Xueheng translators provided Aristotle’s Ethics with a lexical texture that is reminiscent of Confucian teachings. The other side of the coin, however, is that, in the same process, they also transformed the meanings of the core concepts in Confucianism by situating them in new interpretative contexts. Zhongyong, zhishan (the highest good), and de were set in the classic Aristotelian formulation of to meson: ‘to experience these emotions at the right times and on the right occasions and towards the right persons and for the right 45 46 47

See Wang 2008 for discussions of James Legge’s translations of zhongyong as the mean. Miao 1922. Also see Wu Mi’s editorial note to Xiang Da’s translation of Aristotle’s Ethics, bk. 1, Xueheng 13: 1–3. For a study of the Xueheng translations of Babbitt’s works, see Zhang 2009: esp. 192–213.



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causes and in the right manner is the mean or the supreme good, which is characteristic of virtue.’48 No scholars nowadays would say the Confucian zhong is directly and unproblematically an Aristotelian mean. The varied translations of zhongyong have included ‘the Unwobbling Pivot’ (Ezra Pound), ‘focusing the familiar’ (Roger Ames and David Hall), ‘Centrality and Commonality’ (Tu Wei-ming), and a variety of others. Although many of today’s scholars agree on the comparability of zhongyong and the mean in terms of their shared notion of dynamic equilibrium and the difficulty in attaining it, scholarly opinions differ as to the ways by which zhongyong and the mean are determined, how much room they have for individual agency and individual differences, and the extent of their respective cosmic scope.49 For David Hall and Roger Ames, the practice of zhongyong differs from the Aristotelian mean in that it is informed by li, ‘is resolutely communal, and is not governed by individual choices, but by those interpersonal dispositions created by coordinating roles and relationships effectively.’50 Sim has emphasized that by pursuing the way (dao) based on zhong, the individual is ‘not only seeking a state of he (harmony) for himself, but is also contributing to the harmony of all things, animals, the earth and heaven.’51 The cosmic view of the zhongyong and its universal applicability to everything under heaven (human beings, things, and animals) renders it different from Aristotle’s mean for human beings. Comparisons like these could go on; but they would have been of secondary importance to the Xueheng translators. The merging of comparable Chinese and Greek concepts into universal concepts by a double transformation of both the Confucian terminologies and the Greek texts was precisely what Wu Mi sought and preached. The year-long course titled ‘Literature and Life’ that Wu Mi taught in the 1930s, for example, included a section devoted to the Golden Mean (zhongyongzhidao), where the Confucian zhongyong and the Aristotelian mean were treated as different expressions of the same concept. Acknowledging that zhongyong/mean can vary, Wu Mi noted that metaphysically, zhongyong/mean equals ‘the mediation between One and Many’ but not ‘the middle-point between Many and Many,’ and that in practice zhongyong/mean represents ‘the right application of the Principle (One) to each of the (Many) different particular Cases’ but not ‘setting up one Case as the model and standard for all cases.’52 A metaphysical interpretation was thus provided for the Confucian zhongyong. It should be 48 49 50 51 52



Xueheng 13. E.g., Ames and Hall 2001; Plaks 2002; Plaks 2003: 23–24; Sim 2004. Ames and Hall 2001: 151. Sim 2004: 255, 262. Wu and Wang 1993: 121–123.

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noted that during that era, zhongyong was under attack by intellectuals such as Hu Shi, in whose understanding zhongyong connoted banality and mediocrity.53 In Xueheng, the Aristotelian mean had the function of reviving and strengthening the relevance of zhongyong, which in turn acquired another life in the translated Aristotelian text. For the Xueheng scholars, beyond being the principle that guides moral perfection and proper behavior, zhongyong was also of fundamental significance for issues ranging from translation strategy and poetry composition,54 the attitude of the Xueheng journal,55 to nation building56 and the survival of civilization. In Miao Fenglin’s opinion, for example, it was the Greek spirit – which consists of rushi (secularity), xiehe (harmony), zhongjie (moderation), and li­ zhi (reason and wisdom) – that lifted Westerners out of barbarism.57 For Miao, Homer’s epics, Hesiod’s didactic poetry, Sophocles’ tragedies, Plato’s dialogues, and Aristotle’s Ethics run the common themes of moderation (zhongjie) and harmony. In Miao’s mind, the contemporary West has displayed a tendency of going to extremes, as indicated in the desire to control nature, as well as in the polarized disputes between capital and labor, between the state and its citizens, between slavishly serving God and abolishing religion, and between nationalism and individualism. As such, the material achievement of the modern West does not offset the loss in spirit and the loss of harmony between human and nature as well as between body and soul. The ensuing evil and even the potential collapse of modern Western civilization can both be attributed to Westerners’ failure to carry on Greek civilization, which has resulted in their returning to a state of barbarism. Making the important point of regarding the Greek spirit as the ‘common property of the world’ (shijie zhi gongchan), Miao saw the remedy for barbarism in the revival and sustenance of the Greek spirit.

Conclusion

The Xueheng translation – or rewriting – of Platonic and Aristotelian works served as an important means by which the Xueheng scholars constructed 53 54 55

56 57

Hu 2001: III, 448 (diary entry on August 26, 1921). Wu 1923a; Hu 1922: 322. The ‘Statement of the Xueheng’ (1923): ‘The attitude of The Critical Review thus is one of moderation, and of the golden mean in intellectual and cultural matters. It is neither conservative nor radical, but liaberal [sic].’ Zhang 1925. Miao 1922.



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commonality between Chinese and Western antiquities. The choices of texts and translation strategies, as well as paratextual notes, all worked toward establishing li as a universal regulating principle and zhongyong/mean as a universal virtue and organizational ideal, both of which were perceived as having been lost in the West and China and were in urgent need of revival. Li and zhongyong formed two common threads that ran throughout the journal, connecting Classical Western culture, Chinese antiquity, Babbitt’s humanism, and the Xueheng stance regarding the construction of a new culture for China. Arguments were therefore embedded in the translation, while translation itself constituted a subtle way of making arguments. Unlike the iconoclasts such as Lu Xun, who hastened to distance themselves from lijiao, oppressively ‘maneating’ in their mind, the Xueheng scholars made an effort to forge an alliance between Western and Chinese antiquities under the guidance of humanism by emphasizing the shared notions of self-control through inner moral force and avoidance of excess, as well as the central importance of tradition, social customs, and ethical values. The Greco-Roman texts thus became a site where traditional Chinese virtues were repackaged and reinforced. Meanwhile, the Xueheng scholars’ translations of Greco-Roman texts also functioned as a site where they experimented with their own version(s) of modern Chinese prose style. In analyzing the Xueheng translations, I have inten­tionally avoided such analytical concepts as ‘domesticating’ or ‘for­eign­ izing.’58 They are inadequate frameworks for understanding Xueheng translations, not only because the lexical texture of the Xueheng translations was highly complicated, but also because there were competing claims to what Chinese culture should be in the 1920s–1930s, while the so-called New Culture was still in its formative stage. Among the post-May Fourth audience, the Xueheng translations would be seen as domesticating only for those who had received education in and retained appreciation for Classical canons. For the iconoclasts, as well as the generations who grew up after the abolition of the Imperial Exam and received education in ‘modern’-style schools using newly created textbooks, the Xueheng textual strategy would seem foreignizing in the sense that the blending of Classical Chinese, modern expressions, and foreign words made the texts strange and inconsistent. In either scenario, however, the prestige of Western antiquity was appropriated by the Xueheng scholars to provide support for the relevance of traditional Chinese ethics in the formation of a new Chinese culture as well as in redressing problems in Chinese society. For the Xueheng writers, it was moral cultivation that would ultimately salvage both contemporary China and the West. After all, for the Xueheng scholars, the 58



For these concepts, see Venuti 1995.

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West and the East share the same fate: ‘The peoples and nations in both the West and the East are on the same boat,’ as Wu Mi stated.59

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Plaks, Andrew, ed. (2003), Ta Hsüeh and Chung Yung (The highest order of cultivation and on the practice of the mean). London: Penguin. Saussy, Haun (2010), ‘Contestatory Classics in 1920s China,’ in Classics and National Cultures, ed. Susan A. Stephens and Phiroze Vasunia, 258–267. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schneider, Axel (2010), ‘The One and the Many: A Classicist Reading of China’s Tradition and Its Role in the Modern World; An Attempt on Modern Chinese Conservatism,’ Procedia Social and Behavioral Sciences 2: 7218–7243. Schneider, Axel (2011), ‘Nation, History and Ethics: The Choices of Post-Imperial Chinese Historiography,’ in Transforming History: The Making of a Modern Academic Discipline in Twentieth-Century China, ed. Brian Moloughney and Peter Zarrow, 271–302. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Sheffield, Frisbee (2006), Plato’s Symposium: The Ethics of Desire. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sim, May (2004), ‘Harmony and the Mean in the Nicomachean Ethics and the Zhongyong,’ Dao 3, no. 2: 253–280. Venuti, Laurence (1995), The Translator’s Invisibility: A History of Translation. London: Routledge. Wang Hui (2008), Translating Chinese Classics in a Colonial Context: James Legge and His Two Versions of the Zhongyong. Bern: Peter Lang. Wu Mi (1921a), ‘Old and New in China,’ Chinese Students’ Monthly 16, no. 3 (January): 198–209. Wu Mi (1921b), The Political Thought of Confucius and Mencius as Compared with Plato and Aristotle. April 22. Harvard Archives. Wu Mi 吴宓 (1922), ‘Xiyang wenxue jingyao shumu (xu) 西洋文學精要書目 (續)’ (Select bibliography on Western literature, continued), Xueheng 7 (July). Wu Mi 吴宓 (1923a), ‘Lun jinri wenxue chuangzao zhi zhengfa 論今日文學創造之正法’ (How shall we create a new literature?), Xueheng 15 (March). Wu Mi 吴宓 (1923b), ‘Wo zhi renshengguan 我之人生觀’ (My view of life), Xueheng 16 (April). Wu Mi 吴宓 (1925), ‘Xila Luoma zhi wenhua yu Zhongguo 希臘羅馬之文化與中國’ (The Greek and Roman culture and China), recorded by He Lin 贺麟, Tsinghua Weekly 清 華周刊 364. Wu Mi 吴宓 and Wang Mingyuan 王岷源 (1993), Wenxue yu rensheng 文学与人生 (Literature and life). Beijing: Qinghua daxue chuban she. Wu Mi 吴宓, and Xuezhao Wu 吴学昭 (1995), Wu Mi zi bian nian pu 吴宓自编年谱 (Wu Mi’s self-complied chronicle). Beijing: Sanlian shudian. Wu Mi 吴宓, and Xuezhao Wu 吴学昭 (1998), Wu Mi ri ji 吴宓日记 (Wu Mi’s diaries). Beijing: Shenghuo, dushu, xinzhi sanlian shudian.



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Xiang Da 向達 (1923), ‘Yalishiduode Lunlixue 亞里士多德倫理學’ (The Ethics of Aristotle, Book 1), Xueheng 13 (January).  Wu Xianshu 吳獻書 (1920), Bolatu zhi Lixiang guo 柏拉圖之理想國 (Plato’s Republic). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan. Xueheng Journal (1923), ‘A Statement by the Critical Review,’ Xueheng 13 (January), [original text in English]. Zhang Qiyun 张其昀 (1925), ‘Zhongguo yu zhongdao 中国与中道’ (The idea of golden mean as the basis of Chinese character and civilization), Xueheng 41 (May). Zhang Yinlin 張蔭麟 (1928), ‘Sibingele zhi wenhualun 斯賓格勒之文化論’ (Civilization or civilizations: An essay, in Spenglerian Philosophy of History, chaps. 1–2, ed. E.H. Goddard and P.A. Gibbons), Xueheng 61 (January). Zhang Yuang 张源 (2009), Cong ‘ren wen zhu yi’ dao ‘bao shou zhu yi’: Xueheng zhong de Baibide 从‘人文主义’到‘保守主义’：《学衡》中的白璧德 (From ‘humanism’ to ‘con­­servatism’: Babbitt in Xueheng). Beijing: Shenghuo, dushu, xinzhi sanlian shudian.



Chapter 5

Toward a New Mode of Vernacular Chinese: A Study on Zhou Zuoren’s Modern Translation of Theocritus’ Id. 10 Lihua Zhang* Co-translated by Jiaming Xiu and Lihua Zhang As a founder of the New Culture in twentieth-century China, Zhou Zuoren (1885–1967) was not only a renowned essayist, but also a celebrated translator of ancient Greek literature.1 In contrast with the seasoned translations of his later years (after 1949), Zhou’s early translation was characterized as ‘amateur,’ as those translations voiced the translator’s own conception of literature and his specific cultural view.2 In this chapter I discuss the translation of Theocritus’ Idyll 10, a Hellenistic poem, by Zhou Zuoren, composed during the New Culture Movement (1915–1923), in order to explore the process in which Zhou’s translation of Hellenistic literature became profoundly involved in the formation of modern vernacular Chinese (i.e., baihua wen). Zhou’s translation of Theocritus’ Id. 10 was initially published as ‘Gushi jinyi’ (Modern translation of an ancient poem) in Xin qingnian (The new youth), volume 4, issue 2, 1918, which he deemed his ‘first article in vernacular Chinese.’3 I analyze Zhou’s process of translating this work, along with his other translation activities since the late Qing Dynasty and the discourse surrounding the ‘literary revolution’ in the May Fourth era, in order to uncover his * This chapter is one of a series of papers in the research project, Genres in Transcultural Context: Case Studies on Literary Translations of Late Qing and Republican China (跨文化的文类构 建：以晚清民国文学翻译为例) (Project Principal: Dr. Lihua Zhang) supported by the MOE (Ministry of Education in China) Project in Humanities and Social Sciences (No. 13YJCZH245). 1 Apart from individual articles published in magazines, Zhou’s separately published translation of ancient Greek literature includes Xila niqu (Greek Mimes) (1934), Xila nvshiren Sabo (Sappho: A Female Poet of Greece) (1951), Yisuo yuyan (Aesop’s Fables) (1955), Xila shenhua (Bibliotheke) (1999), Oulibidesi beiju ji (The Tragedies of Euripides) (co-translated with Luo Niansheng, 1957), Caishen (Ploutos) (1999), and Luqi’an duihuaji (Collection of Lucian’s Dialogues) (1991). See Zhou 2002, 680–699. 2 C.H. Wang has comprehensively commented on the role of Greek culture in Zhou’s thinking and literature world. See Wang 1993. 3 Zhou 2002, 383.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_007



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inner logic for adopting vernacular Chinese in literary writing during that period. In so doing, I consider the differences between Zhou Zuoren and Hu Shi (1891–1962) on the question of vernacular Chinese, aiming to deepen and enrich the understanding of the mechanism that built the modern Chinese literary language through translation – a phenomenon normally referred to as ‘Europeanization’ (Ouhua). 1

Zhou’s Translation Strategy Declared on ‘Apologia’

Theocritus’ Id. 10 is comprised of the dialogues of two reapers, Milo and Bucaeus: Milo asked Bucaeus why he was working slowly, and Bucaeus replied that it was because he had fallen in love with a girl named Bombyca; with Milo’s encouragement, Bucaeus sang a love song eulogizing Bombyca, while Milo responded with a traditional reaping song, claiming that such a song was what a reaper should have sung.4 While it evoked farming scenery and dialogues of reapers, Id. 10 was not considered a bucolic poem in a strict sense, nor did it receive much attention in the Western academy.5 Nevertheless, Zhou Zuoren chose Id. 10 from the thirty pieces in Theocritus’ Idylls.6 In his Ouzhou wenxue shi (History of European literature), compiled in 1917, Zhou discussed Theocritus and laid out his interpretation of the term ‘Eidyllion’: In ancient times, the herdsmen composed songs to compete in Artemis’ festival. Descendants simulated the mode and named it Eidyllion Bukolikon or Eidyllion Aipolikon. Given that what they sang was not all about herdsmen’s lives, Eidyllia should thus be understood as small pictures. To limn ordinary sights, persons, and events, to embed painting in poetry, Eidyllion is sometimes compared to Ukiyoe (genre) by certain scholars.7 In Zhou Zuoren’s view, portraying pastoral life is not an indispensable factor for Eidyllion as a genre of poetry. Instead, he considered the function of Eidyllion to be the depiction of ordinary sights, persons, and events, as well as its aesthetic effect of ‘painting in poetry.’ His translation of Id. 10 achieved a sketch effect of tranquil country life, which accorded with his interpretation of the term Eidyllion – that is, a ‘small picture.’ 4 Gow 1952, 80–85. 5 Grethlein 2012, 603. 6 In addition to Id. 10, Zhou consecutively translated Id. 2, 3, 14, 15 and 27, afterward. See Zhou 1925 and Zhou 1934b. 7 Zhou 1919, 50.



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Theocritus’ original work was composed in dactylic hexameter. Zhou rendered both the dialogues and two songs in the poem as ‘colloquial’ prose. His preface, titled ‘Apologia,’ served as a defense of such a translation strategy: I Theocritus’ Idyll (Eidyllion Bukolikon) is Greek poetry dating from 2000 years ago. I translated it in colloquial language because I admire it and believe that only colloquial language can succeed in translating the poem in China.  Kumārajīva says, ‘Translation is like chewing food to feed people,’ and so it is. The only way to translate a work immaculately is not to translate. As long as it is translated, there emerge two faults, which, in my opinion, are exactly two essential factors of translation. First, the translated is always inferior to the original, since it has been converted into Chinese. It is impossible to maintain the same standard as the original, unless Theo­ critus had learned Chinese to recompose it himself. Second, the translated work cannot match genuine Chinese, as in writings with melodious tones to ease the reading, because it is primarily a foreign work. If my translation accorded with the stale mode of classical Chinese writing, it would be considered as my casually tampered scribble instead of a kind of serious translation. II The poems should be written in colloquial language in lieu of fivecharacter or seven-character form, and rhyming is unnecessary. Each line should be composed according to the lengths of respiration. Such a method will be applied to the poem translated here as a trial, and hence it is what I call ‘free verse’ (ziyou shi).8 There are four main points in total in the ‘Apologia,’ and Zhou’s basic philosophy on its translation has been laid out in these first two; the first item expounds on the principles of translation. The paragraphs cited above are frequently quoted by Zhou in his later explications of translation. ‘Translation is like chewing food to feed people,’ a saying of Kumārajīva, is one of the most famous notions in the history of Chinese translations of Sanskrit Buddhist scriptures. In Kumārajīva’s view, the style of gāthā (Buddhist hymns) in the original Sanskrit sūtras is characterized by a musicality inseparable from Hindu religious rituals and Buddhist practice, which would inevitably be lost in the process of translating Sanskrit into Chinese.9 Herein Zhou reversed the 8 Zhou 1918, 44. 9 Zhu and Zhu 2006, 175.



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above ‘faults of translation’ proposed by Kumārajīva into ‘essential factors of translation’: a serious translation should both avoid copying the original style (‘inferior to the original’) and maintain distance from the linguistic customs and modes of the target language (‘not match genuine Chinese’). Based on such a presupposition, Zhou argued that it was only ‘colloquial language’ (kouyu, meaning literally ‘a language neighbor of daily spoken language’) that could act as the proper medium to introduce Theocritus’ Idylls. It was undoubtedly a rather novel view of translation, in which the inner spirit took almost the exact opposite direction of the famous three principles of ‘faithfulness’ (xin), ‘expressiveness’ (da), and ‘elegance’ (ya) proposed by Yan Fu (1854–1921) in his translation notes on Evolution and Ethics in 1898.10 Zhou’s second point mainly concerns how to translate the two songs in Id. 10. It is a proposal to translate them in ‘free verse,’ an obvious nod to Hu Shi. In Hu Shi’s promotion of ‘literary revolution,’ his experiment with vernacular ­poetry (baihua shi) was quite remarkable; in another sense, Hu Shi’s composition of shi (poems) or ci (lyrics) in vernacular while he was in North America aimed at testing the applicability of vernacular language in all types of literary writings rather than just attempting to modify the traditional forms of Chinese poetry. Not until he returned to Beijing in August 1917 did Hu Shi start to experiment in ‘free verse,’ rejecting the preexisting forms and conventions of traditional poetry, under the influence of Qian Xuantong (1887–1939), the leading figure of the New Culture Movement and one of Zhou’s best friends and colleagues at Peking University. Zhou’s colloquial translation of the two songs in Id. 10 could be regarded as his earliest ‘free verse’ in vernacular, which, along with Hu Shi’s compositions after August 1917, launched the onset of modern Chinese ‘New Poetry’ (xinshi). Zhou implemented his proposal that ‘each line should be composed according to the lengths of respiration’ in his successive writings of ‘New Poetry,’ such as ‘Xiaohe’ (Rivulet) and ‘Liangge saoxue de ren’ (Two snow sweepers). His persistence in not rhyming stood quite uniquely in the contemporary New Cultural generation. It is safe to treat ‘Gushi jinyi’ as the symbol of Zhou Zuoren’s formal participation in the May Fourth Vernacular Language Movement. Zhou had been maintaining his distance from the trend of vulgarism since the late Qing era by sticking to classical Chinese in his literary writings and translations. So what exactly triggered him to suddenly begin to translate poems in colloquial language so as to meet the trend of ‘vernacular literature’ encouraged by Hu Shi? As Zhou did not assail his earlier literary notions when he resorted to vernacular, what was the real difference between Zhou’s ‘colloquial language’ and Hu’s 10



Yan 1986, 1321–1323.

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conception of ‘vernacular’ developed from the late Qing trend of vulgarism? And how did the two courses intersect and finally converge into a consistent literary revolution movement? To answer these questions, we must look back and examine Zhou’s translations of poems during the late Qing and early Republican periods. 2

From Classical Chinese to Kouyu (Colloquial Language)

Before adopting ‘free verse’ in 1917, Zhou had experimented in translating foreign poetry via a variety of techniques in classical Chinese since the late Qing era. In 1907, Zhou translated an English novel titled The World’s Desire, coauthored by H. Rider Haggard (1856–1925) and Andrew Lang (1844–1912), into classical Chinese. He adapted a battle song of the Barbarian in the novel into a Chinese ballad with a rather humorous flavor. The second half of the original song was as follows: Southwards I sailed, Sailed with the amber, Sailed with the foam-wealth. Among strange peoples, Winning me wave-flame, Winning me war-fame, Winning me women. Soon shall I slay thee, Sacker of Cities!11 Zhou’s translation was as follows: 我拏舟，向南泊，满船载琥珀。 行船到处见生客，赢得浪花当财帛。 黄金多，战声好，更有女郎就吾抱。 我语汝，汝莫嗔，会当杀汝堕城人。12

[I punted, parking southward, and the boat was loaded with amber. I rowed the boat to meet strangers everywhere, winning the sprays as wealth. 11 12

Haggard and Lang 1894, 301. Zhou 1913, 211.



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There is plenty of gold, there is the beautiful sound of war, and there are furthermore maidens falling into my arms. I say to you, and you don’t blame me, I will slaughter you who ruin the city.] Zhou attempted to convey the acoustic effects of the original work by applying a mixed Chinese ballad style containing three-character, five-character, and seven-character lines. The rhyming effects are produced respectively by the characters at the end of the second, third, and fifth sentences (‘泊 [bo],’ ‘珀 [po],’ ‘帛 [bo]’) by those of the seventh and eighth sentences, (i.e., ‘好 [hao],’ ‘抱 [bao]’), and by those of the last two (‘嗔 [chen]’ and ‘人 [ren]’). In order to fit the ballad into the target language environment, Zhou did not perform a literal translation of the original work. For instance, the simple sentence ‘winning me women’ in the original song was adorned with a vivid narrative ­context: ‘there are furthermore maidens falling into my arms.’ Zhou later deemed the language he translated the poem into as a ‘guwen’ (archaistic Chinese) approximate to vernacular. The so-called ‘guwen,’ within the discourse contexts of Zhou, indicated too many stereotypical expressions still existing in the writings. In 1910, Zhou translated a Hungarian romance, The Yellow Rose, written by Mór Jókai (1825–1904), also known as Maurus Jokai, from the English translation of Beatrice Danford.13 He employed traditional Chinese five-character poetry to recompose the shepherd’s songs in the romance. Here is one small sample: 小园有甘棠，繁英覆全树。 — 的的翦秋罗，缭乱华无数。 娇女初解情，芳心永倾注。 适意不在远，是我句留处。14

[There is a pear tree in the small garden, and it is covered with luxuriant flowers. Lucidly the delicate silk was cropped, scattering innumerous petals. The beautiful girl meets her first love, and her heart is forever pouring. Her tender affection is not far, just in my sojourning place.] In the English version, the poem appears as below: 13 14



See Zhou 1928, cited from Zhong 1998b, 561. Zhou 1935, 2–3. Zhou translated the work in 1910, but it was first published only in 1927.

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An apple-tree stands in my garden small, The blossoms it bears they hide it all. Oh there where the full carnation blows, And a maiden’s heart with a true love glows  Is the place where I would be.15 Unlike the vulgar battle song in The World’s Desire, Zhou adapted the shepherd’s songs in The Yellow Rose to the formal five-character poetry, perhaps because the shepherd’s songs, in Zhou’s view, accorded with the lyrical traditions of Chinese poetry. However, such sumptuous stale images as ‘甘棠,’ ‘秋罗,’ ‘娇 女,’ ‘芳心,’ and so on that followed the prescriptive style of five-character ­poetry made it difficult to represent the exotic flavor of the shepherd’s songs. The majority of the translated poems in Zhou’s version of the novel present a Chinese-style idyllic scenery and sentiment governed by the five-character poetic form. Such a problem has actually accented the fundamental difficulty of poetry translation across various literary and cultural traditions. What Kumārajīva says – that ‘translation is like chewing food to feed people’ – speaks particularly to this situation. The aesthetic of a poem always depends on its rhythms and tones, which are ultimately impossible to replicate in translation. In attempting to retain the features of the original work, the translator can only try to find a corresponding poetry form in the target literature system to ‘compose’ from scratch. Such a composition would thus be inevitably constrained by the rhythm and allusion system of the target poetry forms. Zhou Zuoren had obviously been fully aware of this dilemma, given his experience of translating poetry into classical Chinese. In his essay titled ‘Yiwen zahua,’ published in 1914, Zhou began translating through the medium of a prose that possessed a natural rhythm, instead of adapting foreign poetry to a preexisting poetry form in the target language. In that translation, he paraphrased a poem by the Russian poet Shevtchenko in rather plain prose, without compromising the expressive capacity and the melancholy hue of the poem.16 The ‘prose’ here may be considered a more liberal style of translation, free from the restraint of rhyming and the pattern and illusion system of the five-character form. It later became Zhou’s primary approach to translate into prose, regardless of whether the original text comprised indigenous poetic forms or rhyming. In 1915, Zhou translated six fragments of Sappho’s poetry into prose ­using this method. Although Zhou claimed that what he did with prose was to ‘inter­ 15 16

Jókai 1909, 9. Zhou 1914b, cited from Zhong 1998b, 374–375. 

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pret the general idea’ and ‘not to force the lines into rhyming,’17 it is difficult to ignore his attempt to construct a new kind poetry form by using the natural rhythm of prose to match the ‘excellence both in writing styles and in sentiments’ of the original work. Let us examine, for example, the following lines: 甘棠色赪于枝头，为采者所忘。 — 非敢忘也，但不能及耳。18

[The sweet pear is red on the branch, forgotten by the gatherer. – He did not forget, but could not reach it.] Here one can actually sense the aroma of the ‘little poetry’ (xiaoshi) proposed by Zhou Zuoren in the May Fourth era. In 1917 he readapted the poem while he was translating Sappho’s poems into vernacular, which was also titled ‘Gushi jinyi’ but was unpublished, as below: 你好像那甜频果（Glykomalon），长在枝头面发红。长在树枝上头， 那采频果的不曾见。 — 可不是不曾见，只是他攀不着。19

[You are like a sweet apple, growing on the branch with your face red. You grow on the branch, and the gatherer overlooked you. – He did not overlook, yet he just couldn’t reach you.] Compared with the translated text in 1915, the vernacular version changed little in literary pattern and style.20 In other words, even before he completely turned to vernacular, Zhou had already started his experiment with ‘free verse,’ ‘in lieu of five-character or seven-character form, where rhyming is not necessary,’ in his classical Chinese writings. Surely the word ‘甜频果’ (sweet apple) from ‘colloquial’ language in the 1917 vernacular version finally shed the residual traditional image planted in the classical Chinese word ‘甘棠’ (pear tree, sweet pear). Thus, Zhou Zuoren’s poetry translation beginning in the late Qing era was a gradual process in which both the forms and the phrasings of literature grew 17 18 19 20



Zhou 1926a, cited from Zhong 1998b, 164. Zhou 1926a, cited from Zhong 1998b, 163. Zhou 1917, cited from Zhong 2009, 514. Both of these versions were probably translated from Gilbert Murray’s English prose translation in his famous work A History of Ancient Greek Literature (first published in 1897). One can compare Zhou’s translations with Murray’s: ‘Like the one sweet apple very red, up high on the highest bough, that the apple-gatherers have forgotten; no, not forgotten, but could never reach so far’ (Murray 1911, 92).

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freer in translation into the target language. His ‘free verse’ preceded kouyu (colloquial language). Whereas Hu Shi understood baihua (vernacular language) from the perspective of vulgarism, Zhou’s preference for kouyu was the natural product of an attempt to further emancipate translation style. His kouyu was never the popular language preferred by ‘common people’ or the vernacular language developed from the Ming and Qing novels that Hu Shi employed. Beginning with ‘free verse’ in Xin qingnian, volume 4, issue 1, Zhou’s conception of modern ‘New Poetry’ intrinsically involved the banishment of preexisting ­poetry forms and their genre conventions. From this perspective, the ‘literary revolution,’ the overhaul from traditional to modern Chinese literature, was not simply a linguistic process whereby vernacular replaced classical Chinese, as narrated by Hu Shi, but a painful reform of every structure, style, and poetic custom – or, rather, a massive renovation of what Zhou described as ‘stale mode of classical Chinese writing’ in his ‘Apologia.’ In fact, the metabolism of literary genres born during the May Fourth era had already been conceived of in the reform of literature, culture, and society during the late Qing and early Republican periods.21 Zhou’s poetry translation since then had exhibited his deliberate disposal of preexisting poetic forms. The version of ‘Gushi jinyi’ published in Xin qingnian could be regarded as a milestone in this way. But, going back a bit, since Theocritus’ Idylls employed an archaistic style, what brought Zhou Zuoren the confidence to faithfully express the original sense and flavor in modern Chinese ‘colloquial language’? The English edition of Theocritus’ Idylls translated by a Victorian scholar and writer Andrew Lang played a significant role. 3

The Role of Andrew Lang

Zhou Zuoren revised and republished his translation of Id. 10 several times. Moreover, the afterword of one republication, titled ‘Shamo zhi meng,’22 in 1926 revealed that Zhou’s version was not translated from the Greek when initially published in Xin qingnian, but was rather a ‘retranslation’ of Andrew Lang’s English version. Andrew Lang was a prolific Victorian-era poet, as well as a scholar, literary critic, historian, and folklore expert. He moved freely across the domains of 21 22

The formation of the modern ‘short story’ in twentieth-century China is a good example. See Zhang 2011. Zhou 1926b, cited from Zhong 1998b, 210.



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l­ iterature and the academy as ‘The Divine Amateur,’ as his biographer, R.L. Green, described him.23 Lang’s various interests and his ‘pure fondness’ for his own job left a deep imprint on Zhou Zuoren. Further, Zhou was fascinated by the folklore research method of comparative anthropology that Lang had founded, and he applied this to his own interpretation and investigation of Chinese folklore and fairytales. Zhou’s interest in ancient Greek myths and literature was also guided by Lang. In Zhou’s recollection, his translation of The World’s Desire should be attributed to Lang’s participation, and he believed that the poems in the novel should be dedicated to Lang. Lang was at the same time a renowned Classical scholar among his contemporaries. His translation of Homer’s epics, The Iliad (co-translated in 1882 with Walter Leaf and Ernest Myers) and The Odyssey (mostly Lang’s work, corrected by Samuel H. Butcher, 1898), in prose won him worldwide acclaim. Despite criticism from another translator of Homer’s epics, Samuel Butler, on his usage of obsolete English, Professor Gilbert Murray, a prestigious scholar of Classic Greek literature, appreciated the graceful style of his noble translation: ‘although in prose, it is yet a poem, and one with an exquisite style of its own.’24 Lang’s translation of Theocritus’ Idylls was originally published in 1880 and entitled Theocritus, Bion and Moschus: Rendered into English Prose, with an Introductory Essay. According to Zhou, he collected Lang’s works around 1907 when he was studying in Tokyo, where he came across his small volume of the translated Idylls.25 Lang wrote a long introduction to this edition. Based on Theocritus’ Idylls, he reconstructed the geographical and cultural atmosphere of the Hellenistic world. In Lang’s view, Theocritus’ poetry was pure and innocent. Theocritus’ Idylls was an authentic portrait of the natural scenery and native customs in Sicily, where the poets imitated Theocritus as his descendants. Lang believed that many songs in Theocritus’ Idylls originated from real folk songs, which continue to resound among Sicilians.26 Zhou Zuoren accepted Lang’s view with little reservation. In the preface to his translation of The Yellow Rose, written in 1911, he dated the origin of Western pastoral poetry to Theocritus and selectively translated a large portion of the content from Lang’s introduction; furthermore, he followed the example of Lang’s style to compose this beautiful preface.27 In his Ouzhou wenxue shi, Zhou’s exposition of Theocritus’ Idylls was primarily based on Lang’s introduc23 24 25 26 27



Green 1946, 53. Green 1946, 75–76. Zhou 1934a, cited from Zhong 1998a, 375. Lang 1901, i–xxxvi. Zhou 1911, cited from Zhong 1998b, 551–556.

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tion, in addition to some reference to Murray’s The Literature of Ancient Greece. For instance, his understanding of pastoral poetry as ‘a small picture’ was obviously appropriated from Lang’s perception of the rural poetry in Idylls as ‘elaborately pictorial.’28 Lang believed Theocritus’ Idylls was a faithful reflection of ancient pastoral lives, the songs of which were rather akin to folk songs in modern Greek, and Zhou followed his belief faithfully: The territory of Syrakuse was covered by mountains, where the scenery was extremely beautiful, as the sun shone through the whole year, and every living thing thrived and flourished. The herdsmen rested in the shadow of willows and elms, playing flutes and singing poems to [lament] their sorrows, or singing and competing to praise their pleasures. Their descendants may question the authenticity, yet the literary styles are proved to be similar by comparison with modern folk songs. The song memorializing Amaryllis in Id. 3 has been heard until today. The songs of reapers in Id. 10 might have been collected instead of composed, which is hard to tell.29 ‘The songs of reapers’ Zhou mentions probably refers to Milo’s reaping song at the end of Id. 10. In Lang’s translation, the song was printed in italics to be distinct from the main text, since it was regarded as an authentic record of folk songs. Zhou Zuoren’s ‘Gushi jinyi,’ published in Xin qingnian, was basically a ‘literal translation’ of Lang’s prose. Cited below are the love songs by Bucaeus in Lang’s version: Ye Muses Pierian, sing ye with me the slender maiden, for whatsoever ye do but touch, ye goddesses, ye make wholly fair. They all call thee a gipsy, gracious Bombyca, and lean, and sunburnt, ’tis only I that call thee honey-pale. Yea, and the violet is swart, and swart the lettered hyacinth, but yet these flowers are chosen the first in garlands. The goat runs after cytisus, the wolf pursues the goat, the crane follows the plough, but I am wild for love of thee. …… Ah gracious Bombyca, thy feet are fashioned like carven ivory, thy voice is drowsy sweet, and thy ways, I cannot tell of them!30 28 29 30

Lang 1901, xxxvii–xxxviii. Zhou 1919, 51. Lang 1901, 57.



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And Zhou’s Chinese translation: 乙 咦，你每 Pieria 的诗神，帮我来唱那袅娜的处女，因为你每惹着凡 物，都能使他美丽。31 歌 他每都叫你黑女儿，你美的 Bombyka， 又说你瘦，又说你黄；我 可是只说你是蜜一般白。 咦，紫花地丁是黑的，风信子也是黑的；这宗花，却首先被采用花环 上。 羊子寻苜蓿，狼随着羊走，鹤随着犁飞，我也是昏昏的单想着你。

……

唉，美的 Bombyka，你的脚象雕成的象牙，你的声音甜美催人睡，你 的风姿，我说不出。 —

[Second Ye you spirit of poetry of Pieria, help me sing the slender ­virgin, for once you touch a secular thing, you make it fair.  Song He always calls you a black daughter, you beautiful Bombyka, and says you are thin, and says you are sallow; but all I can say is you are as white as bee honey. Ye the violet is black, and the hyacinth is also black; but these flowers are first chosen in the garland. The goat runs after cytisus, the wolf pursues the goat, the crane follows the plough, and I am [at] the same time only thinking of you. … Ah gracious Bombyca, your feet are like carven ivory, your voice is sweet, encouraging people to sleep, and your ways, I cannot tell of them!] Lang insisted that Theocritus’ Idylls originated from folk songs characterized by purity and naïveté, the prevailing concept in the Victorian era,32 though untenable according to today’s judgment. Richard Hunter has challenged the interpretation of Id. 10 as a simple representation of rural lives. He took Bucaeus’ love song as an example, the beginning of which was intended to ­beckon Pieria’s Muses, just as the overture to Hesiod’s Works and Days was considered 31

32



Lang translated all dialogues and songs into unrhymed prose, so Zhou Zuoren could not distinguish dialogues from songs when he translated the poem for the first time: the love song was opened by beckoning the Muses to sing, a common scene in such antique literature, but that first bit of text was separated from the second line, which started on a new folio. Thus, Zhou Zuoren misread it as Bucaeus’ answer and translated the song from the second line. This view was represented by John Addington Symonds; see Symonds 1873. For studies on Greek pastoral songs in the Victorian era, see Jenkyns 1980; and Gutzwiller 1991, 194–196.

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‘incongruously grand’ for folk songs, which were always designed to subvert the style of formal verses. In his view, Theocritus’ Id. 10 reveals Hesiodic echoes.33 The elegant style of Lang’s translation of Theocritus’ Idylls was actually born of an irreconcilable contradiction of his own understanding that Theocritus’ Idylls was natural and aboriginal. The British scholar J.W. Mackail once criticized Lang’s rendition ‘Thy feet are fashioned like carven ivory,’ translated from ‘Podes astragaloi teu’ in Greek, literally meaning ‘your feet are knucklebones.’ Mackail pointed out that Lang’s translation reproduced the beauty he felt by transposing it into the key of eighteenth-century courtly romance, evoking the image that those who have feet like carven ivory wear soft raiment and live in kings’ houses; yet there is not a word about carven ivory in the Greek.34 Zhou Zuoren’s colloquial rendition, though as faithful a translation of Lang’s as possible, avoided to some extent the problem I discussed above. Writing in ‘colloquial’ language could be characterized as a breakthrough during that period, and it effectively prevented any attachment to an indigenous ‘mode of Chinese,’ instead inspiring a fresh reading experience. For May Fourth era intellectuals, the vernacular language movement and the ‘literary revolution’ were accompanied by another movement of folklore studies devoted to turning toward or ‘going to the people,’ of which Zhou Zuoren was a pioneer.35 Zhou’s interest in folk literature was strongly influenced by Lang. Having become the harbinger of the folksongs collection movement in the May Fourth era, Zhou published an ad for ballad and fairtyale submissions in his hometown magazine, Shaoxing, upon returning from Japan in 1914.36 According to the studies of Chang-tai Hung, the effort to collect folksongs was clearly related to the vernacular language movement: Liu Fu (1891– 1934) and Gu Jiegang’s (1893–1980) summary of the characteristics of folksongs – that is, simplicity, genuineness, and colloquialism – corresponded incredibly closely to Hu Shi’s proposals on vernacular literature.37 By then entrenched in the May Fourth New Culture Movement, Zhou Zuoren also shared the belief that ‘true poems’ were embedded in the folksongs. This is naturally an ideology of the May Fourth era, which was deeply informed by Romanticism, and the so-called proposition to establish ‘national poetry’ via folksongs was rather an expression of the New Culture fantasy of ‘the people.’38 33 34 35 36 37 38

Hunter 1996, 126. Mackail 1926, 227–228. Hung 1985, 41–46. Zhou 1914a, cited from Zhong 1998a, 503–504. Hung 1985, 62. Chen 2006, 54–60.



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However, the reader’s response to Zhou’s translation of Id. 10 seems to have broken down Zhou’s illusion of the folksong. In one of the articles published in Xin qingnian, volume 5, issue 6, one serious reader, Zhang Shoupeng, criticized Zhou Zuoren’s translation of Theocritus’ Idylls. In the reader’s opinion, Theocritus’ pastoral poetry, particularly in Zhou’s ‘neither Chinese nor Western’ style of translation, was too highbrow for the general public to understand or enjoy, just as ‘the Spring Snow, a melody of the elite in the state of Chu, could find few singers’; whereas the chapters of the poem titled ‘Lao Luo Bo’ (translated by Hu Shi), published in the same volume, were quite readable.39 It is worth noting that the verbiage and rhyme of Hu Shi’s ‘Lao Luo Bo,’ a vernacular translation of the Scottish female poet Lady Anne Lindsay’s lyrical ballad Auld Robin Gray, was adapted precisely in the style of Chinese folksongs.40 Setting aside the following debates on translation strategies between Zhou Zuoren and this reader, it is clear that Theocritus’ poetry (via Zhou’s ‘literal’ translation) was by no means a literary form as popular as that of the genuine Chinese folksongs. Around 1930, Zhou Zuoren gave up his romantic conception of folksongs and started to realize that the folksongs admired among the people were largely popular mimicries of other precedents.41 In fact, Zhou had only acquired one ballad from his advertisement in 1914, so his knowledge of the romantic beauty of ‘folksongs’ in the May Fourth era was chiefly based on written texts, such as Gu yaoyan (The ancient ballads and proverbs, 1861), Tianlai ji (Collection of the children’s songs, 1862), Yueyan (Proverbs and ballads of Shaoxing, 1882), and Chinese Mother Goose Rhymes (1900), rearranged by Chinese and foreign scholars. Examining Zhou’s translation of Theocritus’ Idylls from this perspective, one can confirm the important role of Lang’s interpretation and elegant translations on Zhou’s romantic understanding of folksongs. It is also evident that the beauty of Theocritus’ work (via Lang’s translation) expanded the imaginative space for ‘folksongs’ in that Zhou realized the value of Theocritus’ work through his own preference for folksongs. Hence, the ideology guiding Zhou’s ‘colloquial’ translation of Theocritus’ Idylls speaks for itself: the ‘colloquial language’ here would be better understood as a manifestation of the style construction in ‘New Literature’ devoted to pronouncing the ‘heart’ of the people than viewed as genuine oral language.

39 40 41



Zhang et al. 1918. See Hu 1918. See Zhou 1930, cited from Zhong 1998a, 572–577.

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4

Translation as a Form: Toward a ‘Straightforward Vernacular Prose’

In 1924, Zhou Zuoren revised Id. 10 with reference to the original Greek text and other English versions. In his afterword to the republication, Zhou stated: It seems odd that Theocritus’ work be translated into Chinese vernacular after 2200 years, for Theocritus’ language seems discordant with the vernacular. My vernacular is so un-pastoral that sometimes it feels nothing like Theocritus’ own words when reading my translation. But all I can write is vernacular, and there is no other solution…. For now, vernacular is lack of finesse, but as the proverb says, ‘The ugly son-in-law will have to see his parents-in-law in the end.’ It might just as well come out, though offending the ancient is unavoidable.42 Zhou had second thoughts about his vernacular translation after reading the original Greek text. However, his opinion on translation did not change. He still believed that there was no other form suitable for translating Theocritus’ Idylls than colloquial Chinese. As for the revised translation of Id. 10, as compared with the initial version in Xin qingnian, the major modification happened in the lexical terms. See the revised version of Bucaeus’ love song: ‘你们比呃洛思山的诗神们，帮助我来唱那嫋娜的少女，因为你们 神女们触着一切，即使一切美丽。 大家叫你黑姑娘，可爱的滂比加，又说你瘦，又说你黄，只是我说你 是蜜白。 紫花地丁是黑的，有字的风信子也是黑的，但是这些花朵都首先被采 用在花鬘上。 母羊寻苜蓿，狼追着羊走，鹤追着犁飞，但是我只昏昏地想着你。

蒲

…… 可爱的滂比加，你的脚是象牙，你的声音是阿芙蓉，你的风姿，我说 不出来。’43

[Pu ‘You gods of poetry in Mountain Pieria, sing with me the lender maiden, for everything that you goddesses touch is fair thanks to you. Everyone calls you a black girl, lovely Bombyca, and they say you are lean and sallow, only I say you are honey white. 42 43

Zhou 1926b, cited from Zhong 1998b, 210–211. Zhou 1925, 8–9. The title of this poem was revised as ‘Nongfu, yiming gedao de ren’ (The farmers, or titled person who was reaping).



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The violet is black, and so is the hyacinth with letters, but these are the flowers firstly chosen in the garlands. The ewe seeks cytisus, the wolf follows the ewe, the crane flies after the plough, but I am just thinking of you. … Lovely Bombyca, your feet are ivory, your voice is the flower of poppy, your ways, I cannot tell of them.’] There is modification of the wording to various extents in every line: ‘少女’ in the first line was ‘处女’ in the first version, and ‘神女们’ was not tagged with gender; ‘黑姑娘’ was in lieu of ‘黑女儿’ in line 2, and ‘可爱的’ in lieu of ‘美的’; in line 3, ‘风信子’ was adorned with ‘有字的’ in the revised version; and ‘羊子’ was replaced with ‘母羊’ in the fourth line. In Zhou’s own words, these amendments were the results of ‘my discretion where there is controversy, based on the original text and with reference to several English versions.’44 With regard to the last line of Bucaeus’ love song, Zhou wrote an essay to explain his translation. He quoted J.W. Mackail’s criticism of Lang’s translation, yet defended his choice of ‘ivory’ instead of ‘knucklebones’ as Lang had done, arguing that ‘knucklebones’ could never be associated with either poetry or beauty in Chinese.45 As for the next sentence, ‘your voice is sweet, encour­ aging people to sleep,’ in the initial version, Zhou dropped Lang’s translation and turned to J.M. Edmonds English translation ‘your voice is poppy’46 in the Loeb series, and translated it more literarily as ‘your voice is the flower of poppy.’ Besides these lexical modifications, Zhou Zuoren made hardly any syntactical changes. Edmonds translated all the songs in Idylls into verse, because he believed that prose was the proper medium for dialogues and narration, while singing could only be conveyed in verse;47 whereas Zhou had stuck to his strategy of ‘conveying the meanings in prose regardless of indigenous poetry forms or restrictions of rhyming’ since 1914. The songs of Bucaeus and Milo in Id. 10 were still rendered into unrhymed prose in his revised version. In a response article published in 1924, Zhou even declared that ‘the poetry was by definition untranslatable,’ and the only thing the translator could do was “literally”

44 45 46 47



Zhou 1926b, cited from Zhong 1998b, 210. Zhou 1927, 233–235. Edmonds 1996, 135. In the 1930s, Zhou listed Edmonds’ translation as a main reference when he translated Theocritus’ four mimes, Id. 2, 14, 15, and 27. See Zhou 1934b, 7. Edmonds 1996, xxv.

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[­ compose] “a straightforward vernacular prose” to illustrate the meanings of poems.’48 Historically, Zhou Zuoren (along with his brother Lu Xun [1881–1936]) had been considered a figurehead of the ‘literal’ type of translation, in contrast with the ‘sense’ translation of the late Qing era. Given the analysis above, one can see that Zhou’s translation, though carried out under the guise of ‘literal’ translation, did not mean faithful replication of the original text. In the case of his Id. 10 translation, none of Zhou’s versions reproduced the metrical modes of Theocritus’ original Greek text; rather, his continual revisions of the original challenged the authority of either Lang’s or Edmond’s English translation. Compared with Lu Xun’s extreme literalism or, in his own words, the insistence on a word-for-word ‘faithful rather than fluent’ translation,49 Zhou Zuoren’s strategy of ‘literal’ translation seems more flexible. In his opinion, owing to the linguistic differences between languages, some shifts in expressions in the ‘literal’ translation were inevitable.50 In his translations, Zhou emphasized more the ‘re-creation’ of the original than ‘faithfulness,’ especially when it comes to literary style. The distinctions between the Zhou brothers’ styles deserve investigation beyond the scope of the present chapter. In 1925, Zhou Zuoren published a collection of his translated works titled Tuoluo, having compiled 280 translations of foreign poems and essays, including Theocritus’ Id. 10. In this collection, Zhou applied the technique of translating poems into prose from various forms of foreign poetry, including idylls, mimes, dialogues, prose poems, folk songs, and satires, as well as even Japanese haikus, tankas, and ballads. These works, emerging from different genres and varying widely from ancient to modern or from elegance to vulgarity (a huge gulf exists between Theocritus’ Idylls, Baudelaire’s prose poems, and Japanese haikus), were integrated into a single new mode of ‘straightforward vernacular prose’ in modern Chinese through Zhou’s translation. In his notes to the translations of sixty Japanese ballads, Zhou explained his application of such a translation strategy: [Although] I put emphasis on conveying the meaning of the original text faithfully in my translation … I do not mean to ignore the formal element and still try to preserve some of the original styles. For such a dual con­ sideration, I had to discard my delusion of rendering sixty Japanese ballads into Chinese-style ballads…. The Europeans translated the Song of 48 49 50

Zhou 1924, cited from Zhong 1998b, 218. Lu 2005, 391. Zhou 1925, 4.



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Solomon in the Old Testament into prose, and the Chinese introduced Sanskrit Buddhist hymns by creating a new unrhymed poetry form, which were exactly the proper methods we should follow.51 Such a statement echoes Zhou’s comments in his ‘Apologia’ of ‘Gushi jinyi’ ­exactly and touches on the true essence of his ‘literal’ translation. In Zhou’s view, in order to convey the meaning and style of the original as accurately as possible, a translation should rather retain distance from the form of the ­original; in other words, a shift in expressions or forms might be necessary. Instead of searching for preexisting Chinese genres, Zhou created a new form of Chinese – namely, ‘a straightforward vernacular prose’ – as the general writing medium of his translation. Here, the word ‘straightforward’ in Chinese literally means ‘directly arrive’ (zhizhi), referring to a pure or almost transparent ­writing that has disposed of stale expressions or unnecessary barriers in its own language. Such ‘a straightforward vernacular prose,’ as I discussed in the second section, had developed from Zhou’s poetry translation into classical ­Chinese since the late Qing period. With regard to the historical cases, Zhou’s strategy of translation indeed follows the prototype of the Chinese translation of Buddhist hymns and the European translation of the Song of Solomon he mentions here. But, rather than faithfully executing an exact translation, Zhou pioneered a new Chinese path for ‘releasing’ art – that is, by liberating the translation from the rhyming effects, metrical modes, or other formal conventions of the original as well as the target work. This kind of translation reveals an extreme humility with regard to the original form, which, like the words of Buddha or God in the religious scriptures, was regarded as both inferior to nothing and unachievable. The only way to approach it is to illustrate it (usually by literal rendering) with a humble and even fragmentary style in the interpreter’s own language. Hence, the ‘literalness’ achieved here is not to replicate the formal characteristics of the original, but rather to invent a liberal space for the ‘releasing’ art of translation. In other words, as Walter Benjamin has illustrated in his metaphor,52 this ‘literalness’ is acting as the ‘arcade’ that breaks through stale modes or expressions inhabited in either the original or the target language. The translation, in this sense, has functioned as a locus of linguistic re-creation and literary innovation. By virtue of his translation, Zhou Zuoren constructed a new mode of vernacular Chinese – that is, a ‘straightforward vernacular prose’ – for modern Chinese literature. This new vernacular style was never the vernacular language developed from the Ming and Qing novels or the genuine oral language 51 52 

Zhou 1925, 262–264. Benjamin 1996, 260.

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of the common people. It is a form of its own, established through translation. Free from the style and form of traditional Chinese, the new mode of vernacular Chinese was not a mere imitation of European language and literature. This finding aims to shed new light on our understandings of the inner mechanism of ‘Europeanization,’ namely the approach of constructing new poetic and other literary forms through the translation of European literature. The course of ‘Europeanization,’ thus, is not only a one-way process by which the translator introduces new expressions into Chinese in order to enrich its verbiage and vocabulary, but it possesses the indispensable creativity of the translator, who struggles for a new language or literary style with more expressive capacity and literary liberation. Refined by his sophisticated translation, Zhou’s ‘straightforward vernacular prose’ has successfully purged any ossified patterns and rhythms and has therefore earned a more free-form and adaptable literary approach. It quickly expanded the boundaries of poetry translation and was embraced as the ideal and general writing medium of ‘New Literature’ in modern China, devoted to challenging most traditional thinking modes and literary forms.

References Cited

Benjamin, Walter (1996), ‘The Task of the Translator,’ in Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, vol. 1, 1913–1926, eds. Marcus Bullock and Michael W. Jennings, 253–263. Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Chen Yongchao 陈泳超 (2006), ‘Xiangxiangzhong de ‘minzu de shi’ 想象中的‘民族的’’ (The ‘national poetry’ in imagination), in Zhongguo xiandai wenxue yanjiu congkan 中国现代文学研究丛刊 1: 54–60. Edmonds, Maxwell, trans. (1996), The Greek Bucolic Poets. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (first published in 1912). Gow, A.S.F. (1952), Theocritus: Edited with a Translation and Commentary. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Green, R. L (1946), Andrew Lang: A Critical Biography. Leicester: De Montfort Press. Grethlein, Jonas (2012), ‘A Slim Girl and the Fat of the Land in Theocritus’ ID. 10,’ Classical Quarterly 62, no. 2: 603–617. Gutzwiller, Kathryn J. (1991), Theocritus’ Pastoral Analogies: The Formation of a Genre. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Haggard, Henry Rider, and Andrew Lang (1894), The World’s Desire. London: Longmans, Green, and Co. Hu, Shi, trans. (1918), ‘Lao Luo Bo 老洛伯’ (Auld Robin Gray), Xin qingnian 新青年 4, no. 4: 40–44.



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Hung, Chang-tai (1985), Going to the People: Chinese Intellectuals and Folk Literature, 1918–1937. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Hunter, Richard (1996), Theocritus and the Archaeology of Greek Poetry. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jenkyns, Richard (1980), The Victorians and Ancient Greece. Oxford: Blackwell Jókai, Maurus (1909), The Yellow Rose: A Novel, trans. Beatrice Danford. London: Jarrold and Sons. Lang, Andrew (1901), Theocritus, Bion and Moschus: Rendered into English Prose, with an Introductory Essay. London: Macmillan and Co (1st ed. 1880; 2nd ed. 1889). Lu Xun (2005), ‘Guanyu fanyi de tongxin’ 关于翻译的通信’ (The correspondence on translation), in Lu Xun quanji 鲁迅全集 (Complete works of Lu Xun), vol. 4, 379–398. Beijing: Renming wenxue chubanshe. Mackail, John William (1926), Lectures on Greek Poetry. London: Longmans, Green and Co. Murray, Gilbert (1911), A History of Ancient Greek Literature. London: William Heinemann. Symonds, John Addington (1873), Studies of the Greek Poets. London: Smith, Elder and Co. Wang, C. H (1993), ‘Chou Tso-jen’s Hellenism,’ in East West Comparative Literature: CrossCultural Discourse, ed. Tak-Wai Wong, 365–408. Hong Kong: Hong Kong Chinese University Press. Yan Fu 严复 (1986), ‘Yiliyan 译例言’ (Notes on the translation of Evolution and Ethics), in Yanfu ji 严复集 (Collection works by Yan Fu), vol. 5, ed. Wang Shi 王栻, 1321–1324. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Zhang Lihua 张丽华(2011), Xiandai Zhongguo ‘duanpian xiaoshuo’ de xingqi: Yi wenlei xinggou wei shijiao 现代中国‘短篇小说’的兴起 — 以文类形构为视角 (The Rise of ‘short story’ in modern China: On the perspective of genre formation). Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe. Zhang Shoupeng et al. (1918), ‘Tongxin: Wenxue gailiang yu Kongjiao 通信：文学改良 与孔教’ (Correspondence: Confucianism and the reform of Chinese literature), Xin qingnian 新青年 5, no. 6: 68–73. Zhong Shuhe 钟叔河, ed. (1998a), Zhou Zuoren wen leibian 周作人文类编 (A classified collection of Zhou Zuoren’s essays), vol. 6. Changsha: Hunan wenyi chubanshe. Zhong Shuhe, ed. (1998b), Zhou Zuoren wen leibian 周作人文类编 (A classified collection of Zhou Zuoren’s essays), vol. 8. Changsha: Hunan wenyi chubanshe. Zhong Shuhe, ed. (2009), Zhou Zuoren sanwen quanji 周作人散文全集 (The whole col­ lection of Zhou Zuoren’s essays), vol. 1. Guilin: Guangxi shifan daxue chu­­banshe. Zhou Cuo (Zhou Zuoren) 周逴 (周作人), trans. (1913), Hongxin yishi 红星佚史 (Hag­gard and Lang’s The World’s Desire). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan (first published in 1907). Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1911), ‘Huanghua xushuo 《黄华》序说’ (Preface to The Yellow Rose) (unpublished scripts), cited from Zhong (1998b), 551–556. 

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Zhou Zuoren (1914a), ‘Caiji erge tonghua qi 采集儿歌童话启’ (To recruit ballads and fairy tales), cited from Zhong (1998a), 503–504. Zhou Zuoren (1914b), ‘Yiwen zahua 艺文杂话’ (Meander on literature and art), cited from Zhong (1998b), 373–377. Zhou Zuoren (1917), ‘Gushi jinyi 古诗今译’ (Modern translations of ancient poems) (unpublished scripts), cited from Zhong (2009), 514–515. Zhou Zuoren (1918), ‘Gushi jinyi 古诗今译’ (Modern translation of an ancient poem), Xin qingnian 新青年 4, no. 2: 44–47. Zhou Zuoren (1919), Ouzhou wenxueshi 欧洲文学史 (History of European literature). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan. Zhou Zuoren (1924), ‘Yuyin de huixiang 余音的回响’ (A response to the reader), cited from Zhong (1998b), 218–219. Zhou Zuoren, trans. (1925), Tuoluo: Shige xiaopin ji 陀螺: 诗歌小品集 (Collections of poetry and informal prose). Beijing: Xinchao she. Zhou Zuoren (1926a), ‘Xila nv shiren 希腊女诗人’ (A female poet of Greece), cited from Zhong (1998b), 162–165. Zhou Zuoren (1926b), ‘Shamo zhimeng 沙漠之梦’ (The dream in the desert), cited from Zhong (1998b), 210–211. Zhou Zuoren (1927), ‘Xiangya yu yangjiaogu 象牙与羊角骨’ (Ivory and knucklebones), in Tanlong ji 谈龙集 (The essays on criticism of literature and arts), 233–235. Shanghai: Kaiming shudian. Zhou Zuoren (1928), ‘Huang qiangwei 黄蔷薇’ (On The Yellow Rose), cited from Zhong (1998b), 560–562. Zhou Zuoren (1930), ‘Chongkan Nishang Xupu xu 重刊《霓裳续谱》序’ (Preface to the republication of Nishang Xupu), cited from Zhong (1998a), 572–577. Zhou Zuoren (1934a), ‘Xisu yu shenhua 习俗与神话’ (On The Custom and Myth), cited from Zhong (1998a), 375–382. Zhou Zuoren, trans. (1934b), Xila niqu 希腊拟曲 (The Greek mimes). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan. Zhou Zuoren, trans. (1935), Huang qiangwei 黄蔷薇 (Maurus Jókai’s A Sárga Rozsa). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan (first published in 1927). Zhou Zuoren (2002), Zhitang huixiang lu 知堂回想录 (The autobiography of Zhou Zuoren). Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu chubanshe. Zhu Zhiyun 朱志瑜 and Zhu Xiaonong 朱晓农 (eds.) (2006), Zhongguo foji yilun xuanji pingzhu 中国佛籍译论选辑评注 (Selected essays on Chinese translation of Sanskrit Buddhist scriptures with the editors’ notes). Beijing: Qinghuadaxue chubanshe.



Chapter 6

St. Sebastian Reborn: Greco-Roman Ideals of the Body in Mishima Yukio’s Postwar Writing Ikuho Amano In twentieth-century Japan, from the post-WWII occupation period (1945– 1952) through the 1960s, Greco-Roman antiquity was spatio-temporally remote and yet relevant to the country’s collective psyche that was gravely in need of recovering from the trauma of the defeat. The diachronic reception of anti­ quity played a significant role, above all in the array of literature that affected the Japanese perception of ‘the body’ – the foremost resource for reconstructing the nation, both materially and psychologically. It is no exaggeration to posit that arts and letters, as well as sociocultural discourses of the postwar decades, engaged with, and further evolved around, the inquiry as to how postwar Japan conceptually grasps the body and emancipates it from the totalitarian yoke of wartime politics. Simultaneously, the 1960s were not a disjunction from the occupation, but the politically transitional phase that groped for ‘equality and real[ity] in the democratic society.’1 In the quest for renewed humanity, sentient flesh played a pivotal role in literature, film, theater, and photography. The plethora of inquiries into the body holds political importance above all after the occupation by the Allied Powers (1945–1952). During the postwar years, Japanese men were severely emasculated because the Allied Powers dismantled the national army and negated the public expression of wartime loyalty to the nation.2 Yet in the subsequent 1960s, as Japan began to pave the road to its skyrocketing economic growth, the ontological significance of the body quickly faded, eclipsed by exigent political issues, such as the Japan-US Security Treaty. In the context of the postwar years, the Japanese writer Mishima Yukio (1925–1970) embraced the Greco-Roman ideal of physical beauty as an antidote to Japanese society, which in his view was immersed in a lukewarm infatuation with American democracy and thus in need of drastic revitalization. Throughout his writing career, Mishima greatly admired the Greco-Roman aesthetic heritage as the foremost source of his inspiration. Above all, a signifi1 Marotti 2013: 4. 2 Slaymaker 2004: 18.

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cant impact was made on him by the legend of St. Sebastian, whose martyrdom is often visualized as sensual beauty in the iconography of the Renaissance. Widely known for his shocking public suicide by disembowelment, Mishima is often regarded as a proto-nationalist or even a fascist by international readers and critics alike. Such tendencies in his reputation are due largely to his political identification as a radical imperialist, the public persona he performed in his last years before committing suicide. Nonetheless, Mishima’s aesthetic credo comprises a far more complex blend of multifarious legacies derived from Japanese and European cultures. Through­out the postwar decades, the notable source of inspiration for the writer was the Greco-Roman ethos grounded in material beauty. As his career developed, he grasped the cultural grammar, which distinctively values bodily beauty. Accordingly he openly demonstrated his appraisals of well-toned muscle, physique, and elegant facial contours as expressed in painting, sculpture, Greek philosophy, and the later transmission of these into Renaissance artifacts. From the late 1940s until his death in 1970, Mishima’s writing was inextricably linked to the reception of the aestheticism of Hellenism, which he broadly called ningenshugiteki hanshinron (humanistic pantheism). In an essay titled ‘Bi nit suite’ (On beauty, 1949), the author provisionally considered that beauty and ethics are antinomic.3 Later he modified this view, unifying the polarities and developing his own discourse on body politics. On these grounds, a wide range of his fiction, translations, and essays in the postwar years concerns the body of St. Sebastian (256–283). In this article, we will consider the semantic significance of what Mishima inherited from Greco-Roman ideals of the body, and their impact on postWWII Japan. What the diachronic interplay between Greco-Roman antiquity and twentieth-century Japan animated was precisely the writer’s inquiry into ‘the body’ that encompassed material, metaphysical, aesthetic, and metaphorical dimensions. In this regard, Mishima extended the parameters of inquiries to the extra-material realms of the body, and therefore his discourse qualitatively differs from that of so-called nikutai bungaku (literature of the flesh), a vein of postwar Japanese literary schools that portrayed radical emancipation of human beings fundamentally as the sexual body.

3 Mishima 2003b: 27.218.



St. Sebastian Reborn: Greco-roman Ideals Of The Body



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St. Sebastian and the Discourse on the Body in Mishima’s Postwar Writing

In his semi-autobiographical novel Confessions of a Mask (1949), Mishima meticulously describes the iconographic image of St. Sebastian which awakens the protagonist (apparently an alter-ego of Mishima himself) to his first homoerotic sensation. As the narrative notes, according to hagiographic sources such as Legenda Aurea (ca. 1260), a collection compiled by Jacobus de Voragine, and Acta Sanctorum (1643) by Ambrosio di Milano, Sebastian was born in the Roman province of Gallia Narbonensis (today Languedoc and Provence in France) and later appointed to the Praetorian Guard under the reign of Emperor Diocletian (284–305). The late third century CE was the notable epoch of Christophobia, which resulted in mass executions of those who evaded conscription in accordance with Christian pacifism.4 Sebastian’s conversion to Christianity symbolically culminated the Christian response to the regime, and therefore inevitably provoked the indignation of Diocletian. After being executed by arrows, according to the legend, Sebastian was resurrected and immediately blasphemed the Roman gods, and his rebellious attitude toward the emperor ended with his second death by cudgel. Mishima interprets the legend as ‘the demand for miracle’ by the later age, pointing out that such a demand had evolved around the materiality of ‘the body.’5 The episode in Confessions of a Mask recalls the occasion on which the protagonist (thus the author) discovered the image of St. Sebastian pierced with arrows in his father’s book of art reproductions when he was thirteen years old. The narrative visualizes the adolescent vision of the moribund but still elastic body of Sebastian, describing the image of the martyr as follows: His white and matchless nudity gleams against a background of dusk. His muscular arms, the arms of a praetorian guard accustomed to bending of bow and wielding of sword, are raised at a graceful angle, and his bound wrists are crossed directly over his head. His face is turned slightly upward and his eyes are open wide, gazing with profound tranquility upon the glory of heaven. It is not pain that hovers about his straining chest, his tense abdomen, his slightly contorted hips, but some flicker of melancholy pleasure like music. Were it not for the arrows with their shafts deeply sunk into his left armpit and right side, he would seem more a

4 Mishima 2000: 1.205. 5 Mishima 2000: 1.205.



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Roman athlete resting from fatigue, leaning against a dusky tree in a garden.  The arrows have eaten into the tense, fragrant, youthful flesh and are about to consume his body from within with flames of supreme agony and ecstasy.6 In this iconographic painting, the work of Guido Reni (1575–1642) exhibited at Palazzo Rosso in Genoa, St. Sebastian is portrayed nearly in the state of rapture (see fig. 6.1). The moment the first-person narrator encounters the image leads him to ‘tremble with some pagan joy,’ which is followed by his first ejaculatio.7 It is this sensual experience of his adolescence that lingers on in Mishima for many years and fosters his aesthetics based on the contemplation of the male body. Immediately after the pubescent episode in Confessions of a Mask, the writer inserts a prose poem simply titled ‘St. Sebastian.’ In this the saint is likened to the renowned male beauties of antiquity. They include Antinous (111–130), who was Roman Emperor Hadrian’s favorite Bithynian youth, and the mythological figure of Endymion, a handsome Aeolian shepherd. The former drowned in the Nile at eighteen, and the latter was granted an eternal sleep by the moon goddess, Selene, being thus promised that she would possess his eternal beauty. Together with Sebastian, who allegedly died at twenty-seven years old, all their youth and beauty had been cemented in legend and mythology. Throughout his writing career, Mishima, whose first ejaculation was triggered by the sensual image of Sebastian, kept embracing his artistic ideals in youth, beauty, and premature death, and so projected these images onto his young male protagonists, who tend to be decadent, defiant, aesthetically keen, and sensitive. Confessions of a Mask commemorates the advent of Mishima’s selfconsciousness through bodily sensation; however, that underlying concern needed, literally, to be ‘mask[ed]’ in the late 1940s, because the theme of homosexuality was still widely considered taboo in Japan. That transgression is nonetheless significant because it plays, according to critic Hanada Kiyoteru, a counterpoint role against the founding fathers of modern Japanese litera­ture, whose artistic credos were oriented toward sheer intellectualism ‘as though [replicating] pseudo Enlightenment thinkers of the eighteenth-century, such as Swift and Voltaire.’ These modern intellectuals’ dismissal of the body is precisely what Mishima critiques in his writing.8 6 Mishima, trans. Weatherby 1958: 39. 7 Mishima 2000: 1.204. In Mishima’s original text the word ejaculatio is written in italicized Latin, as I retain it here. 8 Hanada 1971: 164–165.



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Figure 6.1 Saint Sebastian (ca. 1616) by Guido Reni. Oil on canvas, 127 × 92 cm. Musei di Strada Nuova, Palazzo Rosso, Genoa. The painting is extensively discussed in Mishima Yukio’s Confessions of a Mask (1949). The sensual portrayal of the saint galvanizes the protagonist’s first ejaculation. © Musei di Strada Nuova – Palazzo Rosso, Genova.



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Mishima’s fascination with Greco-Roman cultures became evident especially in 1952, shortly after he visited a number of historical sites and museums in Athens, Delphi, and Rome. His passion for Mediterranean antiquity culminated in his Shiosai (The sound of waves, 1954), a novel inspired by Longus’s Daphnis and Chloe (second/third century CE). Prior to his departure for Greece, Mishima enrolled in a Greek language course at the University of Tokyo.9 Yet, unlike academic classicists who rigorously study antiquity, his interest widely extended to Greco-Roman themes and motifs in the Italian Renaissance and the Baroque period. In John Nathan’s words, Mishima sought in Greece ‘an antidote to his “romantic affliction”’ that exorcises the ‘spirit’ from the body, as well as the balance between the body and the intelligence.10 In this regard the above-mentioned painting by Guido Reni holds particular importance. Its high-Baroque rendition of St. Sebastian under the grave influence of the Renaissance displays the twisted torso and slightly ecstatic gaze, eliciting ‘humanity, body, sensuality, beauty, [and] strength.’11 The Renaissance disposition of the body reflects the transitional phase of ancient religiosity, a threshold between ‘the pagan-like Greek factors that were moribund in the third century CE’ and the gradually overriding influence of Christianity over the Roman Empire.12 In this historical context the martyr’s legend was not arbitrary, but doubly teleological: ‘This young bodyguard [of the emperor] was killed as a Christian by the Romans, and killed as a Roman soldier by Christianity.’13 This dual death suggests the ‘fin-de-siècle of antiquity,’ representing the last phase of beauty, body, and sensuality in the historical age.14 This semiotic reading of St. Sebastian’s death is not remote from Japan in the 1960s, as the writer draws a parallel between the two worlds, imitating the saint’s fate in his own body. We will return to this intersection below. Out of his unremitting fascination, Mishima engaged with the legend of St. Sebastian through a number of activities beyond writing essays and a semiautobiographical novel. One of the most notable accomplishments was his translation of Le martyre de Saint Sébastien (The martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, 1911), a musical mystery play, the text of which was written by the Italian poet and playwright Gabriele D’Annunzio. The translation was a daunting task for 9 10 11 12 13 14

Nathan 1974: 115. Nathan 1974: 114. Mishima 1966: 203. The comment is a quotation derived from Mishima’s postscript to his translation of Gabriele D’Annunzio’s Le martyre de Saint Sébastien. Mishima 1966: 203. Mishima 1966: 203. Mishima 1966: 203–204.



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Mishima, whose knowledge of French was quite limited; however, along with his in-depth postscript (which is rather a full-length essay), the translation became an important default for the reception of the legend in Japan. The play was originally written in conjunction with Claude Debussy’s musical composition and premiered at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris on May 22, 1911. Drawing on Sebastian’s martyrdom, the play interweaves a rich tapestry laden with chiasmic symbols derived from Greco-Roman mythologies, pagan traditions, and early Christianity in the late Roman Empire. On the surface, the play lends itself to the Christian orthodoxy of humanism, reinforcing the hagiographic profile of Sebastian through his adversity and passion. With elements such as mimesis (imitation), hamartia (fault), and catharsis (purgation), the play structurally follows a classical Aristotlean scheme. From the viewpoint of ‘plot,’ the play dramatizes Sebastian’s struggle against multifarious threats, those presented by pagans and the imperial regime of Diocletian, and the final dissolution of the conflict, symbolized by his triumphant ascension. Despite the outlook of pious religiosity, Mishima was keenly aware of the nuanced appraisal of the saint’s body expressed in the script.15 In the guise of exaltation of his self-sacrifice, the play withdraws from a simple hagiographical reinstatement of Sebastian’s passion and heroism. In Mishima’s reading, the virtue of Le martyre de Saint Sébastien lies far more in its aesthetic and philosophical dimensions, which organically encompass a plethora of young beauties, as the play insistently likens Sebastian to Apollo, Orpheus, Adonis, and Antinous. This amalgamation of male beauty may be read as a consciously projected hyperbole, a rhetorical excess prevalent in fin-de-siècle European decadence. Simultaneously, Sebastian’s sensuality reflects the sociocultural current of the late Roman era, when multiple religions and deities, such as Oriental religions, Mithraism, Isis, Kybele, and Dionysus, etc., were believed in and worshipped, among other things, for esoteric knowledge.16 Along with the sensual image of the saint, these pagan traditions in Le martyre de Saint Sébastien infuriated the Archbishop of Paris when the play was staged in 1911. In the play, Sebastian constantly oscillates between the seductive voices of the pagan forces and Christianity, represented by Diocletian’s tyranny. Sebastian’s ontological essence is therefore quite discursive and elusive, although scene 5 concludes the play with an appraisal of him as a martyr who literally enters heaven and thereby announces the victory of Christendom. Even so, until the final scene of ascension, Sebastian’s authenticity as a Christian is suspended, being constantly challenged by the pagan seduction. 15 16



Mishima 1966: 203. Mishima 1966: 203–204.

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A dramatic tension arrives in act 4, titled ‘The Wounded Laurel Tree,’ when pagan voices accompany Sebastian’s execution. Standing face-to-face with the archers, Sebastian encourages them to draw a bow, invoking a holy trinity in the lethal weapon – namely, the handle is God, the crescent body is the Holy Spirit, and the arrow is the Son of God.17 Despite Sebastian’s Christian faith, in the death scene the chorus identifies the beauty of Sebastian with that of Adonis: Dying, Beautiful Adonis! Being dead, Beautiful Adonis! Girls, you should cry for Adonis’s death!18 The scene is followed by a miracle. The arrows stuck in Sebastian’s body evaporate and are found instead in Apollo’s laurel tree, to which Sebastian was tied. What the laurel tree reanimates is apparently the myth of Daphne, with whom the Sun god Apollo fell madly in love. To escape the pursuit of Apollo, who is pierced by Eros’s arrow, with the assistance of the River god Peneus (her father), Daphne transforms her body into a laurel tree. Here the martyr is built upon Greek mythology, implicitly allowing Sebastian to escape the pursuit of Diocletian, who is deeply beguiled by his physical beauty. These narrative details of Le martyre de Saint Sébastien constantly allude to a homoerotic fascination Diocletian feels for Sebastian’s body. Mishima is intrigued by the play precisely because of the nuanced vision D’Annunzio casts upon the legend, which steps out of the hagiographic orthodoxy that constructs Sebastian as a Christian martyr for its own end. The play’s tour de force lies in its subtle invocation of an adversity in homosexuality, which has been repressed in modern civil societies but can be exalted only in a metafictional paradigm of antiquity. In this sense, Le martyre de Saint Sébastien lends itself to the critique of Catholic orthodoxy in the intricate guise of piety and conformity. The implicit heresy in D’Annunzian poetics rejuvenates nothing more than the physical beauty shared among the pagan youths in the context of, as Mishima puts it, the fin-de-siècle of the Roman era and of Western modernity. D’Annunzio’s intention is therefore clearly secular, since his subtle narrative details are invested in Sebastian’s sensuality and corporeality.19 17 18 19

D’Annunzio 1966: 183–184. D’Annunzio 1966: 186. The quotation is my translation. The sensual beauty of Sebastian’s body was a popular motif of the devotional art of the Renaissance, including the painting by Antonio del Pollaiolo (1432–1498) on which D’Annunzio modeled his image of the saint. The painting is currently held at the National Gallery in London, UK.



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In Le martyre de Saint Sébastien, the ontological essence of Sebastian is barely present, and what constitutes the saint is a collage of archetypal male beauties derived from Greco-Roman mythologies and legends. As suggested in the unrequited love of Apollo for Daphne, Sebastian vis-à-vis Diocletian’s implicit love and plea may be articulated through the Renaissance, in the epochal spirit that interpreted Greco-Roman cultures in the light of early modern humanism. In that context, what actualizes love is Eros, whose arrows hermetically mediate the epistemic essence of beauty by piercing the target’s heart. Eros and his arrows then embody metaphors of love in the form of wings – a visualized metaphor of desire for the irresistible beauties of the beloved, which Plato considered the noblest form of insanity.20 Furthermore, in the Neo-Platonic configuration beauty holds an autonomous power, as the visually emerged form of ‘theophany’ capable of seducing human spirits into love.21 Here the etymology of ‘beauty’ in Greek is also relevant – ‘kallos’ signifies ‘to awaken’ or ‘to call forth’ by virtue of the materiality of the body.22 Beauty is not what is passively perceived by the viewer, but an independent force that acts upon the viewer. Given these Neo-Platonic undertones suggested in Le martyre de Saint Sébastien, the executioners’ arrows represent, paradoxically, Diocletian’s love like a wing that penetrates Sebastian’s physical beauty. Nevertheless, Mishima turns against such a sentimental scenario. It is shuttered by Sebastian’s ascetic acceptance of the arrows as the symbol of God’s agape: ‘The deeper the pain inflicted upon me, the deeper the love I receive.’23 Here Diocletian’s desire to preserve the beauty in the pagan world by killing him is undermined; in turn, Sebastian’s death and rebirth undergo a semantic transmutation in Christian orthodoxy, while announcing the collapse of pagan antiquity through the destruction of the body.24

The Rebirth of St. Sebastian through Mishima’s Own Body and Writing

As we have discussed thus far, the body of St. Sebastian has been filtered through the Renaissance and the modernist revisitation of the legend in the 20 21 22 23 24



Cobb 1992: 233. Cobb 1992: 234. Cobb 1992: 243. The line is quoted by Mishima from Act 4 of Le martyre de Saint Sébastien. The translation is mine. Mishima 1966: 207.

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early twentieth century. In this lineage, Mishima in postwar Japan readily inherits the D’Annunzian interpretation of the legend of St. Sebastian that is still under the heavy influence of Neo-Platonism. As portrayed in Confessions of a Mask, the sensual body of the saint triggers the protagonist’s pubescence, accounted for in a lyrical narrative tone. On the other hand, from the 1950s until his death in 1970, Mishima contemplated the body not only as a literary motif, but also as an ontological issue that binds his art and life together. To this end, he maintained a sort of oculocentric approach to the body not as an abstract idea, but as tangible material. It concretely became his unswerving aesthetic credo, which was frequently pronounced as faith in external appearance (gaimen). However, despite the unfaltering credit given to surface appearance, this stance is ironic given the reality he saw in postwar Japan, a society lacking ‘truth in everything, but only outward appearance,’ and thus worthy of ‘neither sympathy nor despair.’ Hence, his postwar oeuvre oscillates between the mimetic portrayal of a Japan devoid of depth and the virtue of external appearance. Above all, the 1950s appears to him as the epoch of psychological lassitude, when literature can claim its role as nothing but ‘[that of] advancing the putrefaction and decomposition (of commonplace social norms and values).’25 Mishima’s sojourn in Greece and Italy was highly significant, as it opened his eyes to the Mediterranean value placed on the external beauty of youth. In the following years, his experiences in Europe came to fruition in a number of fictional works on psychosomatic health and decay, as prominently displayed in Kinjiki (Forbidden colors, 1952) and Shiosai (The sound of waves, 1954). In the form of homoerotic ensemble drama, the former reflects on the precariousness of youth and beauty through the metanarrative framed by an aging aesthete – a Japanese counterpart to Gustav von Aschenbach in Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice. In stark contrast, the latter celebrates the plethora of healthy bodies and the gods’ grace in a premodern community. The story is based on a Greek romance of the second century BCE: Daphnis and Chloe written by Longus. The mimetic plot concerns the purity of first love between a young fisherman and a girl whose ingenuous life on a tiny island is secluded from bustling urban reality. According to Mishima’s memoir of writing the novel, the story was inspired by the Greek-American writer Lafcadio Hearn (1850–1904), also known as Koizumi Yakumo, who claimed that ‘Japanese people are the Greeks of the East.’26 The parallel suggests that the indigenous mentality of Japanese people shares Greek ethics of communal life, and above all their polytheistic visions of Shintō are highly analogous to the ways in which Greeks embrace their gods. Likewise, the narrative extolls the youthful body, 25 26

Mishima 2003j: 33.491. Mishima 2003g: 33.478. 

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implying that it is instrumental in the continuation of a healthy community. Likened to Daphnis and Chloe, the two main characters, Shinji and Hatsue, revel in the first embrace of their gleaming naked bodies, as though calling forth a synthesis between Japan’s indigenous life in nature and this bucolic love story from ancient Greece. The series of dichotomies between beauty and ugliness, as well as health and degeneration, reifies Mishima’s critique of modern intellectualism as overriding the materiality of the human body. This vein of contemplation culminates in Taiyō to tetsu (Sun and steel, 1968), a vigorously self-reflective essay that presages his suicide of 1970. With the metaphor likening the author to ‘steel’ scoured by ‘sun,’ a metaphor of nature as exuberance that counters pale intellectualism, the essay forges a thesis that his body itself constitutes ‘the second language and the formed erudition.’27 Before arriving at this assertion, his epistemic relation with the body kept vascillating and saw at least three phases: first, in his adolescence, the body awoke his identity and homoerotic sensation; second, the body became the locus of realizing his aesthetic ideal; and finally, the body attained the synthetic qualities of intellect and ideologue.28 As we have seen above, the first two phases were galvanized by the Greco-Roman ideals Mishima discovered in St. Sebastian’s physique. The third phase does not directly address Greco-Roman aesthetics of the body; nonetheless, his political activities attest to his unceasing concern with the physical body, as this links to the metaphorical take on the nation as a unified body. Notably the Tatenokai (Shield Society), his private army, formed in 1968 with the prospect of fighting against the leftists’ revolutionary forces, exemplifies the ethos he embraced. The group aimed to foster ‘the proper regard’ for ‘the emperor[,] the spirit and physical vigor’ to fight fundamentally for the prewar totality and value system of the nation.29 The army’s stylish uniform – somewhat reminiscent of what Gabriele D’Annunzio’s private army had worn during his famous control over the city of Fiume – endorses the spirit of action-oriented engagement with politics. From the formation of his private army to his disembowelment, all of these bodily programs visualize Mishima’s political persona as an unflinching imperialist in the final phase of his life.

27 28

29 

Mishima 2003i: 511. Slaymaker 2004: 8. The three stages in Mishima correspond well to the three semantic axes of the body (nikutai 肉体) in postwar Japanese literature proposed by Douglas N. Slaymaker: ‘Within a set of works which explore the physical body; second, in the context of the personal and physical which contrasts with the non-physical, roughly equating to the meanings of ‘spiritual’: and, finally, on the social/external level, it operates in contrast to the kokutai (国体), the body politic.’ Nathan 1974: 230.

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By virtue of the visual performance of the body, what Mishima deterministically tried to defend was fading imperial Japan’s kokutai (the national polity), which literally means ‘the body of the nation.’ This is a significant counterpoint at which Mishima clearly dissociated from the so-called postwar nikutai bungaku (carnal literature) pursued by such writers as Sakaguchi Ango (1906– 1955), Tamura Taijirō (1911–1983), and Noma Hiroshi (1915–1991). As Douglas N. Slaymaker argues, the nikutai bungaku writers portrayed the body as a means of liberation, conceptualizing ‘the individual physical body as the complement, and at times the opposite of the national body.’ One way or the other, these writers unequivocally considered that the totalitarian wartime regime had severely repressed Japanese people, forcing their individual bodies into the ideological construct of the national body. Therefore, in order to emancipate postwar indiv­iduals, their writing ‘glorified the physical body.’30 On the other hand, because of his weakling body, Mishima was not enlisted during wartime, and that fact contributed to his developing sense of inferiority. Being unable to fulfill the dream of dying young in war, he remained detached from Japan’s defeat. In the 1950s, his postwar quest for the body thus echoes the bitter memory of adolescence. Staying away from the postwar fad of body politics in literature, Mishima utilized his visionary experiences in Greece and Italy, which led to his lifetime appraisal of the surface beauty of the body as the symbol of youth, exuberance, and anti-intellectualism. In the 1960s Mishima endeavored to link the body with his nationalist con­ cerns about Japanese culture. His critical stance was twofold. First, by the traditional dictum of bunburyōdō (excelling in letters and martial arts as the unified Way), he castigated the mentality of the leftist intelligentsia, who severely dismissed the indigenous ground of Japan but graciously gave credit to Western intellectualism. Here Mishima broadly refers to the importance of well-balanced human existence in Greek mythology – that is, an excess of human ability is subject to divine punishment and also detrimental political equi­librium in the structure of polis.31 In this phase of his life, the writer veered away from his interest in Western European cultures, and in turn became increasingly fixated on the idea of defending Japan’s legacy, built upon the emperor and the military, considering that these two poles had sustained the cultural continuity of the national polity.32 To understand the intricate relation between individual and national bodies, Michel Foucault’s reading of the body within social structures is illu30 31 32

Slaymaker 2004: 18. Mishima 2003c: 33.503–505. Mishima 2003d: 35.40–51.



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minating here. According to Foucault, the social body is not the result of a certain consensus, but ‘the materiality of power operating on the very bodies of individuals.’33 For individuals, the body is nothing but the foremost site of self-knowledge, which can be mastered or realized ‘only through the effect of an investment of power’ by means of ‘gymnastics, exercises, muscle-building, nudism, [and] glorification of the body beautiful.’34 These methods are not arbitrary; precisely through these practices, Mishima projects power on his very body and thereby achieves his mastery of the body. Likewise, the national polity of Japan (or any other nation) also takes the form of a body that constitutes innumerable layers of individuals who are material evidence of the power exercised upon them. In his writing, Mishima does not explicitly correlate his body and kokutai, but it is undeniable that he treats both his body and writing as a corpus, clearly a metonymy of the national polity of Japan. To put this idea more concretely, by training his body and intellect as though tempering steel, what the writer defends is the fictional vigor of the national polity Japan had embraced until the end of World War II.

The Value System Mishima Saw in Greco-Roman Antiquity

Whereas Mishima’s writing in the late 1960s reflects his nationalist disposition, the writer never lost insight into the intersection between the body and his intellectual labor. In this vein of discourse, he explores the issue in relation to Hellenism most notably in his Sun and Steel (1968). Published twenty years after Confessions of a Mask, the first-person narrative essay poses another confessional mode, as though wrapping up his lifetime contemplation on the body. Unlike the ‘lyrical’ confession of his youth, which owes much of himself to his sentient body, the essay lends itself to a liminal ground ‘between confession and critique.’35 For Mishima, whose lifelong obsession with kan’nen (the Idea) binds his worldview, the body remained terra incognita that needs to be tamed by both physical training and intellect. The focus of the essay lies in his renewed encounter with the body, galvanized by ‘the sun.’ Though he does not rest on any facile explanation, ‘the sun’ appears to be a holistic metaphor for Nature counted against his notion of ‘the Idea.’ He notes that two instances are significant for his discovery of the sun. The first occasion coincides with the end of the war, when the gleaming light elicited the image of death, ‘govern[ing] 33 34 35



Foucault 1980: 55. Foucault 1980: 56. Mishima 2003i: 33.506.

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the putrefaction’ and ‘vast ruins.’36 Later Mishima revoked that bleak view, noting that in the second instance, he felt a sort of synergy the sun elicits for him while visiting Greece and Italy in 1952.37 The exposure to the sun in the Mediterranean countries brought him what may be called a Copernican revolution, which led him to doubt his inclination toward rational and intellectual thoughts (shikō). In turn, what the sun opened in Mishima’s eyes was in essence the significance of the bodily surface: If the law of thought is that it should search out profundity, whether it extends upwards or downwards, then it seemed excessively illogical to me that men should not discover depths of a kind in the ‘surface,’ that vital borderline that endorses our separateness and our form, dividing our exterior from our interior. Why should they not be attracted by the profundity of the surface itself?  The sun was enticing, almost dragging, my thoughts away from their night of visceral sensations, away to the swelling of muscles encased in sunlit skin. And it was commanding me to construct a new and sturdy dwelling in which my mind, as it rose little by little to the surface, could live in security. That dwelling was a tanned, lustrous skin and powerful, sensitively rippling muscles. I came to feel that it was precisely because such an abode was required that the average intellectual failed to feel at home with thought that concerned itself with forms and surfaces.38 The statement forges a critique of postwar intellectualism that lacks staunch grounds based on physical reality. In response to the lukewarm social current, the writer concludes that the solution is to ally ‘the muscle’ through physical training.39 For him this is not just a matter of metaphor but of reality, which is underpinned by the body that operates on its own logic, which precedes the Idea. Then physical training is not simply meant to counter blind intellectualism; its goal is to sharpen the visible surface of the body. While Sun and Steel was completed two years before his death,40 Mishima discovered the value of ‘surface’ (gaimen) through his archeological observation of ancient Greece:

36 37 38 39 40

Mishima 2003i: 33.517. Mishima 2003i: 33.518. Mishima, trans. John Bester 1970: 21. Mishima 2003i: 33.520. Sun and Steel was first serialized in the literary magazine Hihyō [Criticism] from November 1965 through June 1968.



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‘The Greeks believed in exteriority. It is a magnificent ideology.’41 In the trajectory of Mishima’s thought on the body, ancient Greek and Roman cultures are neither accidental nor arbitrary. Since his adolescence, when Guido Reni’s St. Sebastian stirred his physical sensation, he was vaguely aware of the natural law that prevails over ‘spiritual elements idealized by Christianity.’42 His admiration for Greek and pre-Christian Roman ideals is rooted in the precept that rejects ‘excessive internality’ (kajōna naimensei) as falsity.43 Before being exposed to Hellenism, he largely gave credit to the Idea; however, the sojourn opened his eyes to the equilibrium between exteriority (surface) and internality (the Idea), and nearly all his works thereafter explicate the friction caused by these dual worldviews. The dialectic between exteriority and interiority is pivotal in Mishima’s postwar oeuvre. His literary dualism is particularly inspired by Plato’s Symposium, which places an emphasis on the balance between the two. In ‘Geijutsuni erosu wa hitsuyō ka’ (Does art need eros?, 1955), Mishima cites the words of Diotima of Mantinea,44 advocating her idea that ‘physical creation’ and ‘spiritual creation’ should be a single function in equilibrium.45 A pursuit of one side over the other leads to the false consequences of extremity and ignorance. In that unbalance, no beauty can be realized, and in the state of ignorance, one cannot even be aware of the fatal shortcoming one faces. As suggested by the quotes, what plagues Mishima is the sociocultural condition that has dismissed the balance between the intellectual and the physical. Thus his psychosomatic alliance with Hellenism suggests a radical antithesis to defeatist postwar 41

42 43 44

45



Mishima 2003a: 27.606. It is notable that Nietzsche, of whom Mishima was allegedly an avid reader, exclaims his appraisal of the ‘surface’ in ancient Greece: ‘Oh, those Greeks! They knew how to live. What is required for that is to stop courageously at the surface, the fold, the skin, to adore appearance, to believe in forms, tones, words, in the whole Olympus of appearance. Those Greeks were superficial – out of profundity.’ See Nietzsche 1974: 38. Mishima 2003a: 27.606. Mishima 2003a: 27.606. Diotima of Mantinea is identified in Plato’s Symposium as a female philosopher and a priestess. She is quoted by Socrates in his dialogue with the others during the banquet held at the house of the poet Agathon in 416 BCE, which was recounted by Plato fifteen years later. Diotima situates love at a middle point between good and evil, beautiful and foul, and thus it causes anguish and pain. In so stating she offers a different viewpoint than the idea of Platonic love, which considers love as the truly beautiful, delicate, and perfect. Scholars do not know whether she was a real historical figure or Plato’s fictional creation. See Salisbury 2001: 88. See also the actual dialogues in Plato 1993: esp. 25–34. Mishima 2003e: 28.481.

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Figure 6.2 Mishima poses St. Sebastian inspired by Guido Reni’s Saint Sebastian (ca. 1616), now in the Palazzo Rosso of Genoa. This photograph by Shinoyama Kishin was published in the first issue of the literary magazine Chi to bara (Blood and roses) (1966). © Shinoyama Kishin/Tensei.

modernity, which was fueled by the Americanized democracy that had driven away the ‘physical creation’ of the national polity of Japan as a single sovereignty. Mishima’s aesthetic credos went beyond the realm of writing and extended literally to the praxis of tenacious physical training, such as body building and martial arts. Faithful to his words, he indeed invested time and energy to tone the surface of his body in the 1960s. One of the proven results is the photograph in which he poses as St. Sebastian himself (see fig. 6.2). The photographic image created by Shinoyama Kishin (1940–) displays the classical posture of the saint, whose arms and back are tied to the laurel tree. Its black-and-white print eloquently renders the elastic surface of Mishima’s skin, accentuating 

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the contour of muscles that allows the viewer to imagine the strength of his internal organs as well. Here the spectacle of the body bears its own rhetoric. The athletically trained body traverses the elegant register of the Renaissance painting, restaging instead the cult of the body Mishima saw in Greco-Roman sculptures. In ancient Greece, the body manifested itself most visibly in festivals and competitions, the sociocultural occasions when spectacles and rhetorical ideas of the body mutually enacted the ancient Greek notion of arete (‘virtuosity’).46 Similarly, what Mishima invokes by displaying his elastic body is the impassioned festivity of the martyr, the celebration of Sebastian’s beauty that is ironically realized by virtue of his brutal execution. By assuming the presence of the spectator who witnesses the sight Mishima sets in motion what the orator Isocrates identifies as the movement of ‘philotimia, a profound love of honor,’47 which can be actualized prominently by the sacrifice of the body. The visibility of the body produces the invisible rhetoric of honor, and it circulates in the spectacle of a festive moment. Such an economy of the body, prevalent in Greek culture, was well understood by Mishima partly through his familiarity with Greek tragedy. Even if his grasp was intuitive, at least he was well aware of the bodily rhetoric, or the language innate to the visibility of the body. Unlike other postwar writers of carnal literature in Japan, who endorsed the sexually liberated body to demolish wartime repression, Mishima dealt with the body through reification, articulating the materiality that reflects the continuity of civilization, culture, and the nation. The body needs to be trained and beautified as an object, precisely as a material proof of a lofty civilization that can identify ‘art with the sense of morality.’48 Metonymically considered, the muscles of the well-trained body are a manifest form of the intellectual faculty embedded in the individual. Its visibility to the spectator on festive occasions sublimates the body to the height of shared cultural as well as moral property, so to speak. In this regard, Mishima’s display of the body in 1960s Japan was clearly a manifesto, a consciously forged ideology intended to recuperate a sense of honor and morality in the sociocultural contexts of the period. Politically speaking, Mishima opted out of leftism in general and remained quite critical of the popularity of Marxism as well. The reason for his rejection was not necessarily the theoretical underpinnings the leftists relied on; it rather concerned the uncritical reception of foreign ideologies in postwar Japan. As Miyazaki Masahiro states, in the late 1960s Japan was already oblivious to the collective 46 47 48 

On this issue, see Hawhee 2004. Hawhee 2004: 165. Mishima 2003f: 28.261.

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campaign against the Japan-US Security Treaty, having moved upward in economic terms under the national income doubling plan (shotoku baizō keikaku) enacted by Prime Minister Ikeda Hayato’s cabinet (1960–1964). In this stability of national security and economy, in turn, Japan has become increasingly mediocre and politically apathetic.49 Mishima was plagued by the mentality that has drifted away from national pride and the sense of honor Japan collectively ­embraced before and during the war. And yet it is not only a matter of a bygone psyche of the country; in his view, to wrestle with the imminent dangers that are threatening humanity in geopolitics, such as hydrogen bombs, individuals need to confront them at the level of their own bodies, quotidian life, and labor.50 All in all, Mishima presented his writing and the body as a critical ideology that urges Japan to reflect on its postwar psyche and the oblivion of the cultural past. Yet our goal here is not to establish a simple linkage between his political gesture and the body in the service of Greco-Roman influence on him. Ultimately Mishima is neither a politician nor an activist, but a writer who possesses an ingenious command of the language, and to the same extent, the body is an extension of his pen and rhetoric. As I have discussed above, the focal point regarding Mishima is that his écriture literally makes an appearance on the surface of the body. This synthesis is made possible by Greco-Roman aesthetics, which in fact penetrates him far beyond the limits of the visual ­digestion of ancient art. In reality, his life, writing, and aesthetic credo are altogether consolidated by the method of imitatio, a mimesis of the aesthetic forerunners who had a significant influence on his life. There is no evidence that Mishima was familiar with the ancient theory of rhetorical method; nonetheless, it is not farfetched to draw a parallel between his artistic labor and the Dionysian imitatio as a sort of creative principle. This literary theory, which was developed by the Greek historian and rhetorician Dionysius of Halicarnassus in the first century BCE, advocates the practice of imitating other authors as a productive method to cultivate one’s own creativity. Imitations can be achieved by emulating, adopting, and enriching the original source, and these methods of imitation encourage a rhetorical practice that does not exclusively concern originality, but rather a creativity based on a respect for existing discourses and an effort to advance them.51

49 50 51

Miyazaki 2000: 134. Mishima 2003h: 28.612. Dionysius of Halicarnassus’ treatment of imitation Peri mimeseos (On imitation) survives only in fragments. See Walker 2000: 110.



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The mimetic impulse we see in Mishima is both productive and symptomatic of postwar Japan. Indeed, it attests to the widely adopted literary theory: ‘There is no such thing as literary “originality,”’ and ‘all literature is “intertextual.”’52 Restaging the Greco-Roman ideal of bodily beauty, Mishima readily admits its beguiling effect on him, while participating in the diachronic cycle of cultural and literary transmissions. Ultimately his extolling of the bodily surface wields a sarcastic critique of 1960s Japan, a society that had been driven to the pursuit of the economic, and thus material, surface of the national polity.

References Cited

Cobb, Noel (1992), Archetypal Imagination: Glimpses of the Gods in Life and Art. Hudson, NY: Lindisfarne. D’Annunzio, Gabriele (1966), Sei Sebasuchan no junkyō 聖セバスチャンの殉教 (The martyrdom of Saint Sebastian), trans. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 and Ikeda Kōtarō 池 田弘太郎. Tokyo: Bijutsushuppan. Eagleton, Terry (2008), Literary Theory: An Introduction. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Foucault, Michel (1980), Power and Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972–1977, trans. Colin Gordon et al. New York: Vintage. Hanada Kiyoteru 花田清輝 (1971), ‘Sei Sebasuchan no kao – Kamen no kokuhaku hyō 聖セ バスチャンの顔 – ‘仮面の告白’評’ (The face of St. Sebastian: On Confessions of a Mask), in Mishima Yukio: Sono unmei to geijutsu 三島由紀夫 : その運命と芸術 (Mishima Yukio: His fate and art), ed. Saegusa Yasutaka 三枝康隆, 161–171. Tokyo: Yūshindō. Hawhee, Debra (2004), Bodily Arts: Rhetoric and Athletics in Ancient Greece. Austin: University of Texas Press. Marotti, William (2013), Money, Trains, and Guillotines: Art and Revolution in 1960s Japan. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (1958), Confessions of a Mask, trans. Meredith Weatherby. New York: New Direction. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫. (1966), ‘Atogaki あとがき’ (Postscript), in Sei Sebasuchan no junkyō 聖セバスチャ ンの殉 教 (The martyrdom of Saint Sebastian), trans. Mishima Yukio 三島由 紀夫 and Ikeda Kōtarō 池田弘太郎, 201–208.Tokyo: Bijutsushuppan. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (1970), Sun and Steel, trans. John Bester. Palo Alto, CA: Kodansha International.

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Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2000), Kamen no kokuhaku 仮面の告白 (Confessions of a mask), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 1 三島由紀夫全集第一巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美 代子, 173–364. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003a), ‘Aporo no hai アポロの杯’ (The cup of Apollo), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 27 三島由紀夫全集 第２７巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美 代子 et al., 507–641. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003b), ‘Bi ni tsuite 美について’ (On beauty), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 27 三島由紀夫全集 第２７巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美代子 et al., 217–221. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003c), ‘Bunbu ryōdō 文武両道’ (Excelling in letters and martial arts as the single way), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 33 三島由紀 夫全集 第 ３３巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美代子 et al., 502–505. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003d), ‘Bunka bōeiron 文化防衛論’ (On defense of the culture), in Mishima Yukio zenshūi, vol. 35. 三島由紀夫全集第３５巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美代子 et al., 15–51. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003e), ‘Geijutsu ni erosu wa hitsuyō ka 芸術にエロスは必 要か’ (Does art need Eros?), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 28 三島由紀夫 全集第２８ 巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美代子 et al., 481–485. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003f), ‘Moraru no kankaku モラルの感覚’ (The sense of morality), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 28 三島由紀夫全集第２８巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美代子 et al., 261–263. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003g), ‘“Shiosai” shippitsu no koro 『潮騒』執筆のころ’ (Around the time when I wrote The Sound of Waves), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 33 三島由紀夫全集第３３巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美代子 et al., 478–480. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003h), ‘Shōsetsuka no kyūka 小説家の休暇’ (The novelist’s vacation), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 28 三島由紀夫全集第２８巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美代子 et al., 553–656. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003i), ‘Taiyō to tetsu 太陽と鉄’ (Sun and steel), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 33 三島由紀夫全集第３３巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美代子 et al., 506–584. Tokyo: Shinchō. Mishima Yukio 三島由紀夫 (2003j), ‘Watashi no sensō to sengo taiken 私の戦争と戦後 体験’ (My World War II and postwar experience), in Mishima Yukio zenshū, vol. 33 三島由紀夫全集第３３巻, ed. Tanaka Miyoko 田中美代子 et al., 490–491. Tokyo: Shinchō. Miyazaki Masahiro 宮崎正弘 (2000), Mishima Yukio wa ikanishite nihonkaiki shitanoka 三島由紀夫はいかにして日本回帰したのか (How did Mishima return to Japan?). Tokyo: Seiryū. Nathan, John (1974), Mishima: A Biography. Boston: Little, Brown and Company.



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Nietzsche, Friedrich (1974), The Gay Science, trans. Walter Kaufmann. New York: Random House. Plato (1993), Symposium and Phaedrus, trans. Benjamin Jowett. New York: Dover. Salisbury, Joyce E. (2001), Encyclopedia of Women in the Ancient World. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO. Slaymaker, Douglas N. (2004), The Body in Postwar Japanese Fiction. New York: Routledge Curzon. Walker, Jeffrey (2000), Rhetoric and Poetics in Antiquity. Oxford: Oxford University Press.



Chapter 7

Retelling Medea in Postwar Japan: The Function of Ancient Greece in Two Literary Adaptations by Mishima Yukio and Kurahashi Yumiko Luciana Cardi In the period spanning from the 1940s to the 1960s, a combination of several factors led to a renewed interest in the ancient Greek Classics among Japanese intellectuals. The extensive translation work carried out by scholars such as Doi Bansui, Kure Shigeichi, and Kōzu Harushige played an important role, as did the influence exerted by Modernists’ rewritings of the Classical repertoire and French playwrights’ adaptations of Greek myths between the 1920s and the 1950s. In order to fully understand the value of the work undertaken by Doi, Kōzu, and Kure, it is important to consider that, while most Japanese publications on ancient Greece in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries relied on English sources, these scholars’ translations were based entirely on Greek texts. Their works, supported by a scholarly knowledge of the source language, addressed a wide Japanese audience and contributed to a popularization of the Greek Classics, breaking with the theretofore dominant representation of ancient Greece as filtered through Victorian and American concepts of Western antiquity. Between the late Meiji (1868–1912) and Taishō (1912–1926) periods, this kind of representation took the form of Japanese synopses and translations based on mythological collections, poems, and other literary works originally addressed to English-speaking readers. For instance, Sasurai: Odisse kōgai (Wanderings: A summary of the Odyssey, 1904) and Tate no hibiki: Iriaddo kōgai (The sound of shields: A summary of the Iliad, 1904), both by Akashi Shigetarō, relied on English and American sources. In the former, the author combined the outline of the Odyssey with verses from Tennyson’s Lotos-eaters, and he cited Thomas Bulfinch’s The Age of Fable (1855) and Charles Mills Gayley’s Classic Myths in English Literature and in Art (1893) as the sources for his summary of the Iliad. Furthermore, Iliādo (1915) and Odisshii (1922), complete translations of the Homeric poems made respectively by Baba Kochō and Ikuta Chōkō, likewise referred to English source texts. Indeed, several books on Greek mythology published at the beginning of the twentieth century were translations of American mythological collections, among them James Baldwin’s Old Greek

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Stories (1895), translated by Sugitani Daisui as Girishia shinwa (Greek myths, 1909), and Thomas Bulfinch’s The Age of Fable (1855), translated by Nogami Yaeko as Girishia Roma shinwa: Densetsu no monogatari (Greek and Roman myths: An account of legends, 1913).1 An analysis of the literary sources of these publications shows that in most cases, Japanese readers’ approach to Greek antiquity was not grounded in Western philological or scholarly texts, but rather in educational texts addressed to children or unlearned readers. Significantly, in the foreword to The Age of Fable, Bulfinch presents a knowledge of Classical mythology as a fundamental prerequisite to understanding Western literature, because writers such as Milton, Shakespeare, Dante, Tennyson, and Byron had been inspired by Greek and Roman myths. Without a knowledge of mythology much of the elegant literature of our own language cannot be understood and appreciated. When Byron calls Rome ‘the Niobe of nations,’ or says of Venice, ‘She looks a Sea-Cybele fresh from ocean,’ he calls up to the mind of one familiar with our subject, illustrations more vivid and striking than the pencil could furnish, but which are lost to the reader ignorant of mythology (Bulfinch 1934 [1855]: 3). Similarly, in Old Greek Stories, Baldwin contends that Greek myths should be used to educate children, because they constitute an important part of American culture. Perhaps no other stories have ever been told so often or listened to with so much pleasure as the classic tales of ancient Greece…. They have become so incorporated into our language and thought, and so interwoven with our literature, that we could not do away with them now if we would…. That many of these tales should be read by children at an early age no intelligent person will deny (Baldwin 1895: 3). Both Bulfinch’s and Baldwin’s collections convey the notion of Greek antiquity as an indispensable means to introduce children and uneducated people to the foundational elements of Western culture. Their retelling of the Classical 1 This work was originally published in 1913 by Shōbundō, with a foreword by Natsume Sōseki. Its title was Densetsu no jidai: kamigami to eiyū monogatari (The age of legends: Stories of gods and heroes). However, it gained wider popularity after it was reprinted by Iwanami Bunko in 1927, under the title Girishia Roma shinwa: Densetsu no monogatari.



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repertoire mirrors the Romantic idea of the Classical period as the ‘infancy of mankind,’ corresponding to human childhood, as seen in the foreword to Baldwin’s The Golden Fleece: ‘They [Jason and the Greek heroes] lived when the world was in its childhood and life was a wondrous holiday’ (Baldwin 1905: 6). The importance accorded to knowledge of the Greek and Roman Classics as critical building blocks for a mature approach to Western culture influenced the Japanese reception of ancient Greece: familiarity with Greek literary Classics and myths was considered by most Japanese translators and scholars to be an important tool for gaining a better understanding of Western civilization and grasping the deeper meaning in both European and American literary texts. As a result of the translations by Doi, Kure, and Kōzu in the first decades of the Shōwa period (1926–1989), Greek antiquity continued to function as a key to access Western culture but was no longer filtered through British and American culture. In referring to the original sources, these scholars promoted a renewed interest in Greek Classics among Japanese readers, and they produced a large number of translations. Doi’s translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey were published in 1940 and 1943, respectively.2 Kure wrote, among others, Girishia shinwa (Greek myths, 1956), Girishia higeki zenshū (Greek tragedy collection, 1960), Odyusseiā (Odyssey, 1971), and Īriasu (Iliad, 1953–1958), which was awarded the Yomiuri literary prize. Kōzu in turn translated the Iliad and the Odyssey in 1952 and 1961, respectively, and collected Apollodorus’ stories in Girishia shinwa (Greek myths, 1948). These scholars’ work was particularly intense in the period between the late 1940s and the 1960s, when an increasing number of translations from European and American literature circulated in Japan and when Japanese intellectuals were inspired by French theatrical and film adaptations of Greek myths, such as Jean Giraudoux’s Electre, Jean Anouilh’s Médée, Eurydice and Antigone, Jean Cocteau’s Orphée, and Jean Paul Sartre’s Les Mouches. These adaptations influenced Japanese avant-garde theater (Katō Michio, who cooperated with Mishima Yukio in the Bungakuza theater company, regarded Giraudoux’s and Anouilh’s productions as models for a new, antirealistic drama)3 and increased interest in Greek Classics among 2 As his handwritten notes demonstrate, Doi started to translate the Iliad in 1913, but his complete translations of the Homeric poems were published much later, in the 1940s. Before him, Uchimura Tatsusaburō made a partial translation of the Iliad from Greek, in Toroi no uta (Songs of Troy, 1904), but his work, printed by the Yūrakusha, did not circulate widely. 3 For further reference, see ‘Engeki no kokyō’ (The theater birthplace, 1947), ‘Jan Kokutō ni tsuite’ (About Jean Cocteau, 1948), and ‘Jirōdō no sekai to Anuiyu no sekai’ (The world of Giraudoux and Anouilh, 1948) by Katō Michio.



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Japanese writers. Together with James Joyce’s and Ezra Pound’s modernist rewritings of the Greek repertoire in the first decades of the twentieth century, they constituted a paradigm against which Japanese intellectuals viewed and positioned their own approach to Western antiquity. The combination of these factors constitutes the cultural and literary background against which Mishima Yukio (1925–1970) and Kurahashi Yumiko (1935–2005) produced a large number of literary and theatrical adaptations inspired by ancient Greece. Mishima studied ancient Greek language under the guidance of Kure and was interested in the French adaptations of Greek myths, as shown by his draft of Orfē (a play inspired by Cocteau’s Orphée), the essay ‘Jan Kokutō no yuigon geki’ (Jean Cocteau’s testamentary play, 1962), and the essay ‘Higeki no arika’ (The state of tragedy, 1949), which discusses the adaptation of Greek tragedies by Sartre, Cocteau, and Giraudoux. Mishima makes references to ancient Greece in many works, including Shishi (Lioness, 1948), a novella based on Medea; Niobe (1951), a play inspired by Greek mythology; Aporo no sakazuki (Apollo’s cup, 1952), a diary with an account of his trip to Greece; Shiosai (The sound of waves, 1954), a rewriting of the story of Daphnis and Chloe; Nettaiju (Tropical tree, 1960), an adaptation of the Oresteia; and Suzakuke no metsubō (The decline and fall of the Suzaku, 1967), a play based on Euripides’ Heracles. Kurahashi’s writing reveals influences similar to those that inform Mishima’s adaptations on ancient Greece. She graduated with a degree in French literature, was influenced by Sartre, and was inspired by the Modernists’ and French writers’ approaches to the Greek Classics. As will be seen below, when discussing her methods for rewriting the old myths, she refers specifically to Sartre, Anouilh, and Joyce. Kurahashi’s work includes a collection of five short stories inspired by Greek tragedies and entitled Hanhigeki (Anti-tragedies): ‘Himawari no ie’ (The sunflower house, 1968), ‘Shiroi kami no dōjo’ (The whitehaired little girl, 1969), ‘Suikyō nite’ (In a state of intoxication, 1969), ‘Kakō ni shisu’ (To die at the estuary, 1970), and ‘Kamigami ga ita koro no hanashi’ (A story from the time when gods existed, 1971). Given that Mishima and Kurahashi are from almost the same generation (Kurahashi was born only ten years after Mishima) and that parts of their literary production overlap chronologically, it should be instructive to compare their approach to ancient Greece. Since their adaptations of the Greek Classics retell the foundational stories of Western culture, they may be regarded as metaphorical translations of a cultural discourse relocated from the West to the East in a period when the transfer of Greek motifs was particularly intense in the fields of Japanese theater, literature, and scholarly publications. In this regard, they can be analyzed in light of Itamar Even-Zohar’s polysystem theory, 

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according to which, when a literary and cultural system is in a phase of transition between old models no longer accepted and new models not yet consolidated, this intensifies the translation of texts from ‘dominant systems’ (systems that have cultural prestige and occupy a central position inside a multi-literary macro-dimension): Within this (macro-)polysystem some literatures have taken peripheral positions, which is only to say that they were often modelled to a large extent upon an exterior literature. For such literatures, translated literature is not only a major channel through which fashionable repertoire is brought home, but also a source of reshuffling and supplying alternatives…. The dynamics within the polysystem create turning points, that is to say, historical moments where established models are no longer tenable for a younger generation. At such moments, even in central literatures, translated literature may assume a central position. This is all the more true when at a turning point no item in the indigenous stock is taken to be acceptable, as a result of which a literary ‘vacuum’ occurs. In such a vacuum, it is easy for foreign models to infiltrate, and translated literature may consequently assume a central position (Even-Zohar 1990: 48). Even-Zohar’s discourse might be applied to the period between the late 1940s and the 1960s, to interpret a situation in which Japanese intellectuals were facing a postwar cultural crisis and were looking for new models to overcome a sense of loss, challenge literary tradition, and reshape Japanese identity. In the years when Japan was at a turning point between old and new values, Greek antiquity, perceived as a canonical part of a dominant cultural system, became a reservoir of stories that provided alternative models: the retelling of ancient Greek motifs constituted a means to elaborate the changes undergone by Japanese society and negotiate the position of Japan vis-à-vis the West, creating cross-cultural bridges. In this regard, Mishima’s and Kurahashi’s adaptations of Medea (in their works, Lioness and ‘The White-Haired Little Girl,’) provide an interesting case study for understanding the functions of ancient Greece in postwar Japanese literature.

Medea as a Mirror of Postwar Japan in Lioness

 Lioness is set in Tokyo in 1946, when Japan was experiencing drastic political and cultural changes under the Allied occupation. The analogue of Medea is 

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Shigeko, a well-educated Japanese lady from a wealthy Tokyo family, and that of Jason is Hisao, a reckless Japanese colonist who has spent most of his life in Manchuria. Mishima’s novella evokes both the plot and the structure of Euripides’ tragedy, Medea, in several ways. In the opening, Shigeko’s nurse and butler, who are reminiscent of Medea’s nurse and tutor, describe the protagonist’s unhappiness, which has been caused by the infidelity of her husband, Hisao. An extra-diegetic narrator recalls how, some years earlier, Shigeko had moved to Manchuria, married Hisao against her family’s will, and escaped to Tokyo with him in order to seek refuge from the invading Russian army at the end of WWII. In Euripides’ play, Medea betrays her family and kills her brother, Absyrtus, to help Jason. For her own part, Shigeko had protected Hisao from her family’s criticism by accusing her own brother of being a Japanese spy, an act that ultimately led to his death at the hands of the Russians. However, her total dedication to her husband was not rewarded: once the couple settled in Tokyo, Hisao started an affair with Tsuneko, the daughter of the film company boss for whom he was working. He kept this relationship a secret for several months, but now, in the narrative present of the story, he wants to divorce Shigeko and take all of her assets, of which he has become the sole owner by marring her. Moreover, Hisao wants to take their son away from Shigeko and entrust him to Tsuneko, his new wife-to-be. His behavior triggers the protagonist’s terrible revenge: like Medea, she carries out a plan to kill her replacement (Tsuneko), the latter’s father, and even her own son (Chikao). Parallel to Medea’s wedding gift to Glauce of a poisoned dress, Shigeko sends a bottle of poisoned wine to Tsuneko and her father, Keisuke, who die in terrible spasms. Moving across time and space, from the savage land of Colchis to Manchuria, and from ancient Greece to postwar Japan, Lioness abounds in references to the story of Medea. For instance, the protagonists’ adventurous escape from Manchuria calls to mind the Argonauts’ flight from Colchis: when a group of bandits attacks their train and kills many passengers in a marsh, the description of the blood-red water evokes the horrific scene in which Medea scatters the pieces of Absyrtus’ body into the sea. Moreover, the scene following Shigeko’s terrible revenge, when a devastated Hisao compares her to a lioness―‘You wicked demon! You are not a woman. You are a lioness with a human face. What ruin have I married?’4 (Mishima 1974 [1948]: 655)―recalls Euripides’ verses:

4 The citations from Lioness are taken from the collection Mishima Yukio zenshū, published by Shinchōsha. In this article, translations from the Japanese are mine except where otherwise indicated.



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No Greek woman would have dared what you have done. Yet I wed you instead of them, and so I married ruin. For you are not a woman, but a lioness, more savage than the sea-monster Scylla, with her six man-eating heads (Euripides, Medea, 1339–1343). In addition to the similarities in plot, there are several structural parallels with Euripides’ tragedy. For instance, the action unfolds over a single day, mirroring Medea’s unity of time, and the extra-diegetic narrator, who explains past events and clarifies the protagonists’ feelings, takes on the role of the Greek chorus. Also, the choice to move Keisuke and Tsuneko’s death away from the narrative present reflects Euripides’ decision not to represent Creon and Glauce’s deaths onstage. (In Greek tragedies, typically violence is not represented in front of the audience.) The spectators of Euripides’ play do not witness firsthand the tragic destiny of the king and the princess of Corinth, because it is described by a messenger only after the fact. Similarly, in Mishima’s novella, the scene of Tsuneko and Keisuke’s horrible deaths, first imagined by Shigeko and then reported by Hisao, is never described while it actually happens, metaphorically removing it from the readers’ gaze. Given these similarities, readers might think that Mishima’s adaptation matches both the plot and the structure of Medea perfectly, but there is an important difference in the protagonists’ cultural backgrounds. In Euripides’ tragedy, Jason is a hero who represents the superiority of Greek civilization, and Medea is a barbarian from the savage land of Colchis. However, in Lioness, Hisao-Jason is ‘a man returned from Manchuria’ (Mishima 1948 [1974]: 609), the Japanese colony culturally distant from the center of the empire, whereas Shigeko-Medea is a respectable Japanese lady, deceived by the charming Manchurian colonist. Therefore, in Mishima’s novella, the witch of Colchis turns herself into an exponent of Japanese high society and, unlike Medea, her cruel behavior cannot be attributed to her barbarian ancestry. Instead, her terrible revenge appears to be the result of the cultural decadence of postwar Tokyo, which transforms a respectable Japanese subject into a murderess, in a social context where the traditional Japanese values have been replaced by materialism. The decay of old values is a recurring motif in Lioness. In the first scene, Shigeko’s nurse and butler start eating before serving the meal to their masters, and the narrator explains that they have forgotten etiquette after the end of the war, with the death of Shigeko’s father. In a context where traditional values have been lost, characters like Hisao and Keisuke embody the opportunism of those who take advantage of postwar cultural and political changes to climb the social ladder at other people’s expense. Especially Hisao, the Manchurian 

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colonist, seems to be perfectly at ease in the confusion of postwar Tokyo: ‘This dynamic young man, who smelled of anarchy and who had perfectly adapted to the rash Manchurian winds, seemed to fit perfectly in chaotic postwar Tokyo’ (Mishima 1948 [1974]: 606). Even when his wife finds out about his liaison with Tsuneko, he justifies his opportunistic behavior using the concepts of rights (kenri) and duties (gimu). Unfortunately I don’t love either of the two. I have often felt the duty to love, but I have not felt the right to love even once! To tell the truth, the women I have met have reminded me of the duty to love, and you were no exception…. Even if I had cheated on you, I could say that I had never experienced the sweet taste of infidelity. Every kind of love just teaches me the desolate joy of fulfilling my duty (Mishima 1948 [1974]: 628–629). In order to hide his wrongdoings and position himself as a victim, Hisao manipulates the meaning of the words ‘rights’ and ‘duties,’ which evoke the new Japanese constitution drafted by McArthur’s staff in 1946, the very year when this story takes place.5 Like Jason, he uses eloquence to justify his act of betrayal; however, his ironic use of the rhetoric of the Japanese constitution deprives the terms of their original values and reinforces the representation of Japan’s decadence under the American occupation. In this context, when Shigeko chooses to oppose Hisao’s plans by committing a series of murders, she defies the postwar values he embodies and somehow tries to restore the preexisting order. Mishima thus transforms Medea into a Japanese woman who refuses to come to terms with the moral corruption of the new Japan and who points out the dark side of the cultural changes taking place in the aftermath of WWII. The negative implications of these changes in terms of loss of identity are highlighted in several of Mishima’s essays, such as ‘Amerikajin no nihon shinwa’ (Japan: The cherished myths, 1961).6 Here, he argues that in the age of modernization and capitalism, Japan is trading its past for Western technology and is dismissing its own tradition as if it were something mass-produced for export to the United States. However, he foresees a moment when the Americanization of Japan will reach a point of no return, at which time Japanese 5 Mishima uses a similar technique in Niobe (1951), a theater adaptation of Greek mythology. In this play, set in Tokyo in 1949, the characters talk about the newly built Parliament, and the protagonists use the concepts of duties and rights to justify their base behavior, thus parodying the Japanese constitution. 6 This essay has been translated as ‘Japan: The cherished myths’ by Donald Keene.



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people will realize the importance of their past and will miss it. Both ‘Japan: The cherished myths’ and Lioness are tinged with nostalgia for prewar Japan, and Lioness’s engagement in particular with the Greek tragedy emphasizes this, stressing the divide between past and present. In Escape from the Wasteland, Susan Napier suggests that a part of Mishima’s literary production can be regarded as an escape from the spiritual and cultural ‘wasteland of modern Japanese society’ (Napier 1995: 17) through the creation of an alternative reality. Working from Napier’s proposal, I would argue that Mishima’s approach to Greek antiquity mirrors his attempt to sublimate the Japanese past, superimposing the image of ancient Greece on that of traditional Japan. Significantly, the parallel between these two elements recurs in several of his essays, such as ‘Girishia kogeki no fūmi’ (The taste of the ancient Greek theater, 1954) and ‘Utsukushii shi’ (Beautiful death, 1967). In the former, he compares the Greek cult of beauty to Japanese aesthetics, on the basis of a shared absence of influence by Christian morality. Moreover, commenting on a staging of Lysistrata in Tokyo, he points out the paradox of presenting Aristophanes’ comedy, set just before the Peloponnesian War destroyed the Attic civilization, in a country that has lost a war and is affected by a ‘terminal illness’ – the corruption of its old values. On the other hand, in ‘Beautiful Death,’ he compares the ideal of the young heroes’ deaths, celebrated in Archilochus’ and Menander’s verses, to the ethics of Japanese samurai, regarding with contempt the situation of Japan in the 1960s: ‘If it is difficult to live beautifully in the troublesome circumstances of contemporary Japan, it is even more difficult to die beautifully’ (Mishima 1975: 42). Facing the decay of his society, Mishima longs for a heroic Japanese past, sublimated in the mythical, idealized aura of ancient Greece. His retelling of Greek antiquity thus becomes a way to thematize Japan’s cultural crisis, look nostalgically at the past, and ideally restore order in chaotic postwar society. In this regard, his approach to Greek myths and tragedies might be paralleled to Joyce’s mythical method, theorized by T.S. Eliot in his review of Ulysses: In using the myth, in manipulating a continuous parallel between contemporaneity and antiquity, Mr. Joyce is pursuing a method which others must pursue after him…. It is simply a way of controlling, of ordering, of giving a shape and a significance to the immense panorama of futility and anarchy which is contemporary history…. Instead of narrative method, we may now use the mythical method (Eliot 1923: 481).



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Similarly, the references to Greek tragedy and mythology in Lioness function not only as means to emphasize the split between past and present, but also as a framework that orders Mishima’s contemporaneity and brings together the scattered fragments of the Japanese past. However, while Ulysses’ author reworks a foundational myth from his own culture, in Lioness, Mishima retells the classical repertoire of another cultural system. This engenders a paradoxical aspect: he rewrites a story at the foundations of Western culture to reinforce the image of traditional Japan, itself threatened by new, Westernized models.

Kurahashi’s Medea: Between Greek Tragedy and Japanese Noh

Kurahashi’s adaptation of Medea, ‘The White-Haired Little Girl,’ is included in Anti-tragedies, a collection of stories inspired by Greek tragedies. In an article published in the literary magazine Bungei, Japanese critic Saeki Shōichi draws a parallel between the adaptations of the Greek Classics by Kurahashi and those by Mishima, Joyce, Giraudoux, Cocteau, and Anouilh, thus positing a literary framework within which Kurahashi’s anti-tragedies can be understood: We already have Mishima Yukio’s Five Modern Noh Plays and The Sound of Waves, as well as Joyce’s Ulysses. One can continue to add indefinitely to the list of her forerunners – in the genre of drama, in particular we have Cocteau, Giraudoux, and Anouilh – however, try as one might to include her in a group with them, one must admit that ‘our’ Kurahashi is, after all, a stand-out. She does not give too much importance to the theatrical form or to the historical reproduction. Instead, she does not hesitate to mix and juxtapose two totally different elements: ancient tragedy and contemporary fiction (Saeki 1971: 259). Kurahashi herself is strongly aware of the literary context in which she moves and, in the essay ‘Girishia higeki to Pazorīni no Aporon no jigoku’ (Greek tragedy and Pasolini’s Oedipus Rex, 1968), compares the different strategies for mythological adaptation used by several nineteenth-century writers. Moving from an analysis of Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Edipo re (King Oedipus; engl. film title Oedipus Rex, 1967), she identifies two approaches to the Classical repertoire: one consists of maintaining the plot of ancient stories and giving them new interpretations, while the ­other consists of ‘borrowing’ the structure of these stories as a framework for a new narrative. Kurahashi lists Sartre and Giraudoux among the writers who adopt the first strategy; Mishima, Eugene O’Neill, and Joyce figure among those who choose the second. As for Pasolini, she seems 

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to include him in the first category, because she points out that his film does not create a completely new story, but rather adds details that Sophocles did not represent on stage. Her critique of Pasolini’s film indicates that Kurahashi regards the retelling of ancient myths and tragedies as a creative experiment in devising a new narrative world, rather than as a mere reinterpretation. This concept is reflected in the afterword to Anti-tragedies, where she explains her attempt to take the mythological stories represented in Greek trage­ dies and ‘transplant’ (ishoku suru) them into a different genre. The com­bination of ordinary people’s neurotic lives, described in realistic novels, and the world of the gods and heroes represented in Greek tragedies results in a collection of disturbing stories that parody both the Greek Classics and the traditional concept of fiction. By reframing the ancient tragedies in novelistic form, Kurahashi tries to deform realistic narrative, undermine the narrator’s authority, twist the monolithic concept of selfhood, and question the stability of the categories of time and space. In this regard, her rewriting of Greek tragedies might be regarded as a part of a literary experiment to deform the structure of the socalled shishōsetsu (the Japanese ‘I novel’) and create an ‘anti-world’ (hansekai), a surreal narrative dimension that mirrors and distorts reality. The term ‘antiworld’ is clarified in the essay ‘Watashi no shōsetsu sakuhō’ (The compositional method of my novel, 1965), wherein Kurahashi compares her creative method to that of the French surrealists and explains that she uses dream as a drill to dig beneath the surface of the world and get to its other side: the antiworld. Moreover, in the essay ‘Shōsetsu no meiro to hiteisei’ (The labyrinth and negativity of fiction, 1966) she compares her literary anti-world to a castle in the sky, floating above the ‘five W’s’ (who, what, when, where, why) at the base of realistic fiction. Analyzed in this context, Kurahashi’s retelling of Medea appears as a bold experiment in creating a surreal narration that undermines the traditional notion of Japanese fiction. ‘The White-Haired Little Girl’7 envisions an encounter between Medea and Jason in Japan, thirty years after the events represented by Euripides. Jason is an elderly widower, called simply rōjin (the Japanese equivalent for ‘old man’), on a trip to Mount Kōya, near Kyoto. Medea is Misao, an aged woman who works as the guardian of the mountain park and is an expert in medicinal herbs. The old man meets Misao during his trip, and she reminds him of a girlfriend he had when he was young. He overhears the villagers saying that thirty 7 This title evokes Bái Máo Nǚ (The white-haired girl), a Chinese opera first performed in 1945 and adapted as a film in 1950. The protagonist is a beautiful peasant who is forced to become her landlord’s concubine and escapes to the mountains, where her hair turns white from the harshness of her life.



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years earlier she committed several murders to punish a man who betrayed her. Apparently, this man wanted to desert Misao and marry another woman, so she killed the children she had had with him and poisoned his new wife-tobe and her father. Then she escaped to a secret place and, when the statute of limitations on her crimes had expired, managed to be hired as the guardian of Kōya Park. Scared by these rumors, or maybe drugged by an herbal tea prepared by Misao, the protagonist sees her in a dream and discovers that she is a demon tormented by hatred for her former lover. In the dream, he becomes the man who betrayed her, and their dialogue, which constitutes the core of Kurahashi’s story, evokes the argument between Jason and Medea in Euripides’ tragedy. He says that despite his love, he wants to marry another woman to improve his social position. She accuses him of ingratitude, reminding him how she betrayed her own family and killed many people to help him. Seized with remorse, the old man prompts her to kill him, but she confesses amid tears that she has forgiven him. The dream ends when, during sexual intercourse between the two protagonists, she dies. At that moment, her lifeless face becomes young again and resembles that of a white-haired little girl. As Kurahashi explains in the afterword to Anti-tragedies, this story is inspired not only by Euripides’ drama, but also by the Noh play Ōhara gokō (The imperial visit to Ōhara) and by those revolving around the Japanese poetess Ono no Komachi.8 In fact, the figure of an elderly Medea who turns herself into a demon recalls that of the age-worn Ono no Komachi, possessed by the angry spirit of her former lover in the Noh play Sotoba Komachi (Komachi on the gravepost).9 On the other hand, the idea of an aged Jason who meets Medea in Kōya Park evokes The Imperial Visit to Ōhara, wherein retired emperor Go-Shirakawa visits Kenreimon-in, his son’s widow, at a small temple near Kyoto. The protagonists, both old and saddened by life’s vicissitudes, console each other. Then the former empress compares her declining fortune to a journey through the six Buddhist realms of existence, from that of the gods to that of the demons. In addition to the cross-references to these Noh plays, the narrative structure of ‘The White-Haired Little Girl’ evokes a fukushiki mugen Noh, a ‘dream-Noh 8 Poetess of the Heian period (794–1185). She was famous for her beauty and had many suitors. According to some legends, she promised to Captain Fukakusa no Shōshō that she would become his lover if he visited her for a hundred nights. However, after visiting her for ninetynine nights, the captain died. 9 In this play, two priests from Mount Kōya meet an aged woman and discover that she is the famous poetess Ono no Komachi, worn by age and deserted by all her lovers. Sotoba Komachi was also reworked as one of Mishima’s modern Noh plays in 1952.



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in two sections.’ Usually, the first part of this type of Noh presents the encounter between the shite (the lead actor) and the waki (the secondary actor who supports the shite) in the real world, whereas the second part, which resembles a dream, reveals that the shite is the ghost of a famous historical or literary figure. Likewise, Kurahashi’s story can be divided into two sections: in the first one, the old man (the waki) encounters Misao (the shite) in the real world; whereas in the second one, he meets her in a dream and discovers that she is the witch of Colchis, transformed into a demon. Among the Noh-like elements in ‘The White-Haired Little Girl’ there is also its opening, which describes the old man’s trip to Mount Kōya: this scene evokes the typical opening of a Noh play, where the waki sets out on a journey to a faraway land and meets the shite. Typically, this trip transcends real-world spatial and temporal boundaries, because the traveler covers a long distance with a few steps. Like the traveling waki, the protagonist moves from reality to a surreal dimension – the narrator says that Mount Kōya looks like a surreal world (betsu no sekai, literally ‘a different world’). This mirrors the passage from world to anti-world in Kurahashi’s story, as the extra-diegetic narrator tells the story from the perspective of the old man, who cannot make a clear distinction between reality and dreams. Also several passengers [on the bus by which the protagonist travelled to Mount Kōya] remained still, like curled up dogs basking in the sun. It seemed as if they were looking at the landscape of a surreal world, where time stopped and sound died away at the very moment the bus halted (Kurahashi 1969 [1971]: 152). This journey toward Kōya Park reflects and inverts the structure of Komachi on the Gravepost, wherein the waki (a priest accompanied by a waki tsure, an attendant priest) travels from Mount Kōya to the capital, the opposite route of that of the old man. Parallels between Medea and the Noh plays about Ono no Komachi appear also in ‘Nagai yumeji’ (The long passage of dreams, 1968), written by Kurahashi only a year before her adaptation of Euripides’ tragedy. Here the protagonists’ parents, Fusa and Keisaku, are compared to Ono no Komachi and her suitor Captain Fukakusa and, at the same time, to Medea and Jason. In this story, which foreshadows the narrative experiment of ‘The White-Haired Little Girl,’ the characters’ faces often seem to become Noh masks. Similarly, in Kurahashi’s retelling of Euripides’ drama, the face of Misao-Medea is correlated to the masks of the zōonna (a female mask with a slightly melancholic gaze, often



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used for bodhisattva and goddesses roles),10 the nakizō (a crying woman), and the hashihime (a jealous woman transformed into a demon). Her face changes in several situations, as if Misao were a Noh actor putting on different masks. In the passage from one role to another, her identity takes on the characteristics of a performance, thus questioning the concept of unitary selfhood and revealing the mechanisms that build up her subjectivity within the narration. The reference to the Noh drama, as well as to the Greek tragedy, thus becomes a means to highlight the performativity of the narrative world of ‘The WhiteHaired Little Girl.’ It points out the mise en abyme of a story that, in turn, reproduces a theatrical performance. The very choice of calling the protagonists ‘old man’ and ‘old woman’ (this epithet is often used for Misao) recalls the names of Noh masks, such as wakaonna (young woman), uba (old woman), etc. As in a Noh play, spatial and temporal dimensions are dilated, past and present coexist in a synchronic dimension, and the basic principles of a realistic representation of reality are subverted. By combining references to both Noh theater and Greek tragedy, Kurahashi draws on an idea that aroused the interest of European and American Modernists in the first half of the twentieth century and inspired Japanese playwrights such as Kanze Hisao and Suzuki Tadashi between the 1960s and 1970s, almost in the same period when Anti-tragedies was published. In fact, working from Ernest Fenollosa’s parallel between Noh and Greek tragedies (‘Fenollosa on the Noh,’ 1916), several writers involved in the Modernist movement grew interested in the symbolic structure of Noh and combined it with elements of Greek theater. Among them, William Butler Yeats reworked the Noh repertoire in Four Plays for Dancers (1921), which also evokes Greek tragedy.11 Similarly, T.S. Eliot’s Sweeney Agonistes: Fragments of an Aristophanic Melodrama (1927–1929) was inspired by both Greek tragedy and Noh: the first verses are taken from Aeschylus’ The Libation Bearers, but when the author gives instructions to Hallie Flanagan for the theatrical adaptation, he writes that in Sweeney Agonistes the action should be stylized as in a Noh drama.12 Additionally, Ezra Pound dedicated Women of Trachis (1954), his translation of Sophocles’ trage10 11

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For further reference, see Michishige Udaka 2010 (The Secrets of Noh Masks). In At the Hawk’s Well, a retelling of the Noh play Yōro, the role of the chorus, which moves about on the stage and takes part in the action, recalls Greek tragedies. Similarly, in The Only Jealousy of Emer, all of the characters wear masks, as in Greek tragedies. (In Noh theater neither the waki nor the chorus wear masks.) For further details, see Sekine and Murray 1990. In a letter to Hallie Flanagan, dated March 18, 1933, and included in the collection Dynamo, Eliot writes: ‘The action should be stylised as in the Noh drama – see Ezra Pound’s book and Yeats’ preface and notes to The Hawk’s Well’ (Flanagan 1943: 83).

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dy, to the Japanese poet Kitazono Katsue, hoping that it could be brought to the stage by the descendants of the Noh master Umekawa Minoru.13 His work, initially published in The Hudson Review in 1954, was reprinted in Faber and Faber in 1969, the very year when ‘The White-Haired Little Girl’ was published in Japan. On the other hand, the 1960s and 1970s, when Kurahashi reworked the Greek tragedies, were characterized by a cross-pollination between Greek theater and Noh. This was explored by Japanese theater companies such as the Mei no Kai (Company of the Darkness), directed by Kanze Hisao. Significantly, between 1967 and 1971 Kanze reworked At the Hawk’s Well, one of Yeats’ Four Plays for Dancers, into a Noh play called first Taka no ido (The hawk’s well) and then Takahime (The hawk’s princess). Subsequently, he drew inspiration from Greek tragedies in plays such as Oidipūsu ō (King Oedipus, 1971), Agamenunōn (Agamemnon, 1972), and Mēdēa (Medea, 1975). In those years, Suzuki Tadashi and Ninagawa Yukio also staged their first adaptations of Greek tragedies: Euripides’ Trojan Women (Toroia no onna, 1974) and Bacchae (Bakkosu no shinnyo, 1978) by Suzuki, and Sophocles’ King Oedipus (Oidipūsu ō, 1976) and Euripides’ Medea (Ōjo Media, 1978) by Ninagawa. Therefore, it is possible to contextualize Kurahashi’s rewriting of Medea within a period of widespread interest in Greek theater and its cross-pollination with Noh, positioning ‘The White-Haired Little Girl’ as the literary counterpart to the theatrical experiments carried out by Japanese playwrights who, in turn, were inspired by Western Modernists. As in the plays by Kanze, Suzuki, and Ninagawa, the combination of intertextual references to Greek drama and Noh in Kurahashi’s adaptation functions as a cross-cultural bridge between Japanese and Western traditions. By retelling Euripides’ tragedy, Kurahashi distorts the canonic discourse of a dominant cultural system and reframes it in a Japanese Noh play, performing an operation of creative rewriting that evokes Homi Bhabha’s concept of mimicry – an imitation that simultaneously incorporates and destabilizes Western models.14 The story of Jason and Medea meeting on Mount Kōya thus becomes a narrative experiment that moves across multiple genres, between East and West, Kyoto and Corinth, world and antiworld.

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‘A version for Kitasono Katue, hoping he will use it on my dear old friend Miscio Ito, or take it to the Minoru if they can be persuaded to add to their repertoire’ (Pound 1985 [1954]: 3). For Bhabha’s concept of mimicry, see Bhabha 2004.



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Conclusion

Kurahashi’s and Mishima’s adaptations of Medea, written respectively in 1948 and 1969, mirror these writers’ ambivalent positions between modernity and tradition, Japan and the West. In retelling Euripides’ tragedy, they appropriate a foundational story of Western culture and establish a cross-cultural dialogue between both Japanese and European literary and theatrical avant-gardes. Setting the story of Medea in Tokyo in the aftermath of WWII, Mishima emphasizes the decayed ideal of traditional Japan, points out the gap between pre- and postwar society, and highlights the contradictions of Japanese modernity. Almost twenty years later, Kurahashi’s rewriting of Greek tragedies is not tinged with nostalgia for the past. Unlike Mishima, she does not use ancient Greece to imbue traditional Japan with an idealized aura. Instead, by combining Euripides’ tragedy with Noh theater, she twists a story basic to the Western literary canon and, at the same time, destabilizes the traditional order underlying Japanese realistic fiction, creating a disturbing antinarrative world.

References Cited

Baldwin, James (1895), Old Greek Stories. New York: American Book Company. Baldwin, James (1905), The Golden Fleece. New York: American Book Company. Bhabha, Homi (2004), ‘Of Mimicry and Man: The Ambivalence of Colonial Discourse,’ in The Location of Culture [1994], 121–131. London: Routledge. Bulfinch, Thomas (1934), The Age of Fable [1855]. New York: Modern Library. Eliot, Thomas Stearns (1923), ‘Ulysses, Order and Myth,’ The Dial 75, no. 4 (November): 480–483. Euripides (1998), Medea, in Euripides 1, ed. David R. Slavitt and Bovie Palmer, 13–70. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Even-Zohar, Itamar (1990), ‘The Position of Translated Literature within the Literary Polysystem,’ Poetics Today 11, no. 1: 45–51. Fenollosa, Ernest, and Ezra Pound (1916), ‘Fenollosa on the Noh,’ in ‘Noh’ or Accom­ plishment: A Study of the Classical Stage of Japan, 99–130. London: Macmillan. Flanagan, Hallie (1943), Dynamo. New York: Sloan and Pearce. Katō Michio 加藤道夫 (1947), ‘Engeki no kokyō 演劇の故郷’ (The theater birthplace), in Katō Michio zenshū 加藤道夫全集 (The collected works of Katō Michio) vol. 2, ed. Asari Keita 浅利慶太 and Suwa Tadashi 諏訪正 (1983), 32–38. Tokyo: Seidosha. Katō Michio 加藤道夫 (1948a), ‘Jan Kokutō ni tsuite ジャン・コクトオに就いて’ (About Jean Cocteau), in Katō Michio zenshū 加藤道夫全集 (The collected works of Katō



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Part 3 Negotiating Terms: The Discourse of Antiquity and Modernity

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Chapter 8

An Adoring Gaze: The Idea of Greece in Modern Japan Hiroshi Nara In 2003, the Tokyo National Museum held an exhibition entitled ‘Alexander the Great: East-West Cultural Contact from Greece to Japan’ featuring artifacts from archeological sites along the Silk Road.1 Representing Japan were objects from the Shōsōin, the imperial storage house on the compound of the temple Tōdaiji in Nara. These objects, chosen from thousands of artifacts from Tang Dynasty China, Persia, Egypt, Rome, and Greece – some dating back two thousand years or more – clearly demonstrated that these items originated in the Mediterranean regions and Central Asia, as well as in China.2 The Japanese court received these objects, presumably with much appreciation and curiosity, and stored them in the imperial storehouse for safekeeping. Given the evidence of these artifacts, the eastern terminus of this ancient trade route might have been Japan, although objects originating from Japan have not been discovered anywhere along what was once the Silk Road. Thus, from the evidence of these artifacts alone, it is not at all clear that ancient Japan received anything more than objects from the cultures that lay to Japan’s west. Yet, could ancient Japan have received other influences, such as ideas and concepts from these Western areas of the world, along with these artifacts? Objects imbued with Hellenistic influence in Japan may be evident in Buddhist iconography and in the stylistic characteristics of ancient paintings, as claimed by some nineteenth-century art historians. How might the transmission of Hellenistic objects be connected to the later rise of interest in the creation of intellectual movements, in such areas as history, literature, and philosophy, 1 Research for this chapter was supported by the Japan Iron and Steel Federation endowment funds and the Dietrich School of Arts and Sciences of the University of Pittsburgh. I thank Brenda G. Jordan for many suggestions and editing the manuscript, and Patricia Fister at the International Research Center for Japanese Studies for facilitating my research visit there. I also thank the anonymous reviewer of this chapter for pointing out various shortcomings; I did my best to address them. 2 This account is disputed by some scholars. For example, Inoue thinks some of these objects were of domestic origin (that is, copies of Persian or Mediterranean originals). See Inoue 2004, 33–42.

 Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_010 ©

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that influenced Japan’s modernization desires in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries? I intend to show that the idea of Greece spurred an intellectual momentum during the formation of modern Japan – in the Meiji (1868–1912) and Taishō (1912–1926) eras and the early prewar Shōwa years (1926–1945). Hellenism or the idea of Greece, as the term is used in this chapter, broadly refers to the values of Greek civilization as perceived by the Japanese as well as tangible manifestations (i.e., objects) originating in Greco-Roman civilization, including art, architecture, aesthetic ideals, literature, humanistic ideals, love of knowledge, and other attributes related to that ancient civilization. During the time of modern Japanese cultural identify formation, this ideological construct, that is, a broad Hellenistic influence in the form of architecture, painting, sculpture, poetry, literature, and philosophy, attracted some influential mainstream Japanese thinkers. The idea of Greece extended far beyond objects originating in such areas as Persia and the Mediterranean (e.g., Egypt, Greece, Rome). Influential writings demonstrate that the virtue of Greece was extolled and an adoring gaze upon Greece created an intellectual force that captured a broad swath of imagination among leading intellectuals, and guided them in both political and personal ways. The adoration of Greece in late nineteenth-century Japan seems unexpected; Greece was not a colonial power, and its international influence was limited during the time in question. But the idea of Greece manifested itself prominently in the arts and political discourse beginning in the 1880s and only slowly relinquished its influence in the 1930s. During this time, the idea revealed itself in different ways, changing from a hypothesis in art history to a tool in nationalist discourse, and then to a way of life among writers. The fascination with this idea, the idea we might call philhellenism, still exists in today’s Japan, although in a more muted, measured form.3 1

Japan’s Place in World Civilization

The fact that the Shōsōin objects originated during ancient times from the western regions of China and beyond is in itself not proof of Greek artistic or intellectual influence. The Japanese did not contemplate why and how 3 Greek tragedies and myths continue to be read by a broad audience. They were adapted for plays beginning in the 1890s, although Greek plays became more popular after World War II. See, for example, Kimura 2005 and Ōzasa 1985. I am grateful to the reviewer of this chapter who suggested the term ‘philhellenism.’



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foreign-looking objects came to be in the Shōsōin until the beginning of the Meiji period, because the objects were assumed to be products of domestic origin, and Japanese at that time lacked a comparative knowledge of art history that would have enabled them to relate these objects to objects from the Mediterranean. The first Westerner to see this collection and hazard a guess about the origin of these items was an English industrial designer by the name of Christopher Dresser (1834–1904), who recorded his impressions of the objects as originating in places to the west of Japan, such as China, India, Persia, Egypt, and Greece.4 A more specific connection between Greece and Japan was proposed by Ernest Fenollosa (1853–1908) only a few years after Dresser left Japan. Fenollosa came to Japan in 1878 under the aegis of the Meiji government and assumed the position of professor of political philosophy and aesthetics at Tokyo Imperial University.5 In Japan, Fenollosa found that many Buddhist temples were dilapidated and many valuable pre-Meiji artworks were being sold overseas.6 In the area of visual art, the cultural pendulum was swinging in favor of Western art with such fervor that Western-style painting (yōga) was gaining acceptance and traditional Japanese painting (nihonga), particularly the primarily 4 Dresser 1882, 97–102. Dresser visited Japan in 1876–1877. Even earlier, James Jackson Jarves wrote about Japanese art and mentioned certain ornamental similarities between Greek and Japanese work (e.g., the Greek fret). Jarves uses a Western, Greek-centered conceptual framework to contextualize the art of Japan, but does not directly suggest transmission of Hellenistic art to Japan. See Jarves 1876. The introduction to Jarves’s book states that he had spent many years studying Japanese art, although apparently he managed to produce the book without a trip to Japan. 5 During the Meiji period (1868–1912), an official policy of the Japanese government was to absorb the best technologies and conceptual frameworks from the West (e.g., military technology, manufacturing, civil engineering, legal systems, and so on) that suited Japan’s modernization needs. The Meiji government instituted a program of hiring foreign experts to jumpstart industry and the military, so as to propel the nascent nation into a modern state that would be strong enough to resist foreign invasion. This policy is often characterized by the slogans fukoku kyōhei (strong nation, strong military) and shokusan kōgyō (increase production, encourage industry). Thousands of foreigners were hired, most of whom were Americans, followed by the British, French, and Germans. For nationality breakdowns and salaries, see Uemura 2008. 6 In 1868, the Meiji government attempted to separate Buddhism and Shintoism at the recommendation of scholars who considered Buddhism to be a baleful foreign influence. As a result, Buddhist temples, paintings, and statuary were destroyed in a popular movement called haibutsu kishaku. The attempted separation caused many temples to lose their financial base, leading to a general disrepair of temple buildings that lasted well into the twentieth century. This was also the time when wealthy former samurai resorted to selling their art holdings abroad to make up for the loss of income that resulted from the end of Tokugawa shogunate.



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monochromatic ink painting style (suibokuga) that had originated in China, was declining. Having witnessed the loss of Japanese artworks to overseas buyers as well as the destruction of art due to an iconoclastic movement called haibutsu kishaku, the Meiji government, specifically the ministry of education, became more interested in protecting traditional art by the late 1870s. Although a law for the protection of old art did not take effect until 1897, some committed public figures began to voice support for the protection of so-called ‘traditional art’ earlier. For example, the art society Ryūchikai (Dragon Pond Society) was formed in 1879 with the intention of protecting and promoting old art. Fenollosa arrived in Japan just when the protection movement was gathering steam. He had already been interested in promoting yōga on his arrival to Japan, but he soon became convinced of the value of nihonga, in part through his association with many nihonga artists and ministry of education officials, as well as through the connoisseurship training he received from one of the last Kanō academy painters (Kanō Eitoku, 1815–1891).7 Soon Fenollosa began to voice support for nihonga and eventually recommended its protection and resurrection.8 He gave significant intellectual support to nihonga during the time when the ministry of industry was encouraging the export of works of traditional arts and crafts that suited Westerners’ taste and earned foreign currency. In the eyes of art experts in the education ministry, however, the quality of these mass-produced items steadily declined and undermined their efforts to revive traditional Japanese art.9 Fenollosa sought to raise the stature of traditional Japanese art in a speech delivered to the Ryūchikai in 1882, stating that Japanese painting was able to express myōsō (artistic ideas), which he considered to be essential for any worthy art, with more freedom and ease than Western painting.10 His observation was well received by the audience, whose ideology was close to that of the education ministry officials, who in turn supported the Ryūchikai’s position. Eventually, the ministry chose to take a concrete step toward protection by first cataloguing artworks in order to inform policy decisions better. Kuki Ryūichi (1852–1931), a high official in the ministry, led several trips to the Kyoto-Osaka area (in 1880, 1882, and 1984), accompanied by Fenollosa, Okakura Tenshin, and others. In 1884, on a trip to the ancient capital of Nara, Fenollosa encountered the Buddhist statue called Kuze Kannon, which had stood in Hōryūji’s Golden Hall, shrouded in dusty cloth, unseen for more than two centuries. 7 8 9 10

Satō 1999, 280. Fenollosa 1912; Kanbayashi 2002, 12, 29. Satō 1999, 87, 121–122. Fenollosa 2004, 27.



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When the statue was finally revealed, Fenollosa was astonished by what he saw. He compared the bodhisattva’s facial expression to that of a Greek sculpture, writing, But it was the aesthetic wonders of this work that attracted us most. From the front the figure is not quite so noble, but seen in profile it seemed to rise to the height of archaic Greek art. The long lines of drapery, sweeping at the two sides from shoulders to feet, were unbroken in single quiet curves approximating straight lines, giving great height and dignity to the figure. The chest was depressed, the abdomen slightly protruding, the action of the hands, holding between them a jewel or casket of medicine, rendered with vigorous modelling. But the finest feature was the profile view of the head, with its sharp Han nose, its straight clear forehead, and its rather large almost negroid lips, on which a quiet mysterious smile played, not unlike Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa’s. Recalling the archaic stiffness of Egyptian Art at its finest, it appeared still finer in the sharpness and individuality of the cutting. In slimness it was like a Gothic statue from Amiens, but far more peaceful and unified in its single system of lines.11 Fenollosa describes the statue by comparing it to various artistic styles, but he enthuses most about the qualities that rival archaic Greek art. In his other writings, Fenollosa makes a more general observation that Buddhist statues and paintings embody Greek influence. He conjectures that Japan received Greek influence in the following way: Alexander the Great planted the seed of Greek art in western Asia and left a Greek state (Bactria), which transmitted its art to Gandhara, where it mixed with Buddhist art. This Greco-Indian artistic style then traveled to China during the Han and Tang periods, and finally reached Japan. This Hellenistic influence, however, was considerably diluted by the time it reached Japan, having traveled vast distances (i.e., from Greece to Japan) over a thousand years (i.e., from the time of Alexander the Great to Japan’s Tenpyō era).12 As evidence for the easterly progression of Hellenism, Fenollosa cites a number of similarities between Hellenistic design and iconography and Japanese Buddhist sculpture, such as facial modeling, the shelllike openings of downward falling drapery, corkscrew curves in the hairstyle on statues of the Buddha, a circular grass pattern (karakusa), and so forth, which

11 12



Fenollosa 1912, 51. Fenollosa promotes the same view in several other writings. For example, see a transcript of a speech given in the city of Nara in Fenollosa 2004, 154–160. Fenollosa 1912, 45–73; Fenollosa 2004, 156–157.

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he contends cannot be explained as independent artistic developments.13 He goes so far as to situate Japanese art as representing the very eastern terminus of Hellenistic influence. In reference to the wall paintings at Hōryūji, he states, ‘we have almost surely a real, though remote, genetic connection [to Greece].’14 Though it was only a conjecture, Fenollosa’s proposal for the Greece-Japan connection had the effect of elevating the stature of Japanese art by placing Japanese art alongside Greek art and mainstream European civilization. He went on to compare Nara to Rome for the similar historical roles the cities played in their respective civilizations and raised Japanese art to the level of Greek art. In a speech delivered to an audience in the city of Nara in 1888, he states: We have ample evidence that the origin of Japanese civilization, that is, the result of the easterly progression of civilization, was caused by the invasion of the east by Alexander the Great, a Greek man, an event which deposited a seed of civilization in India. From there, [Hellenism] travelled through China and Goguryeo, arriving finally in Japan. The delicate modeling of sculptures that still exists today provides the evidence that the purity of thought of Japanese art is no different from that of Greek art…. Its art is on par with that of Europe…. Anyone wishing to see objects from this remote past must come to Nara to see them; Nara is the museum of Central Asia. Finding out about the ancient history of Japan through the study of objects in Nara is no different from European scholars’ effort to learn about ancient events by studying Roman antiquities.15 Later on in the same speech, Fenollosa laments the deplorable, dilapidated state of temples and shrines and appeals for support for the protection of old art and architecture.16 Fenollosa’s statement should be interpreted in terms of his general Hegelian orientation in aesthetics, which was that art expresses the spirit of a particular culture; thus uprooting Japanese art from its roots was unwise. Given the prevailing art scene, where traditional Japanese art appeared to be endangered and where the advent of Westernization in all areas of life was palpably felt, Fenollosa argued that the loss of tradition should be questioned. Though young – he was about thirty years old in 1883 – Fenollosa was the most influen13 14 15 16

Fenollosa 1912, 73–94. Fenollosa 1912, 94. Fenollosa 2004, 154–160. Fenollosa 2004, 159.



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tial of the foreign experts in art, so much so that policymakers in the education ministry welcomed his advice. Fenollosa’s act of juxtaposing Nara with Greece/ Rome was perceived as being worthy of serious thought because intellectuals found it useful in their effort to place traditional Japanese art, much of which Western art historians had regarded as a minor descendent of Chinese art, in relation to the art of civilizations in the West for the first time. Now, worldclass art was discovered in Japan. Fenollosa himself was not able to offer proof of his theory of the Greece-Japan connection, although he did present stylistic and formal evidence that was suggestive of the conclusion. He writes, in the posthumously published Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art (1912), ‘A full account of [Greek’s] slow passage north-eastward across the continent of Asia will, some day, fill a most romantic chapter in Art History.’17 The idea of Greece that had begun as a speculative iconographic comparison in painting and sculpture was to become a grander narrative for the history of art in Japan. Okakura Kakuzō (a.k.a. Tenshin, 1862–1913) served as an assistant and translator for Fenollosa after the latter’s arrival at the university and later became a highly influential art historian and politician in his own right. In the 1890s, he took a position similar to Fenollosa’s with regard to the Hellenistic influence in Japanese art.18 Despite the distance of several thousand miles and one thousand years separating Tenpyō Japan and ancient Greece, Okakura contended that Buddhist art in Japan’s Suiko and Tenpyō eras (i.e., roughly the sixth to the middle of the seventh century in this context) received some influence from Hellenism, although he was not as supportive of it or as West-centric as Fenollosa.19 Like Fenollosa, Okakura argued that Japan was the eastern terminus of the Silk Road and the best depository of Hellenistic influence, given the fact that very few Hellenistic artifacts and architectural remains existed along the Silk Road. Okakura’s work in serving Japanese traditional art cannot be overemphasized. He was extremely influential in matters relating to art beginning in the late 1880s, through his work with the ministry of education (working with Fenollosa and Kuki); in teaching Western, Asian, and Japanese art history

17 18 19



Fenollosa 1912, 73. Okakura 1979, 3: 320. Okakura 1979, 2: 252; Okakura 1979, 3: 168–178. The idea of the easterly progression of Greek art also made its way into some Westerners’ understanding of Japanese art. Writing in 1905 after he had traveled to Japan, the influential American architect Ralph Adams Cram (1863–1942) praised Japanese architecture and gave strong support to the Greek idea. See Cram 1906, 79, 81, 136.

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at the Tokyo School of Fine Arts; and through his directorship of the imperial museum, as well as publishing the art journal Kokka. Itō Chūta (1867–1954), a prominent architect and architectural historian, also furthered the idea of Japan’s connection to Greece. He may have been inspired by Okakura Tenshin, who was director of the Tokyo School of Fine Arts when Itō was an instructor there. In an 1893 talk at an architectural society meeting, Itō claimed that the entasis in the pillars of Hōryūji’s Second Gate (Chūmon) provided direct evidence of Greek influence on Japanese architecture. In a subsequent journal article, Itō placed the side elevation of the gate next to that of an Etruscan temple, demonstrating that the architectural proportions of these two buildings were almost identical.20 In the 1893 talk, Itō recounted the transmission of Hellenism much as Fenollosa had done, stating that although Greco-Indian influence had very much disappeared along its transmission route, Hōryūji retained its Hellenistic heritage in the shape of the pillars and overall proportions of the architecture.21 Some scholars at the talk expressed skepticism about this idea, but they were nevertheless stimulated by the possibility that Fenollosa’s idea might not be off the mark after all.22 The late nineteenth century was a time when much debate about Japanese cultural identity was accompanied by a swelling of nationalistic pride, in which the arts and culture played a major role.23 Nakae Chōmin’s (1847–1901) translation of Eugène Véron’s L’esthétique (1879), published in Japanese between 1883 and 1884, was widely read and debated in public fora, influencing the formation of national aesthetic consciousness. Other aesthetic orientations included Mori Ōgai’s (1862–1922) promotion of Eduard von Hartmann’s 20

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Itō 1893, 317–350. Ishii Keikichi, an architectural student, might have originally conceived this idea a few years before Itō. See Ishii 1893, 70–71. For a polemic account of Ito’s view, see Inoue 2004, 16–19. Itō 1893. The transcript of the question-and-answer session immediately after Itō’s talk shows that his theory was received with some skepticism. Inoue Shōichi believes that Itō was eager to make the Japan-Greece connection in part to find evidence to counter James Fergusson’s 1891 assessment that Japan did not possess any architecture worthy of mention (Inoue 2004, 65–66). See also Fergusson 1891, 710. A third influential academic who promoted the Japan-Greece connection was Hamada Kōsaku (1881–1938). As the inaugural professor of archeology at Kyoto Imperial University and with the experience of fieldwork abroad for many years, he was an intellectual authority. His Tokyo Imperial University thesis in 1905 was entitled ‘Easterly Progression of Greek Art between the Han and Tang Dynasties.’ In the thesis he argued that Buddhist sculpture received influence from Hellenism, presenting the same line of argument as Fenollosa, Okakura, and Itō. Marra 2001, 1–22; Doak 2007; Makito 2011.



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aesthetics (Aesthetik, 1886–1887, and Die Philosophie des Schönen, 1887) as well as Fenollosa’s predilection for Hegelian aesthetics. Though all of these three orientations were different from each other, the end result was that there was a fertile ground for art and aesthetics to become a major component of a new, general cultural orientation toward nihonshugi (‘Japan-ism’).24 This was also a period in international politics when Japan increasingly aligned itself with European colonialism and became a colonizer itself, in part to avoid becoming a victim of Western colonization. What was originally a defense posture was transformed into a geopolitical, expansionist ambition as this became more realizable due to modernization, with Japan’s increased industrial production and military capability, as evidenced by wars against China and Russia.25 At the same time, Japan was groping for an ideological answer to the question of its role in Asia, as it became the only Asian nation to participate in the game of international geopolitics. Culturally, Japan kept its doors open to new social and political frameworks and ideas from the West, for to not do so would have been detrimental to the country’s future.26 The perennial question in the late Meiji era was, ‘How can Japan stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Western powers and claim its rightful place in world civilization?’ Before this question could be addressed, another subsidiary question arose: ‘What is Japan’s role in Asia?’ An 1885 newspaper editorial, now commonly referred to as ‘Datsuaron’ (Leave Asia) and credited to Fukuzawa Yukichi (1835–1901), symbolizes the confrontation with this vexing question about modernization and Japan’s place in Asia. The editorial underscored the fundamental question of whether Japan should actively embrace modernization or remain in line with China and Korea, even after the government had spent twenty years transplanting Western technology to Japanese soil.27 At the same time, questions were being raised about the cost of modernization – the damage to Japan’s traditions and heritage. In reconciling these varied interests, numerous debates were held about the cultural and ethnic origins of the Japanese people. For example, architectural historians like Hasegawa Teruo (1896– 1926), Amanuma Shun’ichi (1876–1947), and Takahashi Kenji (1871–1929), among others, asked if the Hōryūji complex was a Chinese design or the result of Japan’s creative adaptation.28 Others discussed what features the land of 24 25 26 27 28



Doak 2007, 177–184. Thinkers identifying with nihonshugi included Takayama Chogyū, Inoue Tetsujirō, Kuga Katsunan, Hasegawa Nyozekan, and others. Doak 2007; Hane and Perez 2013; Jansen 2000. Hane and Perez 2013, 84–85; Jansen 2000, 436–445; Gluck 1985. Fukuzawa 1885. Inoue 2004, 188–196.

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Japan had in comparison to the West. It was thought that satisfactory answers to these questions about culture would form the basis on which to build a unified cultural community where acceptable traditions were reinforced and unacceptable ones removed, in order that a cohesive nation with shared cultural values would emerge. As a nascent nation vying to become a modern nation and a colonial power, Japan needed not only a strong military and industrial capability, but also a strong ideological narrative in the arts. The idea of Greece played a role in this discourse about Japan’s cultural lineage. 2

Geography, Origin Theories, Nature, and Romanticism

Some answers to the questions about cultural identity are outlandish from today’s perspectives; they symbolize an atmosphere of debate that was not very much encumbered by evidence or logic. Two such ‘effervescent’ examples can be discussed here. Shiga Shigetaka (1863–1927), a geographer and nationalistic writer, wrote Nihon fūkeiron in 1894, in which he discussed Japan’s geographical features. This book was the first modern Japanese work on nature to offer facts about plants, mountains, and rocks, and to provide practical advice on hiking and climbing, food for climbing/hiking, and injury response. Moreover, it was pioneering in its discussion of nature’s place in Japanese religious beliefs and in its take on why the Japanese should protect nature. Although it may seem incongruent, in the same book, Shiga emphatically states that the origin of civilization can be traced back to volcanic countries such as Italy, and consequently, Japan is mandated to serve as the origin of a future East Asian civilization.29 He points out passionately that Western civilization arose from volcanic countries and that Japan, being a volcanic country itself, should likewise become the fountainhead of Eastern civilization.30 In a similar vein, the geographer Uchimura Kanzō (1861–1930) argued, along the lines of the geographical determinism promoted by the Swiss-American geologist and geographer Arnold Guyot (1807–1884), that Japan and Greece shared the same geographical characteristics (e.g., jutting out into the ocean, being the terminuses of their respective civilizations) and similar national char­acters, and therefore should hold similar roles in the international arena. Uchimura declares, ‘Japan is a Greece in Asia. They are both situated in the eastern end of a continent. They play the role of protecting the gate to the 29 30

Shiga 1895, 112–113. Shiga 1895, 112–113.



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east.’31 Uchimura’s Chijinron begins with his acknowledgement of the idea espoused by Carl Ritter and Friedrich Ratzel, that the physical features of a land deeply affect the place’s geopolitical role in its region. Clearly, if this logic was applied to Japan, it would foreshadow Japan’s imperial ambition in Asia and the world arena. Uchimura contended that Japan resembled Europe (e.g., the Mediterranean corresponded to Japan’s Inner Sea), an argument that underscored Japan’s cultural role as a connector between the East and the West.32 The two seemingly disconnected topics – physical geography and Japan’s destiny – are in fact related to each other. Uchimura’s and Shiga’s contentions lie in the same trajectory as the ideas of Ritter and Ratzel in that the state was conceived as somewhat like an organism that required specific ‘living space,’ and for a state to survive and evolve in a Darwinian way, it might grow even at the cost of a neighboring state. This tacit expansionist view from a thinker like Uchimura may be surprising, for we know him better as a progressive promoter of Christianity. Uchimura and Shiga both believed that while the land might not control people, it significantly influenced them to behave in a particular way; thus, understanding natural features like mountain ranges and the ocean were of great consequence when attempting to take the temperature of the country’s destiny, as it were. This view also supports the line of thinking that a particular lay of land gives rise to a homogeneous cultural orientation and thus a cohesive nationalistic sentiment. Perhaps a less conspicuous aspect of Shiga’s and Uchimura’s ideas is that they expressed great interest in discussing Japan’s natural beauty in relation to the West – but not to other parts of Asia – and argued that Japan’s geographical characteristics would define the country’s international role. In their formulation, the equation ‘geography equals the destiny of a nation’ would help Japan to differentiate itself from the rest of Asia and become similar to a Western nation. Secondly, Shiga and Uchimura acknowledged the Japanese people’s interest in nature and, by discussing nature in physical terms, helped further the concept of traditional scenic beauty into a modern idea that was based more on actual geographical features, rather than the premodern, stereotypical cele­ brated views of Japan, such as the Nihon sankei (Three views of Japan).33 The 31

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Uchimura 1897, 226. Uchimura is now better known as a progressive Christian thinker, although apparently he regretted becoming a biblical scholar. See the commentary section by Suzuki Toshirō in Uchimura 1941, 197. See also Uchimura 1983, 33: 122–124, 156. Uchimura 1897, 227, 231–232. Kojima Usui (1873–1948), hailed as Japan’s father of mountaineering along with Walter Weston (1861–1940), encouraged readers to look at the physical features of Japanese

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increased interest in the actual physical features of Japan was a departure from a Sinocentric conceptualization of nature and a move toward a more Western, Romanticist view prevalent at that time. In that view, nature symbolizes the pristine, pre-industrial Japan that was being lost to modernization. In this self-conscious appraisal of Japan, we detect two rhetorical directions in the general political and intellectual discourse, to which the idea of Greece added more credibility. These rhetorical directions may be defined as differentiation on the one hand, and homogenization on the other hand. Differentiation was the idea that Japan, as the leading nation of Asia, had a mandate to stand up to the aggression of Western nations, particularly in the absence of other Asian nations’ ability to do so.34 This position called for not only military and industrial power, but a specific ideological backing as well – that Japan was ideologically considered to be particularly endowed in the area of spirituality, cultural heritage, and history, more so than other Asian nations, and thus able to resist Western colonialism more effectively. This led to the idea that Japan as a country represented the entirety of Asia, a view that was promoted to both Asian and Western nations. To be sure, Japan had adopted cultural influences from China, but it drew its heritage from another cradle of civilization – Hellenism. In other words, Japan was the place where these two cultural influences merged – a cultural estuary, as it were – and this had given birth to a very special civilization. The second rhetorical direction was the argument that Japan obviously shared many commonalities with Western nations, in terms of physical features and cultural heritage, for example – so much so that Japan was practically a Western nation.35 Japan had garnered the respect of the Western

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mountains and introduced his readers to many famous mountains in the United States, although he never made references to Greece. See, for example, Hyōga to mannen’yuki no yama in Kojima 1931, 9: 5–297. As literary critic Karatani Kōjin points out, the Meiji period was the time when the concept of fūkei (landscape) was inaugurated and came into use. In contrast, scenes depicted in Chinese shanshui paintings, which influenced Japan, are more philosophical, not naturalistic, views of the world. See Karatani 2004, 3–36. Fukuzawa’s ‘Datsuaron’ is an early example of such a view. Along this line, historian Kume Kunitake (1839–1931) speculated that Prince Shōtoku might have a similar birth myth as Jesus, in that the prince was conceived miraculously and was born in a stable. See Kume 1905. Educator and Christian minister Oyabe Zen’ichirō (1868–1941) proposed in 1924 that Genghis Khan was the same person as Minamoto no Yoshitsune and that the Japanese (not to mention the imperial household) and the Jews shared the same ethnic roots, as the Japanese were one of the ten lost Israelite tribes (Oyabe 1929). This work became a bestseller. He was not the originator of the Gen­



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colonial powers by emerging victorious in international conflicts with Qing Dynasty China (1894–5) and Russia (1904–5). For the purpose of this second argument, Japan’s fixation on the correct ideology for membership in the colonial club and, in this pursuit, an affiliation with the Classical culture of Greece was useful and desirable. It is not at all rare or unusual to find writers furthering these two rhetorical directions. However, perhaps Okakura Tenshin was most successful in promoting these seemingly contradictory fronts to the West. For example, his book The Ideals of the East (1903) attempted to symbolize Japan’s leadership role in solidarity with all of Asia (India, China, and Japan), stating, ‘Asia is one.’36 In other words, Japan should take a leading role in asserting Asia’s cultural heritage. Then in 1904, in Awakening of Japan, Okakura sketched the history of Japan in broad brushstrokes and attempted to justify Japan’s actions in Korea and Manchuria as protecting Asia from the ‘White Disaster.’37 3

Efforts to Assimilate to the West

Around the turn of the twentieth century, intellectuals were eager to associate Japan more broadly with the West, as one of the strategies to make Japan genealogically more similar to the West. This line of thought began in the 1890s. Mori Sankei (1864–1942) was one of the first to write on this topic, conjecturing that the Japanese people were a mixture of various races, but the most

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ghis Kahn theory, however; according to one theory the Confucian scholar Hayashi Razan (1583–1657) was responsible; according to another, the German geographer Philipp Franz von Siebold (1796–1866) originated this idea. Historian Kimura Takatarō (1870–1931) claimed that Japan was the source of all world civilizations in Kaiyō torai nihon shi (Kimura 1911–1912). With the preponderance of so many similar positions about this subject, it is difficult to argue that these writers were outside of the mainstream. Their works spoke to the amount of effort that was devoted to making the Japanese more Western. Okakura 1920, 1. Okakura 1904, 221. This phrase was obviously a reaction to the term ‘Yellow Peril.’ Around the time of the Russo-Japanese War in 1904, the notion of the Yellow Peril encapsulated the disquiet of Western nations about Asian immigrants from Japan and China in the West (particularly in the United States) and, to a lesser degree, the colonial role of Japan. In response to the anti-Chinese and anti-Japanese views, Japan held on to the same bifurcated argument – differentiation and homogenization – mentioned earlier. Prior to this, much discourse was written about the Caucasian origins of the Japanese race by authors such as Mori Sankei, among others, who proposed in 1893 that the Japanese actually belonged to the white race.

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noteworthy was the ‘white skinned, handsome’ race, mainly found around Kyoto, who worked as government officials and courtiers. They presumably originated from a continent in the Indian Ocean. The original people’s lifestyle was, according to Mori, similar to the white races in Europe as well as to those in India and Persia.38 Other similar origin theories continued to appear. When Kaiser Wilhelm’s coinage ‘Yellow Peril’ became emblematic of the West’s fear of Asians (specifically the Chinese) a few years later, more origin theories were advanced to counter this racism. For example, the historian and economist Taguchi Ukichi (1855–1905) argued in Ha-ōkaron (Destroy the notion of yellow peril, 1903) that the skin complexion of ruling Japanese was not actually yellow but pale and, without evidence, that the Japanese language was in the same family as Sanskrit (actually Indo-Iranian in today’s language genealogy) and Persian (actually Indo-Iranian).39 A discourse of this sort clearly positions the Japanese as being different from Chinese and more similar to Westerners. The same lack of rigor in logic and evidence found in Mori’s argument also prevailed here. In 1896, the historian and statesman Takekoshi Yosaburō (1865–1950) proposed in his Nisen gohyakunen-shi (2,500 years of Japanese history) the idea that the Japanese race might be partly Phoenician on the basis that the Phoenicians, whose major cities were located in the area now occupied by Lebanon, were good seafarers who could have traveled to the Indian subcontinent, Indonesia, and Japan in prehistoric times. He also stated that the Chinese did not share the same racial origins as the Japanese.40 In a similar vein, the journalist, writer, and translator Kuroiwa Ruikō (1862–1920) suggested in an essay in 1913 that the Heian poet Ono no Komachi (ca. 825–ca. 900) was an Indo-Aryan.41 There were others who traced the origin of the Japanese to Central Asia or the Mediterranean.42 This line of discourse proposed the origins of the Japanese people as being somewhere in Central Asia or areas closer to the Mediterranean Sea, which would make them Caucasian, the most prestigious race. These proponents countered the prevailing racist threat to the Japanese (symbolized by the Yellow Peril) by differentiating the Japanese from the now-estranged Chinese and situating the Japanese with Westerners. The impact of these Japanese writers was considerable – Taguchi was a historian and journalist; Takeko38 39 40 41 42

Mori 1893, 73–79. Taguchi 1903. Takekoshi 1896, 1–4. Kuroiwa 1971, 255. Some intellectuals, such as Shinmura Izuru and Kameda Jirō, spoke up against these views, but their efforts bore little fruit.



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shi, an influential politician and historian; and Kuroiwa, a well-known writer, novelist, and translator. The original idea of Greece, which began as an issue of the transmission of artistic ideas and motifs, became an aside to a racial theory that took Japan’s racial origins to the Mediterranean. This was a strain of nationalist ideology that proved to be useful in shoring up the nascent, modern cultural identity of a Japan that was distinctly ‘Western’ in Asia. 4

Writers Held Greece in Their Hearts

Soon the idea of Greece would come to serve a more personal intellectual momentum to strengthen the interior dimension of writers and intellectuals, as it evolved from earlier roles in the arts and origin theories. As Meiji intellectuals learned more about the West, they came to realize the foundational place that Greece held in Westerners’ intellectual orientation. By about 1900, the common understanding in Japan that Greece had been a source of human civilization but had now largely become irrelevant for modern life was replaced with the more positive view that Greek ideals should be understood and emulated in art, philosophy, and scholarship. Sakaguchi Noboru (1872–1928), a historian at the Kyoto Imperial University, told his readers in a 1917 book that a great deal of human activity in the West since antiquity had been shaped by Hellenism.43 In the concluding chapter, Sakaguchi extols the value of Greek civilization to the modern man, stating, ‘Greek civilization has an eternal life for us all; there is no doubt as to its status in international influence.’ He added that, although it may not be the most supreme form of human civilization, it was the locomotive in artistic and intellectual development.44 This fascination with Greece became more focused on the ideals of Greek civilization, such as humanistic learning as well as noble simplicity and grandeur, that were seen as being lost to modernization. Conversely, the ­attraction to the idea of the transmission of Hellenism in art had waned by the 1920s, partly due to prevailing political winds that valued the originality of Japanese culture over the notion that ancient elements of Japanese art came from abroad, and partly due to the fact that no additional evidence for Greek influ43

44



Sakaguchi 1917, 367. The Meiji government’s ministry of education produced a Japanese translation of Elizabeth M. Sewell’s First History of Greece in 1872. During the Meiji period, the government and private entities published many other translations of Greek history, philosophy, politics, literature, and poetry, as well as original works on Greek civilization. Sakaguchi 1917, 367.

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ence in Japanese art had emerged. However, the idea of Greece itself continued to stimulate writers’ imaginations after the 1920s, into the Taishō and Shōwa eras. Emulating and embodying Greek ideals became a primary goal of artistic activity. The basis for writers’ understanding of Greek ideals and philhellenism came from reading the works of British and American authors as well as the writings of German authors, such as Winckelmann, Goethe, Schiller, Hölderlin, and others, either in the original languages or in translation. There was a reason for this turn to interiority. After a period of breathless industrialization, by the 1920s Japanese people had begun to enjoy modern amenities and urban consumerism on par with the West. Politically, Japan ­developed a formidable military standing after emerging victorious from international conflicts with Qing China and Russia. These military events also helped resolve the issue of unequal treaties that had plagued the Meiji government. The late nineteenth century was also a time when various political ‘isms’ and literary movements in the West came to Japan en masse (see Gluck 1985, for example). Although, in the countries of their origin, these had slowly developed in the context of their respective social and political conditions, they were all brought to Japan in a short period of time without the benefit of historical and ­cultural contexts. Included in these foreign ideas were a variety of political philosophies, such as social Darwinism (Herbert Spencer), Marxism, and utilitarianism (J.S. Mill and Jeremy Bentham). In philosophy and literature, Kantian and neo-Kantian thought, phenomenology, existentialism, naturalism, realism, Romanticism, and many more concepts of all stripes gained a foothold. Japan was awash with European concepts, but none was rooted firmly in Japanese soil.45 Among these, literary Romanticism, beginning with Mori Ōgai’s Maihime (1890), arose in Japan as a ­reaction to a scientific and rational view of the world that had made rapid modernization possible. By its very nature, Romanticism was disdainful of the human-built world and sympathetic to the plight of the human in it, seeking escape in fantastic flights of imagination through time and space. Interest in untamed nature and its picturesque qualities were seen as morally healthier, because they symbolized man’s desire to be close to nature. The scientific gaze toward nature, as seen in the writings of Shiga and Uchimura mentioned above, for example, reflected this desire.46 A large number of writers and philosophers, such as Nagai Kafū (1879–1959), 45 46

Irokawa 1970, 76–81. The same sentiment was expressed by Raphael von Koeber, Karl Löwith, Yuasa Yasuo, and others. Uchimura stated, quoting Friedrich von Schiller’s poem, that nature is perfect in all respects and freedom is not found in the church, seminaries, or youth groups. See Uchimura 1983, 33: 122.



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Kuki Shūzō (1888–1941), Yanagita Kunio (1875–1962), Orikuchi Shinobu (1887– 1953), Watsuji Tetsurō (1889–1960), and Tanizaki Jun’ichirō (1886–1965), were deeply disillusioned by what modernization (or Westernization) had brought them, and they longed for a return to an old Japan that was seen as being more cohesive and culturally desirable. Though these men enjoyed modern amenities, they also sought solace in imagining the past, and some even longed to live a principled life like the ancient Greeks. Greek ideals, such as love of knowledge for the sake of knowledge, love of humanity and wisdom, and perfection of the body and mind, were maxims that guided not so much social or political agendas, but instead addressed very personal concerns about how to live an authentic life. In the ‘I’ novels (shishō­setsu) that explored and examined these recesses of the soul, the idea of Greece became a motivation for writers. Aside from Sakaguchi’s book on Hellenism, the most influential person in training a generation of scholars versed in Classicism was Raphael von Koeber (1848–1923), who taught philosophy at the Tokyo Imperial University from 1893 to 1914. His students included impressive young men who would become writers, philosophers, and politicians and lead the intellectual scene of the late Meiji, Taishō, and early Shōwa eras. The list is long and includes Kuki Shūzō, Nishida Kitarō (1970–1945), Tanabe Hajime (1885–1962), Abe ­Yoshishige (1883–1966), Abe Jirō (1883–1959), Natsume Sōseki (1867–1916), ­Iwanami Shigeo (1881–1946), Iwashita Sōichi (1889–1940), Iwamoto Tei (1869– 1941), and many others. As a teacher, von Koeber emphasized a German brand of broad humanistic learning, and his instruction, presented in English and German, included Greek philosophy, medieval philosophy, aesthetics, and Classical languages. He was said to have maintained a peaceful and calm demeanor as well as a sincere approach to academic learning, which was ‘perhaps reminiscent of a true Greek philosopher,’ as his student Watsuji Tetsurō put it.47 To his pupils, von Koeber strongly voiced support for broadly based, whole-person humanistic education and Greek philosophy. The cultural historian Watsuji Tetsurō is a good example of how one of von Koeber’s students internalized Greece. Watsuji was an ideologue who took von Koeber’s teaching to heart. Even in the early stage of his professional career, his commitment to the Greek ideal ran deeper than most.48 In 1923, he collabo47 48



Watsuji 1961, 6: 5–39; Watsuji 1961, 6: 43–44; Natsume 1994, 12: 461–466. Watsuji’s translation of Butcher, Some Aspects of the Greek Genius (1891), and Sakaguchi’s Sekai ni okeru Girisha bunmei no chōryū (1917) may have been instrumental in introducing Greek humanism to a Japanese audience. Von Koeber lamented in 1919 that only three students followed up on his suggestion to read Butcher’s book despite his repeated encouragement (Koeber 1967, 308).

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rated with his Classicist friend Tanaka Hidenaka (1886–1974) to produce a Japanese translation of the Anglo-Irish Classicist S.H. Butcher’s Some Aspects of the Greek Genius (1891) and produced another translation of the same book in 1940, collaborating with another Classicist. Watsuji’s adoption of the Greek ideal to strengthen his interior dimension is manifest in all of his philosophical writings. In one of his early works, Koji junrei (1919), Watsuji also promotes and celebrates Fenollosa’s thesis – of Hellenistic influence on the ancient Buddhist art of Nara – and supports the thesis of the easterly progression of Hellenism. He cites Aurel Stein’s and von Le Coq’s reports about archaeological sites along the Silk Road in Central Asia and argues for the plausibility of the progression of Hellenism to the east. As for the evidence, Watsuji’s examples are similar to Fenollosa’s – not only entasis at Tōshōdaiji and Hōryūji, but also gigaku masks, music, formal characteristics of seventh-century wall paintings at Hōryūji, clothing folds, and body modeling of Buddhist statues, to name a few.49 His expressed love for ancient Buddhist statues could not have been more effusive than when he encountered the Yakushi Nyorai (Healing Buddha) in Hōryūji’s Golden Hall. After showering it with superlatives, he compares the statue to the ideal of beauty in Greek art: This beauty is different from the beauty of the human body that we feel from Greek sculpture. Greek sculpture no doubt expresses ideal beauty as a reflection of a pinnacle of human desire, but in this Buddhist statue, we see something else, that is, a transcendent being in human form, which reflects our desire for reaching the ‘Other Shore.’50 In later writings, Watsuji often returned to the Greek theme. In Itaria koji junrei (1950), a record of his trip to Italy in 1927–1928, Watsuji assesses Italian culture 49 50

Watsuji 2012. See also the English translation in Pilgrimages to the Ancient Temples in Nara, translated by Hiroshi Nara. Watsuji 2012, 114. Art historian Yashiro Yukio (1890–1975) questioned the wisdom of comparing Japanese Buddhist statues to Greek sculptures, stating that Greek sculptures were idealized human forms, while Asian Buddhist statues were idols for worshiping. In his 1978 book Nihon bijutsu no saikentō, Yashiro reflected on the process of the Japanese becoming interested in viewing Buddhist sculptures as objects of appreciation starting in the 1920s and this attitude’s relation to the idea of Greece. He recalled that Kojima Kikuo (1887–1950), Watsuji Tetsurō, Hara Zen’ichirō (1892–1937), and others adored Greek art and became excited about starting a ‘Japanese renaissance’ like the Italian Renaissance. Such an episode characterizes the effervescent intellectual scene during the Taishō period and the interest in Greek culture. For Yashiro’s account, see Yashiro 1978, 55–71.



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as seen through the lens of Greco-Roman civilization. He observes how the Greek spirit was embodied in Roman art and architecture with various degrees of success. He notes that Japanese gardens are painstakingly maintained to look natural as idealized forms of nature that capture the essence of nature, just as a Greek sculpture embodies the essence of man.51 Watsuji was also excited to find that Greco-Roman temples in Italy exuded the same dignity as Tōshōdaiji and concluded that the Greeks were geniuses in art.52 Thus he again points to a correspondence between Greek and Japanese approaches to art in the pursuit of perfection in those respective cultures. Watsuji’s proclivity toward Greece and Romanticism was influenced, by his own admission, by the works of Goethe and Schiller, in which the authors looked to Italy and Greece for inspiration. It is difficult to overlook the fact that Watsuji produced Koji junrei and Itaria koji junrei in the same spirit as Goethe’s Italian Journey (1786–1788), written 130 years earlier during Goethe’s sojourn in his spiritual home in Italy. Attracted to Greece and its cultural descendent, Italy, Watsuji was emulating Goethe. Indeed, Watsuji considered himself a student of Goethe.53 Two other writers merit mentioning as representative of a number of writers during the interwar years who wanted to embody the Classical ideal. The author Hori Tatsuo (1904–1953) and the poet Aizu Yaichi (1881–1956), both con­ tem­poraries of Watsuji, also recognized the privileged place Greece held in their hearts.54 Hori wrote intensely self-conscious accounts (zuihitsu) of a trip to Nara in 1943 in a diary style, and these were compiled with other essays and published as Yamatoji Shinanoji. Hori makes numerous references to Greece in this work, from the mundane to the more deeply spiritual – he tries to find literary inspirations from scenes in Nara and Greek tragedies, for example. He describes the Miroku bodhisattva 51

52 53

54



Watsuji 2012, 8: 184–196. In criticizing Martin Heidegger’s Being and Time, which had just been published and which he had read while in Europe, Watsuji contended that Heidegger only considered time in his study and neglected to pay the necessary attention to the role geography played in the study of being. Watsuji 2012, 144, 158. In Pilgrimages, Watsuji is very clear about how he felt about Goethe. He writes (Watsuji 2012, 31): ‘Think of Goethe, who was extremely endowed with talent, I thought to myself. Even he regretted the fact that, when he traveled to Italy, he felt that he had not spent the necessary time to perfect his craft and that he hadn’t taken the time to acquire the necessary skills for it. There is no way around it. I must chart my own path and make progress in it, one step at a time.’ Other people who can be included in this group were Kamei Katsuichirō (1907–1966) and Machida Kōichi (1916–1993), among others.

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of Chūgūji as having an ‘archaic smile,’ a key phrase to describe his orientation. Later in the same trip, he visits Tōshōdaiji and writes: Now, the autumn sun is shining brightly on the Golden Hall and the Lecture Hall.  Pine trees cast their shadows crisply on the tile roofs and the round pillars, of which their vermillion paint had faded to gray. The trees sway in the breeze; it is the perfection of bracing freshness. This place is our Greece – That’s right, if you ever tire of worrying about little things in the world, come to this place, anytime, even for a half a day.55 To Hori, thinking about Greece is like freeing himself from daily drudgery. Nara is Japan’s Greece – that is, Nara is the origin of Japanese culture. A few days later he returns to Tōshōdaiji and remarks: I thought I had enough for today and it was time to leave. But, feeling that perhaps I’d be allowed a last, little capriciousness, I approached a round pillar. I ran my hand over the pillar, trying to get a good feel of the entasis in the mid-section of the pillar. I stopped my hand and pressed it hard against the pillar. Curiously my heart thumped. When I felt it with the hand, the pillar was still warm, warmer than the cool of the ending day. Faintly warm. It seemed that the warmth of the sun that seeped into the depth of the pillar must not have disappeared.56 The palpitations he feels are the sense of comfort of coming home by way of Greece. In both places, the phrases ‘archaic smile’ and ‘entasis’ clue us into the degree to which the idea of Greece precipitated in Hori’s mind. The warmth is a metaphor for Greece or Nara in the center of the pillar. Nara is also a focus of the writer/poet Aizu Yaichi, who wrote poems about the faraway past, which were not only about his beloved ancient Nara, but also the land of Greece. Many of his poems about Greece were cloaked as if they were about Nara. Aizu was born in Niigata, a prefecture that faces the Japan Sea and is known for gray skies and heavy snow in winter. These characteristics made him long for a warmer, sunnier place, like Nara, where lemon trees could grow.57 55 56 57

Hori 1972, 343. Hori 1972, 351. Hasegawa and Izumi 2005. This allusion to lemon trees comes from Goethe’s imagery in a poem about Mignon in Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship (Goethe 1978–1979, 127): ‘Know



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Aizu’s liking for ancient Japan and Greece was nurtured early in his life. He took a class from Lafcadio Hearn (a.k.a. Koizumi Yakumo, 1840–1904), who had a passionate leaning toward Greece, and he wrote a thesis on John Keats, who professed love for Greece, as his graduation thesis at Waseda University. Like Watsuji, Aizu held an unabashed admiration for Goethe and other writers in Classical culture. In a letter he wrote to a friend, he remarked, ‘Goethe! The greatest soul that ever existed!’ In another letter, he told the same friend about a small plaster bust of Goethe he had placed on a rotating bookcase and lamented how infrequent it had become to read names like Goethe, Homer, and Dante in literature.58 This admiration was based on what Goethe meant to Aizu – Greek perfection. Watsuji’s, Hori’s, and Aizu’s admiration of Greek culture were not as politically charged as Okakura’s, because to them it was more a personal choice about how one should live one’s life as a person than how the Greek ideal should affect Japan’s future path, although nowhere in their writings did they state that it served only their personal purposes. In 1920, Aizu founded the Nihon Girisha Gakkai (Japan Greece Association) and became its inaugural president. He dissolved the group three years later to establish an association to study Nara, an event which suggests the Greece-Nara connection in his mind. During his many trips to Nara, Aizu composed a number of Man’yōshūinspired short poems called waka, which constitute a major part of his poetry collection Rokumeishū (1940).59 One of the best-known waka written during his trip to Nara is as follows:  Ōtera no  maroki hashira no tsukikage o  tsuchi ni fumitsutsu  mono o koso omoe

The round pillars of this great Tōshōdaiji cast a shadow in the moonlight I think of the faraway past as I walk treading on the shadows

Here the poetic imagery of Tōshōdaiji is juxtaposed with that of the Parthenon in Athens.60 The parallels Aizu draws between Japan and Greece emerge clearly in the comparison of dilapidated ancient temples in Nara to Greek ruins, the

58 59 60



you the land where lemons are in flower, / Where the golden oranges glow in the dusky bower, / A gentle wind descends from the azure sky, / The myrtle is still and the laurel stretches high, / Is it known to you? / Oh there, yes, there, / Beloved, goes the way you and I should share.’ Hasegawa and Izumi 2005, 328–329. Man’yōshū is an anthology of more than 4,500 poems compiled in the eighth century. For an English translation and commentaries on Rokumeishū, see Marra 2009. Aizu himself confesses to this connection in Konsai zuihitsu. See Marra 2009, 102.

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entasis, the synonymy of Nara and ancient Greece, and the long shadows of columns that surely reminded him of Goethe’s stroll in Rome in the moonlight.61 This is the same imagery described in Goethe’s Italian Journey, which was also borrowed for Watsuji’s Koji junrei and Aizu’s poems. These Japanese writers’ love for the ancient ideal and search for cultural validation draws a parallel to prewar Germany’s fascination with Greece.62 The reference to ­‘ruins’ was a common rhetorical tool among the Romanticists to express the longing for the Classical past and nature’s dominance over the frailty of human creation.63 The prominence of Greek culture is strikingly prevalent in Aizu’s entire ­poetic output. Furthermore, Watsuji, Hori, and Aizu were by no means outliers among writers in professing their love for the Greek ideal. Conceived as the fountainhead of the revered civilization with all its unfailing virtues, Greece offered an ideal model for an aspiring intellectual to follow. For many writers and philosophers, however, this idea of Greece (and sometimes France, Italy, or the West in general) was a temporary intellectual stop in their lives, before they came back around to embrace Japanese cultural traditions. In a roundabout way, the idea of Greece brought Japanese cultural traditions into stronger relief. 5

Conclusion

The idea of Greece began as an observation of Buddhist iconography and a way to explain the transmission of Hellenism. It was primarily an interest held among art and architectural historians. In the next phrase of this transformation, the idea was utilized to show that Japan was closer to the West than one might think, followed by a stage in which Greece was placed in the service of strengthening the interiority of writers. Even though the idea of Greece in the discourses of Japanese art history and culture cannot be said to be supported strongly by evidence, it was shown to be beneficial in situating Japan’s place in world civilization, an issue that preoccupied the Japanese for at least 150 years 61 62 63

Goethe 1968, 156–157. Watsuji recorded a similar experience, clearly conscious of Goethe, when he walked through the South Gate of Tōdaiji in Watsuji 2012, 157. Butler 1935. Eliza Butler was highly critical of how pre-WWII Germany’s excessive interest in ancient Greece gripped the imagination of Germans. J.M.W. Turner’s 1795 painting Tintern Abbey shows a fascination with the ruins, which was a popular Romanticists’ motif. Another example is Goethe’s portrait, done while he was in Italy in 1786, that portrays him against a background of Roman ruins. Travelers to nineteenth-century Nara, such as Fenollosa, Okakura, Watsuji, and the poet Mizuhara Shūōshi, invariably noted the dilapidated state of the temples.



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after the country opened itself to Western influence more widely in the 1860s. In other words, the idea of Greece formed a cultural narrative on which to build a foundation for Japan’s cultural place in the world by arguing that the nation and Greece were cut from, as it were, the same spiritual cloth. The eastern progression of Hellenism does not have a great deal of intellectual momentum now, although some thinkers may still entertain the idea, if only to the extent of acknowledging that some objects that might have originated to the west of Japan are now found in Japan; the aforementioned exhibition on Alexander the Great at the Tokyo National Museum may be offered as evidence for this. The most prevalent view now, however, is that the evidence for Hellenism’s eastern reach was probably far weaker than Fenollosa’s or Watsuji’s writings suggest. Some of the most trenchant criticism of the idea of Hellenistic influence in Japan was levied by Inoue Shōichi in his book Hōryūji e no seishinshi. He discusses the plausibility of the idea of Greece as it relates particularly to the architecture of Hōryūji.64 Inoue deploys a far larger body of evidence than what I have presented in this chapter, and in more detail. In the end, Inoue debunks the idea of Hellenism in Japan, arguing that the idea of Greece was a fabrication arising from a willful neglect of evidence. He questions the validity of the formula that equates Nara with Greece/Rome and suggests that the image of ‘Nara as the ancient capital of Japan’ was a notion that was artificially produced. Such a scheme is what he calls fugō-ron or ‘correspondence-ism,’ an idea that chance correspondences (e.g., Greek entasis and the fattening of the midsection of a column at Tōshōdaiji) may appear to represent cause-and-­ effect or other meaningful relationships, but in fact Inoue sees them as an ­accidental parallelism between two unrelated but seemingly related pheno­ mena. Inoue points to the fact that writers were slow to accept the problematic idea of the eastern progression of Hellenism, even as art historians and architects who had once subscribed very ardently to the idea reversed their course or fell silent about it. In short, Inoue prefers to see independent developments, although he seems to be open to further debate if new evidence emerges about the Hellenistic influence in Japanese art. There is another way to interpret the discourse on the Greco-Japanese relationship. The integrity of the body of evidence actually matters little, because I submit that the most important thing was not the quality of evidence; rather, it was that the idea of Greece helped produce a historical narrative of Japanese cultural identity that was beneficial to the country when it was needed most, during Japan’s modernizing effort. Benedict Anderson’s idea of an imagined 64



Inoue 2004.

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community seems to give us a way to interpret these narratives of Japan’s cultural origins, ethnic roots, and the benefits of Greek ideals.65 That is, these events, half-truths, and myths nurtured cultural cohesion that was useful to Japan’s effort to become a modern nation.66 It is not unexpected that the builders of a modern nation turned to the Greco-Roman idea, rather than a domestic one, in writing this narrative. This strain of thought relates closely to the cultural particularism seen in the writings of philosophers like Watsuji Tetsurō and Kuki Shūzō during the interwar years, and eventually finds itself in postwar nihonjinron. Thus the effect of this discourse around Greece seems clear – these authors and their readers vicariously participated in flights of fancy from Japan to Greece, in a collective act of imagination that helped make Japan an imagined community with cultural continuity and a historical legacy.

References Cited

Anderson, Benedict (1991), Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. New York: Verso. Butcher, Samuel (1891), Some Aspects of the Greek Genius. London: McMillan. Butler, Eliza (1935), The Tyranny of Greece over Germany. Boston: Beacon. Cram, Ralph Adams (1906), Impressions of Japanese Architecture and the Allied Arts. New York: Baker & Taylor. Doak, Kevin (2007), A History of Nationalism in Modern Japan: Placing the People. Leiden: Brill. Dresser, Christopher (2004), Japan: Its Architecture, Art, and Art Manufactures. London: Longmans, Green & Co. Fenollosa, Ernest (2004), ‘Bijutsu Shinsetsu 美術真説’ (True theory of art), in Fenorosa bijutsu ronshū フェノローサ美術論集 (Fenollosa’s essays on art), ed. Yamaguchi Seiichi 山口静一, 7–36. Tokyo: Chūōkōron bijutsushuppan. Originally published in 1882. Fenollosa, Ernest (1912), Epochs of Chinese and Japanese Art. New York: ICG Muse, Inc. Reprinted in 2000. Fergusson, James (1891), History of Indian and Eastern Architecture. London: John Murray.

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Anderson 1991. Mythmaking and refurbishing tradition during Japan’s modernization has been a topic of much recent scholarship, represented by such works as Gluck 1985, Vlastos 1998, Shirane 2000, and others. Rowley (1997) outlines how The Tale of Genji was appropriated to support the creation of national identity and argue for Japanese culture’s superiority.



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Fukuzawa Yukichi 福沢諭吉 (1885), ‘Datsuaron 脱亜論’ (Leave Asia), in Jijishinpō 時事 新報, March 16. Gluck, Carol (1985), Japan’s Modern Myth: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Goethe, J.W. (1968), Italian Journey 1786–1788, trans. W.H. Auden and Elizabeth Mayer. New York: Schoken Books. Goethe, J.W. (1978–1979), Wilhelm Meister’s Years of Apprenticeship, trans. H.M. Waidson. London: John Calder. Hane, Mikiso, and Louis G. Perez (2013), Modern Japan: A Historical Survey. Boulder, CO: West View Press. Hasegawa Masaharu 長谷川政春 and Izumi Hisako 和泉久子 (2005), Umi yama no aida Rokumeishū 海やまのあひだ 鹿鳴集 (Between the sea and mountains, Rokumeishū). Tokyo: Meiji shoin. Hori Tatsuo 堀辰雄 (1972), Yamatoji Shinanoji 大和路 信濃路, in Hori Tatsuo-shū 堀辰 雄集 (Writings of Hori Tatsuo), 339–398. Tokyo: Shūeisha. Inoue, Shōichi 井上章一 (2004), Hōryūji e no seishinshi 法隆寺への精神史 (Intellec­tual history leading to the Hōryūji temple). Tokyo: Kōbunkan. Irokawa Daikichi 色川大吉, ed. (1970), 岡倉天心 志賀重昂 Okakura Tenshin Shiga Shigetaka (Okakura Tenshin and Shiga Shigetaka). Tokyo: Chūō kōronsha. Irokawa Daikichi 色川大吉 (1970), Meiji no bunka 明治の文化 (Meiji culture). Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Reprinted in 2007. Ishii Keikichi 石井敬吉 (1893), ‘Nippon butsuji kenchiku enkaku ryaku 日本仏寺建築 沿革略’ (A short history of Buddhist architecture in Japan), Kenchiku zasshi 建築雑 誌 (Journal of architecture) (February): 70–71. Itō Chūta 伊東忠太 (1893), ‘Hōryūji kenchikuron 法隆寺建築論’ (A theory of Horyūji architecture), in Kenchikugaku zasshi 建築学雑誌 (Journal of architectural studies) 83: 317–350. Jansen, Marius B. (2000), The Making of Modern Japan. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Jarves, James Jackson (1876), A Glimpse at the Art of Japan. New York: Hurd and Horton; and Cambridge, MA: Riverside Press. Kanbayashi Tsunemichi 神林恒道 (2002), Bigaku kotohajime美学事始め (The beginning of aesthetics). Tokyo: Keisō shobō. Karatani Kōjin 柄谷行人, (2004), Karatani Koōjin-shū 柄谷行人集 (Writings of Kara­tani Kōjin). Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Kimura Kenji 木村健二 (2005), A History of Performances of Greek and Roman Drama in Japan. Osaka: University of Osaka. Kimura Takatarō 木村鷹太郎 (1911–1912), Kaiyō torai nihon shi 海洋渡来日本史 (History of the Japanese people from abroad). Tokyo: Hakubunkan. Reprinted in 1981 by Sheru shuppan, Tokyo.



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Koeber, Raphael von (1967), Zuhitsushū 随筆集 (Collection of writings), in Meiji bungaku zenshū 明治文学全集 (Collection of Meiji literature), vol. 44: 279–311. Tokyo: Chikuma shobō. Originally published in 1918. Kojima Usui 小島烏水 (1931), Kojima Usui zenshū 小島烏水全集 (Writings of Kojima Usui). Tokyo: Keigansha. Kume Kunitake 久米邦武 (1905), Jōgū Taishi jitsuroku 上宮太子実録 (A true record of Prince Shōtoku). Tokyo: Seiretsudō. Kuroiwa Ruikō 黒岩涙香 (1971), ‘Ono no Komachi-ron 小野小町論’ (An essay on Ono no Komachi), in Kuroiwa Ruikō-shū 黒岩涙香集 (Writings of Kuroiwa Ruikō), 253– 301. Tokyo: Chikuma shobō. Originally published in 1913. Makito, Saya (2011), The Sino-Japanese War and the Birth of Japanese Nationalism, trans. David Noble. Tokyo: International House of Japan. Marra, Michael F. (2001), A History of Modern Japanese Aesthetics. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Marra, Michael F. (2009), A Poetic Guide to an Ancient Capital: Aizu Yaichi and the City of Nara. Baltimore, MD: Modern English Tanka Press. Mori Sankei 森三渓 (1893), ‘Tenson jinshu kōrin no michijun 天孫人種降臨の道順’ (The path of the sun goddess’s grandchildren’s descent to earth), Shikai 史海 23 (1893): 73–79. Natsume Sōseki 夏目漱石 (1994), Natsume Sōseki zenshū 夏目漱石全集 (Complete writings of Natsume Sōseki). Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Okakura Kakuzō (1904), Awakening of Japan. New York: Century Co. Originally published in 1903. Okakura Kakuzō (1920), The Ideals of the East. New York: Dutton. Originally published in 1904. Okakura Tenshin 岡倉天心 (1979), Okakura Tenshin zenshū 岡倉天心全集 (The complete writings of Okakura Tenshin), vols. 2 and 3. Tokyo: Heibonsha. Oyabe Zen’ichirō 小矢部善一郎 (1929), Nippon oyobi Nippon kokumin no kigen 日本お よび日本国民の起源 (The origins of Japan and its people). Tokyo: Kōseikaku. Ōzasa Yoshio 大澤義男 (1985), Nippon gendai engekishi 日本現代演劇史 (Modern history of Japanese theater), vol. 1. Tokyo: Hakusuisha. Rowley, G.G. (1997), ‘Literary Canon and National Identity: The Tale of Genji in Meiji, Japan,’ Japan Forum 9, no. 1: 1–15. Sakaguchi Noboru 坂口登 (1917), Sekai ni okeru Girisha bunmei no chōryū 世界における ギリシャ文明の潮流 (The current of Greek civilization in the world). Tokyo: Bunkaidō. Satō Dōshin 佐藤道信 (1999), Meiji kokka to kindai bijutsu 明治国家と近代美術 (Modern Japanese art and the Meiji state). Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan. Shiga Shigetaka 志賀重昂 (1895), Nihon fūkeiron 日本風景論 (A theory of Japanese landscape). Tokyo: Seikyōsha.



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Shirane, Haruo (2000), Inventing the Classics: Modernity, National Identity, and Japanese Literature. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Taguchi Ukichi田口卯吉 (1903), Ha-Ōkaron 破黄禍論 (Destroy the notion of the Yellow Peril). Tokyo: Keizai zasshisha. Takekoshi Yosaburō 竹越与三郎 (1896), Nisen gohyakunen-shi 二千五百年史 (Japan’s 2,500 years of history). Tokyo: Keiseisha Shoten. Uchimura Kanzō 内村鑑三 (1897), Chijinron 地人論 (Theory of land and man). Tokyo: Keiseisha Shoten. Uchimura Kanzō (1983), Uchimura Kanzō zenshū 内村鑑三全集 (The complete writings of Uchimura Kanzō), vol. 33. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Uemura Shōji 植村正治 (2008), ‘Salaries of Oyatoi (Japan’s Foreign Employees in Early Meiji),’ in Ryūtsū kagaku daigaku ronshū流通科学大学論集 (Essays from the Uni­ versity of Marketing and Distribution Sciences) 21: 1–24. Vlastos, Stephen, ed. (1998), Mirror of Modernity: Invented Traditions of Modern Japan. Berkeley: University of California Press. Watsuji, Tetsurō 和辻哲郎 (1961), Watsuji Tetsurō zenshū 和辻哲郎全集 (The complete writings of Watsuji Tetsurō). Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten. Watsuji, Tetsurō (2012), Koji junrei: Pilgrimages to the Ancient Temples in Nara, trans. Hiroshi Nara. Portland, ME: MerwinAsia. Originally published in Japanese in 1919 as Koji junrei 古寺巡礼 (Pilgrimages to the ancient temples) by Iwanami Shoten, Tokyo. Yashiro, Yukio 矢代幸雄 (1978), Nihon bijutsu no saikentō 日本美術の再検討 (A re­ examination of Japanese art). Tokyo: Shinchōsha. Reprinted in 1994 by Perikansha, Tokyo.



Chapter 9

Imagining Classical Antiquity in TwentiethCentury China Xin Fan The writing of history in China over the course of the twentieth century underwent tremendous change: While the circulation of Western concepts such as nation-state, race, and modernity allowed historians to place China’s past in global context, the continued influence of indigenous historiographical tradition pressed them to reconfigure those concepts in local context. In the midst of this process of introduction, adaptation, and reconfiguration, the debate on the nature of Classical antiquity has played a significant role in shaping modern Chinese historiography, and, to some extent, modern Chinese consciousness.1 The imagination of Classical antiquity as a golden age, often tied to the three earliest dynasties in Chinese history (Xia, Shang, and Zhou), was a profound theme in traditional Chinese historiography. Yet by the turn of the twentieth century when a divided view between past and present featured in Western conception of modernity was introduced to China, Chinese scholars started to debate the value of Classical antiquity in a modern society. Here, I introduce the debates about how to reconcile the relationship between Chinese and Western Classical antiquities over the course of the twentieth century. These debates, as reflection of a rich and dynamic dialogue between China’s historiographical tradition and modern Western historiography, have been taking place in the context of the professionalization of historical studies. At the beginning, non-professional historians at the turn of the twentieth century considered the term ‘Classical antiquity’ a convenient tool for periodization. With the professionalization of historical studies, by the 1920s, historians like Gu Jiegang proposed an ‘objective’ view of ancient history and detached the value of antiquity from modern life. By the 1930s, moving from the Chinese context, historians like Lei Haizong criticized the Eurocentric slant of the term and questioned the linear narrative embedded in Western 1 ‘Antiquity’ registers a cluster of terms in the Chinese linguistic context, such as shanggu 上古, gudai 古代, or gudian 古典. In this study, I place the term within its social, political, and cultural contexts in the development of world-historical historiography over the course of the twentieth century.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_011



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narrative of ancient history. The critique of Eurocentrism took on a different form during the People’s Republic of China (PRC). The introduction of the equivalence of Classical antiquity with slave society modeled on Greek and Roman cultures in Marxist historiography suffocated the free discussions on Classical antiquity and provoked silent protests among the Chinese intellectual community. Only after the 1980s were the oppositional voices released, when the ideological control started to loosen. During this time, historians like Lin Zhichun proposed to adopt ‘Classical antiquity’ as a global term. The establishment of the equivalence between Western and Chinese antiquities was a new development by the end of the century. Later, I conclude by rethinking the issue of the reception of Greek and Roman culture in a cross-cultural context. From empirical study, I have identified a dynamic and constructive process of receiving Western historical concepts among Chinese historians after the encounter of Chinese and European historiographical traditions. During this process, Chinese scholars were negotiating a new term for the concept Classical antiquity through reinterpreting traditional Chinese sources and critically examining Western historiography. As a result, a new understanding of ‘Classical antiquity’ as a global stage of historical development emerged by the end of the century. Imaginary or not, this new term has contributed to the transformation of modern Chinese historiography. Thus, the century-long conversation about Western and Chinese Classical antiquities affected Chinese scholars’ self-understanding of this country’s past with the acceptance of global modernity. In other words, I contend that the reception of the Western concept of antiquity in modern China is a constructive process, and that it eventually contributed to the formation of modern Chinese identity. With these theoretical concerns in mind, I survey the conceptual changes of the term ‘Classical antiquity’ in chronological order, and I start my inquiry from the imperial period. The pursuit to understand Classical antiquity, especially the period of the Three Dynasties, has been essential to shaping Chinese intellectuals’ perception of the world and political consciousness in imperial China (and to some extent even to today). For Chinese educated elites, the Three Dynasties refers to the purported initial era of Chinese civilization and culture, including the legendary Xia 夏, the Shang 商 (from perhaps the sixteenth to the eleventh century BC), and the Zhou 周 (from the eleventh to the third century BC). It was during this latter period, many scholars believed, that certain essential characteristics of Chinese civilization, such as the respect for authority and the subjection of individual interests to the collective good, came into being. Indeed, beginning in the Han dynasty (206 BC to 220 AD), Chinese scholars, 

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especially the Confucianists, had already invested a great deal of effort in studying this period. They considered the text was the crucial link between the classical period and contemporaneous society. By preserving, elaborating on, or inventing ancient canons, major portions of which were believed to have been created during the Three Dynasties, they created ‘a literary double of the actual world,’ wherein ‘a text-based kingship that originated in the absence of a true king, paralleled the real world as a critique, and ultimately became the basis of legislation when a true sage ruled once again.’2 In other words, the writing of the ancient past was not merely an intellectual practice, but also a way for scholars to participate in contemporaneous politics in early imperial China. In the subsequent millennium, ancient ideas underwent some profound changes. However, the political nature of interpreting the past remained an essential component of Chinese intellectuals’ conception of history. Take Confucianism, the most influential ideal system in premodern China, as an example. By the twelfth century, the traditional Confucianism had taken elements from Buddhism and Daoism and transformed itself into Neo-Confucianism (also called the school of ‘Song learning’). Song scholars such as Zhu Xi 朱熹 (1130–200) and the Cheng brothers (Cheng Yi 程颐, 1033–1107, and Cheng Hao 程颢, 1032–1085) brought some philosophical perspectives into Confucian doctrines. Unlike previous Confucianists who were less interested in transcendental thinking, Zhu Xi and his followers argued that certain ontological entities, such as xin 心 (mind), li 理 (principles, or reason), and qi 气 (ether), played an essential role in the formation of the physical and moral world. While striking the balance between learning and practice, they not only clung to ‘the doctrines on human morality, human nature, and the cosmos developed from that foundation’ but also participated in the ‘social activities that linked adherents of these views together and allowed them to put their ideas into practice.’3 From early Ming to late Qing, this Neo-Confucian thinking remained highly influential in Chinese society. Taking a more synthesized approach to understanding the world, some Neo-Confucians continued to highlight the value of the ancient past. They adopted the concept of dao 道 (the Way) as a universal principle in politics, and, revolving around it, developed a cyclic view of the past. An imagining of the Three Dynasties as a golden age was the historiographical foundation of this conception of history. Instead of periodizing by dynasties, they divided historical time into three long eras. First was antiquity, when early sage-kings 2 Lewis 1999, 7, 363. 3 Bol 2010, 78.



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of the Three Dynasties put the dao into practice in governance and propagated correct learning. Second was the period when the Way was lost during the era of Han through Tang. It was neither practiced in government nor understood by scholars. Song scholars argued that the third was the contemporaneous age, when the dao, although not yet practiced in governance, had been once again made manifest by Confucian scholars’ efforts.4 Although their thought was severely criticized by some Ming-Qing scholars, it remained influential among Chinese intellectuals in late imperial China as well as in Vietnam, Korea, and Japan. Especially after the Taiping Rebellion (1850–1871), a reinvigorated interest in Neo-Confucian ideas arose among Chinese scholar-officials.5 As the traditional understanding of antiquity had continued influence, the Western concept of Classical antiquity was introduced to China in the late nineteenth century. Like its Chinese counterpart, this Western concept had also registered a golden era at the early stage of the civilization. It served similar functions in imperial China, as during the Renaissance European scholars criticized the contemporaneous society by looking up to the high time of Greek and Roman cultures. Yet, in the wake of the French Revolution, a separation between ancient and modern increasingly became a dominant view among Western scholars.6 Meanwhile, with Western ascendancy on the global stage, nineteenth-century European scholars started to portray non-Western civilization as stagnant in social and cultural developments in contrast to a dynamic Europe rooted in Classical antiquity. The East and West followed divergent paths of development since the early stages of their histories. This thesis is the foundation of the Eurocentrism that was later dominant in Western historiography, and the constructed concept of Classical antiquity is the ‘historical foundation of Euro-Asia dichotomy.’7 Scholars like Jack Goody have criticized Eurocentric scholars’ attempt to construct ‘antiquity’ as a period that is radically different from either its prior age (the Bronze Age) or its subsequent age (the Middle Ages). Those Eurocentric scholars often assert that Greek and Roman civilization form a unique foundation for modern society, especially with regard to the invention of the modern liberal-democratic tradition.8 In the meanwhile, some Chinese intellectuals, frustrated with the state of the Chinese nation in the late nineteenth century, questioned the validity of traditional Chinese historical thinking. While criti4 5 6 7 8



Bol 2010, 101–102. Wright 1957. Fritzsche 2004, 5. Goody 2006, 65. Goody 2006, 65.

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cizing China’s past, they indiscriminately copied the temporal division between ancient and modern from Western scholars and replicated the artificial divide in history. The most prominent case in this process was the adoption of the ancient/medieval/modern periodization in history by Liang Qichao and Xia Zengyou.9 Writing history before the age of professionalization, most Chinese history writers took antiquity for granted and considered it as a convenient concept in world-historical periodization. Without a sophisticated historical investigation, they neglected the Eurocentric slant of the Western usage of antiquity. Yet, a number of them still found the Western term problematic. For example, Zhou Weihan (a.k.a. Zhou Xueqiao, 1870–1910), an early world history writer, noticed the religious connotation for this term. He wrote that Protestant historians in Europe adopted 500 AD or the end of the Roman Empire as the end of antiquity, because the latter wanted to portrait the period between 500 AD and 1500 AD. As a result, the Catholic age was defined as a dark age in world history. Less concerned with those religious connotations, he chose 1 AD as the end of his book on ancient world history, believing that the term of ‘antiquity’ was merely a tool of convenience to organize his book on world history.10 At the same time, many late Qing scholars still held on to the value of China’s ancient past, and believed that the Three Dynasties, especially the second half of the Zhou, was the golden age in Chinese history. Based on the Guocui xuebao (Journal of national essence) in Shanghai, a group of scholars such as Deng Shi (1877–1951), Huang Jie (1873–1935), and Zhang Taiyan (1869–1936) proposed a cultural agenda to transform China into a modern nation-state by returning to China’s antiquity. For them, China during the Eastern Zhou ­dynasty, in many aspects, resembles the modern nation-state, and only after that was the true Chinese tradition lost after the Qin-Han transition. Therefore, in order to modernize China now, it is imperative for the Chinese people to return to the ancient past and restore the lost ‘modern’ system.11 Apparently influenced by the Western historical concept, they tagged the period after the Qin-Han transition as the ‘dark age’ in Chinese history, paralleling the European medieval period.12 The early Republican period witnessed a rapid professionalization process in historical studies. This process created the first generation of professional historians in China, and some of them were vigorous in promoting a new un9 10 11 12

Mazur 2007, 129. Zhou 1901. Hon 2013, 34. Hon 2013, 69–71.



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derstanding of the relationship between past and present. They criticized past scholars’ obsession with ancient history and argued that antiquity was by and large irrelevant to modern society. For instance, Gu Jiegang, a professional historian, claimed that the goal for historical studies was to break from beliefs that the peoples of China were of the same origin, that the territory of China had been united since its very beginning, that the legendary figures in early mythology were historical, and that early China was a ‘Golden age.’13 Detaching antiquity from modern Chinese society, an increasing number of Chinese historians adopted a Western conception on the term ‘antiquity’ in the periodization of Chinese history. The most influential case was the publication of Guo Moruo’s Gudai shehui yanjiu (Study of ancient societies) in 1930. In this book Guo followed a Marxist materialist view of history and argued that the key to defining the era of antiquity was the economic mode of production: slavery. Reinterpreting ancient Chinese sources, he claimed that a slave society also existed in early China and dated the period of antiquity in China up to the Eastern Zhou Dynasty. Guo’s introduction of Marxist materialistic history would become highly influential in later years. Yet, it was still less dominant in the Republican period. At any rate, these scholars who embraced Western periodization in history were unaware of the Eurocentric slant in dividing history. At the same time, a small number of historians realized the problem. By the 1930s, Lei Haizong offered a more outspoken critique of the term ‘antiquity.’ Lei Haizong was one among the first generation of Chinese professional world historians to have flourished during the Republican period, and he was sensitive to concepts and periodization in history. In the 1930s, he redefined the nature of the concept ‘antiquity’ through redefining the temporal and spatial terms in historical studies. As such, he considered the term as part of a cluster of concepts framing the structure of Western historiography. These concepts include shijie (world), xiyang (the West or the Occident) and dongfang (the East or the Orient), waiguo (foreign countries), and gudai or shanggu (antiquity). In doing so, he offered a profound critique of Western historiography. Lei started with the temporal structure of Western historiography. He wrote that in most cases Chinese scholars often treated the world as foreign, as shijie was commonly regarded as waiguo in contemporary Chinese historical writing. In relation to that, xiyang was equally problematic because of its ambiguity about time and space. For instance, he questioned why contemporary books on European history mentioned nothing of the Ottoman Empire, which had a large part of its territory in Europe. How should people evaluate the 13



Gu 1962, 96–102.

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Islamic influence on early modern and modern European history? And, what was Egypt’s influence on Neolithic cultures in Europe? With those questions in mind, Lei attempted to define the term xiyang 西洋 (the West or the Occident) and argued that it usually had three layers of meaning. The first layer was what Lei called a narrow spatial meaning. It included the territory westward from Poland (in other words, it did not cover Eastern Europe) as well as the New Continent (i.e., North America). The second layer was a general cultural meaning. It referred to not only medieval and modern European cultures but also to Greco-Roman (i.e., Classical) culture. The third layer was a broad in scope. It covered Egypt, Babylonia, Greece, Rome, Islam, and Western Europe.14 From this list, he observed that, although the meaning of xiyang can be extremely broad, it never included China or India. At the same time, he also questioned the way that people in the contemporary West presumed the same nature between the Greek and Roman civilizations. He argued that, due to their varied temporalities and locations, it was rather artificial to place those two civilizations in the same category as the core of Western civilization.15 As a result, he believed that the narrow spatial meaning of xiyang is less problematic or controversial. In relation to xiyang, Lei Haizong also discussed the issue of dongfang 东方 (the Orient, or the East). He argued that, although the term xiyang covered a great range of time and space, it did not include peoples that flourished before the rise of the Greek civilization. Lei felt that the Westerners were reluctant to use xiyang to cover those peoples, so they created the term dongfang (the Orient). Then, it became tricky because the boundary between xiyang and dongfang was often ambiguous. For instance, he asked, as the center of the Greek civilization was located on the same longitude as that of Egyptian civilization, why did people call Greece ‘Occident’ and Egypt ‘Orient’? By the same token, as Islamic civilization extended its influence into Spain during its peak, why was it still called dongfang? Therefore, Lei argued that it was confusing to use the East/West dichotomy as a framework for world history, and he implied that a Eurocentric bias was embedded in the concepts xiyang and dongfang.16 Lei Haizong also criticized the Eurocentric bias in periodization of world history. He argued that the term ‘Classical antiquity’ (gudai 古代 or shanggu 上古) was problematic because the view that divided history into ancient, me14 15

16

Lei 2002, 137–138. It is interesting to note that English-language scholarship has echoed Lei Haizong’s ob­servation concerning the ambiguity of the term ‘West.’ Lewis and Wigen 1997; Lei 2002, 139. Lei 2002, 138.



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dieval, and modern had a Western origin. In the West, his contemporaries often regarded Classical antiquity as a global stage of world history, and applied it regardless in the East. He went back to examine the rise of Classical studies tradition in the West, and observed that, in the beginning, Classical antiquity referred to ancient Greece and Rome, and that Classical antiquity had held positive meaning in Europe during the Renaissance. However, at that time, European scholars had little knowledge about other regions, so that they could not have intended to use this idea to cover other parts of the world. With progress in archaeological excavations, scholars stretched its coverage to eras before the original temporal scope of Classical antiquity, and it eventually turned out that a ‘Classical antiquity’ had covered at least four thousand years in history.17 Lei continued to argue that, if the idea of Classical antiquity came from the Western context, then it was problematic to extend it to other areas. He criticized a European writer, H.G. Wells, for his extension of the coverage of ancient history to the beginning of history.18 If xiyang in any sense did not include China, then any idea of an ancient-history configuration originating in xiyang certainly could not be applied to China. As a result, he also opposed adoption of the three-stage periodization to separate out Chinese history into the shanggu, zhonggu (medieval), and jinshi (modern) according to the Western practice, as some scholars in China had been doing.19 To move a step further, Lei criticized national history as a temporal and spatial framework of historiography. He explained, Because we are accustomed to using terms like ‘Chinese history,’ ‘British history,’ and ‘European history,’ we unconsciously make the mistake of believing that a given place naturally has history. From the perspective of natural science, places do have histories, but that belongs to the domain of geology and natural geography, which has nothing to do with [human] history per se. The interplay between places and peoples, within certain temporal spans, gives rise to history. Though it might be the same place, it is not the same history.20 17 18 19

20



Lei 2002, 135. Lei 2002, 134. For example, as an earlier chapter pointed out, Zhou Weihan had adopted this three-stage periodization in his works (Zhou 1901, vol. 3). Oswald Spengler also criticizes the subdivision of history into ‘Ancient,’ ‘Medieval,’ and ‘Modern,’ and finds ‘the Ptolemaic system of history’ to be ‘an incredibly jejune and meaningless scheme’ (Spengler 1926, 16, 18, italics in original). Lei 2002, 136.

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The interplay between time, space, and peoples was central to Lei Haizong’s conception of history, which allowed him to redefine historical terms by placing them within certain temporal and spatial confines. Lei opposed taking a historical term from one temporal and spatial context and indiscriminately applying it in another.21 Dissatisfied with the current treatment of China within world history, Lei Haizong opposed the assertion that the history was unilinear pointing in a single direction.22 As he questioned the validity of the frame of ancient, medieval, and modern, he suggested considering cultures as basic categories in worldhistorical studies. He maintained that each culture was an individual entity that had its own trajectory in its own temporal and spatial development. If some Republican historians like Lei Haizong opposed the Western concept of Classical antiquity, Chinese historians in the 1950s were facing enormous political pressure to accept it. This is because the assumption of Classical antiquity as a slave-based society is a crucial link in the teleological structure of Marxist historiography, and this historiography is, at the same time, an inseparable part of the communist totalitarian thought system.23 Any attempts to challenge this conception would potentially endanger the ideological foundations of the new regime. Facing the pressure, Chinese historians had to be very cautious to voice their opinions. Yet, at least, some of them were worried about whether a European model adopted in Marxist historiography could be directly applied to China without modification.24 After the loosening of ideological control in China following the death of Mao, Chinese historians became more critical of the Eurocentric slant that was embedded in Marxist historiography. From the 1980s, the debate on the alternative model in Marxist historiography (with a modest origin in the 1950s) was gradually transformed into the discussions on city-states among Chinese historians of the ancient world. From subtle revision to open challenge, they gradually abandoned the Marxist framework in the study of ancient world history. In this development, the changing conception of Classical antiquity by historian Lin Zhichun was a good example.

21 22 23

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Lei 2002, 136. Lei 2002, 139, 243; Duara 1995, 40. Marxist historians divided world history into five stages including primitive, slave, medieval, capitalist, and communist society. Slave economy became the defining nature of Classical antiquity. For the dynamics of historiography in the Communist Era, see Weigelin-Schwiedrzik 2006, 3–23; Wang 2000, 95–111.



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Lin Zhichun 林志纯 (a.k.a Rizhi 日知, 1910–2007) started as an orthodox Marxist historian. In the 1950s, his discussion with Tong Shuye (1908–1968), another early convert of Marxist historiography, on the alternative model in ancient world history was an important development in the historical studies of establishing China’s place within a world-historical context.25 Yet, by the 1980s, Lin gradually gave up his orthodox thought and proposed the concept of ‘global Classical antiquity’ as a stage in world history, in which he placed Chinese and Western civilizations on equal terms. The key is the concept of citystates. For many scholars in the West, city-states are the defining character of Greek civilization (to some extent, the Roman civilization as well). Yet, Lin thought otherwise. Engaging the discussion of city-states, Lin Zhichun organized a massive collective project, which led to the publication of Gudai chengbangshi yanjiu 古代城邦史研究 (The study of the history of ancient city-states) in 1989. The most important achievement of this work was to implement the thesis of city-states as a common stage of human development and to integrate this thesis with the study of ancient Chinese history. The book displays an extensive scope of collaborative research. Lin, as the project leader, managed to recruit a strong team representing the most researched areas in ancient world-historical studies in China, from primitive society to Mesopotamian civilizations. The final collection is divided into two parts. The first part has four chapters, all of which are written by Lin Zhichun (the last one with the assistance of his student, [Chai] Xiaoying 柴]晓颖). It is a general discussion of defining, theorizing, and periodizing city-states in the ancient world. The second part is an attempt to apply the theory to practice. It contains ten case studies of ancient city-states, each of which presents as an individual chapter and is composed by a specialist on the topic. Those case studies cover a wide range in ancient world history, which includes the origins of human beings, the transition from primitive to civilizational ages, ancient Egyptian kingdoms, Sumerian city-state leagues, Indian city-states, a brief history of the Greek city-state Argos, a discussion of Athenian democracy from the sixth to the fourth century BC, the origin of Rome as a city-state, the rise and development of Chu 楚,26 the founding of Zhou 周 and its relations with other regions, and a research note on oracle-bone records of the Xia 夏 people. As a collective project, chapters in the second part of the volume are not necessarily consistent with the arguments and ideas that Lin Zhichun 25 26



The debate took place in the 1950s. However, due to ideological pressure, it ended abruptly after the political campaigns in 1957. Chu was an ancient state in early China, a major power during the Eastern Zhou period.

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proposed in the first part. They even contradict each other at times.27 However, it does not diminish the significance of the book as an attempt to implement theory from ancient world history to redefine the nature of ancient Chinese society. For instance, in his early works, Lin Zhichun argued that city-states were the initial stage of civilization, and that the political system of city-states was democratic. In this collection, he reinforced his thesis by saying, ‘There was no despotism in the age of city-states, and despotic politics was not even known to [the people of that time].’28 This was the same in China and in the West, he held. To build upon this understanding, Lin and his colleagues claimed that ancient Chinese history now had a new world-historical significance. They argued that Chinese civilization was the only ancient civilization that had a continuously written record and thereby offered scholars a unique lens through which to examine the nature of ancient city-states (Rizhi 1989: 4). Lin explained that, among ancient civilizations, the Indus River or the Harappan civilization in India, the Aegean or the Cretan Mycenaean civilization in Greece, and the Sume­ rian or Akkadian civilization in Mesopotamia all left little record to people of today, and similarly Mayan civilization was destroyed by Spanish invaders.29 Some parts of those ancient sites were yet to be discovered by archaeological excavations. Therefore, scholars were only able to look to Greek and Roman historical sources to study ancient city-states that had already formed at least a thousand years after the earliest ones. Now, scholars could be in a better position to understand the stage of city-states in the world-historical context by examining the nature of ancient city-states in China. In other words, given the paucity of evidence on ancient city-states elsewhere in the world, Lin argued that China could offer valuable evidence from its own ancient city-states. Yet, Lin went on that Chinese historiography had neglected to show the existence of city-states in early China, which led to the assertion that China remained a unified empire since its early history.30 Like Gu Jiegang’s critique of the premodern Chinese historiographical tradition, Lin also blamed the lack of record of city-states in early China on the dynastic historical tradition. He argued that, because of the purpose to legitimize the dynastic monarchy, later historians distorted the historical records of city-states and projected the con27 28 29

30

Rizhi 1989, 5–6. Rizhi 1989, 3. The Indus Valley Civilization was a Bronze Age civilization located in the western region of South Asia, whose apex is estimated to have spanned from the twenty-sixth century BC to the nineteenth century BC. Rizhi 1989, 20.



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cept of grand unification into early Chinese history. Therefore, a critical view was required to rediscover the neglected narratives of city-states in ancient Chinese sources. To build upon this point, Lin further asserted that there was no central leadership among various states during the Spring and Autumn Period and that Confucius’s grand unification was rather a later invention.31 This contradicted the traditional narrative that claimed the Zhou state was the common ruler over entire Chinese area.32 Then, what was the relationship between Zhou and other states during this period? In that regard, Lin Zhichun argued that there existed a league of city-states in early Chinese history, and Zhou was the leader of the league. However, no matter how massive the scope that the Zhou league claimed, Zhou was still a state among others, and the relations among them were equal. Therefore, the league of city-states remained a loose league of independent states, unlike the empires that emerged from the collapse of city-states in the later stage of the ancient world. This non-empire stage ended in the Warring States period in China.33 After clarifying some basic concepts regarding ancient city-states in China and throughout the rest of the world, Lin Zhichun conducted a world-historical survey of political systems in ancient city-states. He analyzed city-state politics at three levels: On the first level was the assembly of citizens. Lin argued that city-states were the first form of political unit in civilizational history. They were composed by the entire body of citizens, who assembled to execute power. In ancient Greece and Rome, members of city-states were called ‘citizens.’ In China, they were called bangren 邦人, guoren 国人 or zhong 众. In Sumer, the meeting of citizens was unkin, and in India, it was sabha. Like those in ancient Greece and Rome, those citizens also had privileges in their own city-states. Therefore, Lin concluded that citizens were masters of citystates.34

31 32

33 34



Rizhi 1989, 20–21, 52. For example, Lin Zhichun discovered that, according to Zuozhuan 左传 (The commentary of Zuo), Zhou rulers claimed that they controlled the area of the entire tianxia 天下, or, in other words, the scope of the entire world known to the Chinese at that time (Rizhi 1989, 21). Rizhi 1989, 24. Lin Zhichun focused on ancient Chinese sources of guoren and zhong. He discovered more than three hundred references regarding these sources in the three commentaries of the Chunqiu 春秋 (Spring and autumn annals): Zuozhuan 左传, Guliang 谷梁, and Gongyang 公羊. He also used the Zhouguan 周官 or the Zhouli 周礼 (Rizhi 1989, 29).

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On the second level was the council of zhanglao 长老 (elders). Lin argued that The Epic of Gilgamesh was the earliest record of such an institution.35 In China, the earliest record can at least be found in Pan’geng 盘庚.36 He argued that the first part of Pan’geng was the record of the assembly, and the second part referred to the council of elders. The Boule in Athens, Gerousia in Sparta, and Senatus in Rome performed similar duties, as well as the Samiti in ancient India.37 In Classical Chinese, Lin argued that the elders in the council were called zhu dafu 诸大夫.38 On the third level was the leadership of the state. Lin discovered that there was a separation of political, religious, and military powers among the leadership of early city-states. Sumer, ancient Greece, and ancient China followed almost the same structure of the division of power within which political, religious, and military power was distributed among three positions.39 (For detail, see the following chart.) States

Political power

Religious power

Military power

Sumer Athens

Ensi Archon (ἄρχων)

En Basileus (Βασιλεύς)40

Ancient China

Qing 卿

Jun 君

Lugal Polemarchos (πολέμαρχος) Wang 王

Aside from constructing a common political structure for early city-states, Lin Zhichun also discussed the difference between leagues of city-states and empires. He denied that any unified empire could have ever existed at this stage of historical development. The record of ancient ‘empires’ was merely about some loose leagues of city-states. 35 36 37 38 39

40

Rizhi 1989, 37. Pan’geng is a chapter in the Book of Classics 尚书 that records the story of an ancient Shang king named Pan’geng who relocated his country. Rizhi 1989, 37. Lin Zhichun claimed that he had discovered dozens of occurrences of ‘Zhudafu’ in the commentaries of Chunqiu 春秋 (Rizhi 1989, 40). However, Lin admitted that at different stages of city-state development, there were variations in the power distribution. In some cases, there might be only two of these positions existing in the record (Rizhi 1989, 47). The legendary king in Athens was called an ‘anax’ (ἄναξ). Lin argued that this term was quite similar to ‘di 帝’ (out of 三皇五帝) in ancient Chinese history (Rizhi 1989, 47).



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By interpreting and analyzing ancient sources, Lin Zhichun eventually defined the trajectory of ancient civilizations. He concluded that there were four common stages in the development of city-states: first, the legendary era and primitive democratic city-states; second, the epic era and primitive monarchical city-states; third, the Spring and Autumn era and gong-qing 公卿 citystates;41 fourth, the Warring States era and the transition to empires.42 Like Lei Haizong, he adopted Chinese periodization and applied it to ancient world history. In doing so, Lin Zhichun and his colleagues attempted to challenge the Eurocentric view of Classical antiquity and claimed that ancient democracy was not a monopoly of Western civilization and that civilizations in the East and West shared the same nature and followed similar trajectories in historical development. From the past discussion on the concept ‘antiquity,’ we can find a long-existing critique of Eurocentrism in the writing of ancient world history in China. This critique also points to some other problems in modern historiography, such as the simplistic and teleological understanding of world-historical development and the dominance of national history over other historiographical genres. With increased cross-cultural contact today, it is both significant and timely to rehabilitate the historiographical value of past Chinese writings on the concept of Classical antiquity. Yet, scholars today are still facing the same issue of how to reconcile the cultural barriers between East and West in a truly global narrative.

Conclusion

I conclude by returning to the issue of the ‘reception’ of Greek and Roman antiquity in East Asia. Scholars of cultural studies have argued that the formation of modern identity is based on a ruptured view of time by which people often alienated their contemporary experience from the past. As a result, the past has become a ‘foreign country’ which is amazingly bizarre and lacks connection to modern society.43 I have examined the past critiques of the concept of Classical antiquity in Chinese-language scholarship, and I argue that to uncov41

42 43



This was the height of ancient democracy. In China and Greece alike, the executive power of the state shifted from a king (Jun in Chinese and Basileus in Greek) to non-hereditary positions (such as archon or polemarchos in Greek and gong or qing in Chinese) (Rizhi 1989, 78–79). Rizhi 1989, 61. Lowenthal 1985.

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er this complicated process of introduction, adaptation, and reconfiguration of the Western conception ‘antiquity’ further helps us shed light on the very concept ‘reception’ in a cross-cultural context, especially at the time that that a number of postcolonial/poststructuralist scholars have questioned whether or not this process of reception is even theoretically possible. For instance, in her pioneering research on the translation in cross-cultural exchanges between China and the West, Lydia Liu emphasizes the incommensurability of Western and Chinese languages and argues that that translation is merely an attempt to establish hypothetical equivalents between guest and host languages. In this regard, meaning is historically contingent and shaped by power relations. With Lydia Liu’s famous translingual practice thesis in mind, one has to ask, if translation is only a practical process, is a study on the reception of Greek and Roman antiquity in East Asia even possible?44 To build upon her assertion, would it be possible for us to argue that reception, like translation, is merely a subjective and imaginary process? In other words, if there is nothing real in the study of the reception of Greek and Roman culture, then what we have today is merely an imagination of ancient Greek and Roman antiquity in a modern society. By contrast, an equally interesting question is, would it be possible for one to go to the other extremity to argue that, yes, there is an unchangeable core of Greek and Roman culture and the ideas and concepts that constitute this real core travel through various temporal and spatial contexts, and to catch this real core is the purpose of the studies on reception. By the same token, if we can define the core of the cultural tradition, we could easily tell what belongs to the false or correct reception. In this study, I have examined the contentious and contingent process of the application of the concept of antiquity as a way to periodize history in China. I have found that Chinese scholars have had different interpretations of this concept at various stages of the development of historical studies. Indeed, this is the process of introduction, adaptation, and reconfiguration. Yet, disputing both of the above theses, I argue that the reception of the Western concept antiquity in modern China indicates that it is a constructive process, and it is constructive for both guest and host cultures. This argument calls on two propositions: First, we need to appreciate not only the complexity of Greek and Roman culture but also the efforts to get hold of its essence in a modern context. Scholars since M.I. Finley have already suggested studying Greek and Roman society on its own terms and found an amazing complexity within it, and at the same time one could argue that due 44

Liu 1995.



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to its complexity Greek and Roman culture is open to various interpretations in different historical contexts. Each generation of scholars has its own concerns and interests in studying Classical antiquity. As a result, the making of the Classical tradition becomes a way to pick and choose from the highly complex Greek and Roman culture in hindsight. As scholars from East Asia start to participate in this process, the way they conceive Greek and Roman antiquity becomes a constructive process in the making of Western Classical tradition in a global age. Second, reception of Greek and Roman culture, as reflected in this chapter, was not a superficial process, and it had a lasting cultural, social, and even political consequence in China. For example, the questioning of the Western conception of Classical antiquity at the beginning of the century took on different forms and presented itself again and again throughout the entire century. It eventually stimulated a strong scholarly interest in the study of ancient city states in post-Mao China. The revival of research interest in Western and Chinese classics in China today is certainly also a positive impact of this process. To be sure, this study is merely a beginning of the attempt to revive the research interest in the Western Classical tradition in a cross-cultural context. Without a doubt, a more rigorous research agenda on this topic will help scholars from all over the world achieve the noble dream: sharing traditions in a globalized society.

References Cited

Bol, Peter (2010), Neo-Confucianism in History. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Duara, Prasenjit (1995), Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Narratives of Modern China. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Fritzsche, Peter (2004), Stranded in the Present: Modern Time and the Melancholy of History. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Goody, Jack (2006), The Theft of History. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gu Jiegang 顾颉刚 (1962), ‘Da Liu Hu xiansheng shu 答刘胡两先生书’ (A letter to Mr. Liu and Hu), in Gushi Bian 古史辨 (Debates on ancient history), ed. Gu Jiegang, 1: 96–102. Hong Kong: Taiping shuju. Hon, Tze-ki (2013), Revolution as Restoration: Guocui Xuebao and China’s Path to Moder­ nity, 1905–1911. Boston: Brill. Lei Haizong 雷海宗 (2002), Bolun shixue ji 伯伦史学集 (A collection of Lei Haizong’s historiographical works). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Lewis, Mark Edward (1999), Writing and Authority in Early China. Albany: State University of New York Press.



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Lewis, Martin W., and Karen E. Wigen (1997), The Myth of Continents: A Critique of Meta­ geography. Berkeley: University of California Press. Liu, Lydia H. (1995), Translingual Practice: Literature, National Culture, and Translated Moder­nity: China, 1900–1937. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Lowenthal, David (1985), The Past Is a Foreign Country. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mazur, Mary (2007), ‘Discontinuous Continuity: The Beginnings of a New Synthesis of “General History” in 20th-Century China,’ in The Politics of Historical Production in Late Qing and Republican China, ed. Tze-ki Hon and Robert J. Culp, 107–142. Leiden: Brill. Rizhi 日知, ed. (1989), Gudai chengbangshi yanjiu 古代城邦史研究 (The study of the history of ancient city-states). Beijing: Renmin chubanshe. Spengler, Oswald (1926), The Decline of the West, trans. Charles Atkinson. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Wang, Q. Edward (2000), ‘Between Marxism and Nationalism: Chinese Historiography and the Soviet Influence, 1949–1963,’ Journal of Contemporary China 9: 95–111. Weigelin-Schwiedrzik, Susanne (2006), ‘Back to the Past: Chinese Intellectuals in Search of Historical Legitimacy (1957–1965),’ Berliner China-Hefte/Chinese History and Society 31: 3–23. Wright, Mary C. (1957), The Last Stand of Chinese Conservatism: The T’ung-Chih Resto­ ration, 1862–1874. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Zhou Weihan 周维瀚 (1901), Xishi gangmu 西史纲目 (Outline of Western history). Shanghai: Jingshi wenshe.



Chapter 10

Leo Strauss and the Rebirth of Classics in China Xiaofeng Liu Translated by Guangchen Chen* In recent years, there have been continuous calls for the elevation of ‘national studies’1 as a primary-level subject2 in China’s university system. There has also been the claim that this is in keeping with China’s ‘peaceful rise.’ In effect, setting the political imagination of ‘peaceful rise’ aside, the establishment of Classical humanities has always been a foundational concern for any civilization’s education system. The humanities section of primary-level subjects in Chinese academia has long been criticized. It is indeed time to thoroughly reconsider the configuration of this system. ‘National studies’ as a term has existed since ancient times, but its meanings differ. The modern sense of the term appeared at the end of the Qing Dynasty (1644–1911) and became popular around the time of the May Fourth Movement (1919). Almost simultaneously, terms like ‘sinology’ and ‘Chinese studies,’ as well as others, appeared as distinct from ‘Western studies.’ Conceptualizations as such are intended to protect China’s humanities tradition from falling apart in the face of overwhelming Western influence and to cope with a political crisis unprecedented in Chinese history. Without exception, concepts like these situate China’s humanities crisis against the background of the quarrel between East and West. As we know, on the one hand, so-called ‘national studies’ or ‘Chinese studies’ designate the entire tradition of Chinese scholarship. But, on the other hand, the concept of ‘Western studies’ is not the former’s equivalent counterpart. What we in China call ‘Western studies’ in effect denotes the modern scholarship established since the Renaissance but does not necessarily include the Greek and Latin Classics. What is not readily apparent here is an issue of crucial importance: * Footnotes denoted by ‘**’ are by the translator of this chapter. 1 **The original Chinese term guoxue literally translates as ‘national studies.’ In the Chinese context, it means the study of classical Chinese texts mainly in the humanities. As a parallel concept of the Western Classics, it has seldom been free from a nationalistic overtone. 2 **A primary-level subject is one of the fundamental subjects of study in postgraduate education defined by the Chinese Ministry of Education. These subjects provide a basic structure for Chinese universities to organize their postgraduate education.

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Western scholarship contains in itself ‘the split’ or ‘the quarrel between the ancients and moderns,’ whereas the term ‘national studies’ means the unbroken tradition of Chinese scholarship. The juxtaposition and contradistinction of national studies and Western studies betray our lack of understanding of that very important split in the West. Most intriguingly, the same lack of understanding was also embedded in the May Fourth Movement’s critique of traditional Chinese scholarship. Let me give two examples. In Zhang Taiyan’s3 A Critical Discourse on National Classics and Brief Notes on National Studies, ‘national studies’ is treated as a synonym of ‘national classics,’ which belongs exclusively to the past, while the equivalent ‘Western studies’ only means modern Western scholarship, and carries the connotation of progress. In this context, the validity of national studies as a scholarship from the past (i.e., non-progressive) becomes something that constantly requires justification. Another example: Chinese universities were founded either by Western missionaries or by Chinese following Western models. The core of their organ­ ization invariably consists of practical subjects such as physics, technology, agriculture, medicine, jurisprudence, economics, sociology, and politics. In this sense, Chinese universities are transplantations of modern Western uni­ versities. Before the late Qing era, there was no ‘university’ in China. Today, after de­­cades of development, the ideal of the late Qing’s Self-Strengthening Move­ment4 is finally realized – that a seat at an academy of science or technology is a prerequisite for a university president. But then, where do we find the continuation of traditional Chinese scholarship? A civilization bases its foundation upon its language, its literature, and especially its classics. It is true that all Chinese high school students are required to study (Chinese) language and literature, but its scope is still very limited, with modern literature being the main component. Once at a university, students find themselves majoring in more practical subjects, no longer having a chance or an obligation to study the classics. Humanistic education is central to a university. Its core is the historically formed cannon of classical texts. But in today’s Chinese universities, it plays a rather small role and obviously is no longer the foundation of modern university education. The departments of Chinese language and literature are far 3 **Zhang Taiyan, also called Zhang Binglin (1868–1936), was a leading Chinese philologist, historian, philosopher, and revolutionary. 4 **The Self-Strengthening Movement (ca. 1861–1895) was a reform program initiated by the Qing government that aimed at adopting Western military technology while explicitly rejecting social reform.



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smaller in size compared to foreign language departments devoted to English, French, German, Italian, Russian, and Spanish, etc. But these languages’ histories extend no more than five to six hundred years, which makes the underprivileged position of Chinese and the absence of Latin and Greek all the more striking. What is more, these departments have a strong utilitarian rather than literary emphasis. The primary concerns of Chinese universities were, and still are, dictated by international competitions. But this should not be the reason for the neglect of humanistic education. There are two further questions to ask: Where is China’s Classical scholarship? Where is Western Classical scholarship? Today, Chinese ‘national studies’ is divided among the departments of literature, history, and philosophy. But ‘literature,’ ‘history,’ and ‘philosophy’ are typically Western concepts. This means ‘national studies’ has been restructured according to Western definitions. What is more, these three departments are mostly guided by trendy contemporary Western theories. In the history department, Chinese ‘national studies’ plays the biggest role; but it is precisely in this department that one witnesses the most thorough Westernization, with the recent overwhelming rise of anthropology being the clearest evidence. Even contemporary Confucian studies, the subject closest to Chinese ethical tradition, cannot help but rely upon various modern theories to understand itself. One of the causes for this awkward situation is our lack of a classical perspective, our ignorance of Western Classical scholarship, and hence the foundation of modern Western scholarship. At this point, it is apt to turn to an important figure in Western philosophy who has provided answers to a lot of the questions raised so far. What makes the topic more significant is that this figure also causes curious resonances in China. Perhaps no other philosopher, both in theory and practice, embodies the historic tension between the ancients and moderns better than Leo Strauss. Before turning to his thought in detail, I want to talk about the introduction of his works to China, a project in which I am personally involved. Since Yan Fu5 published his 1898 translation of Thomas Huxley’s Evolution and Ethics, China has witnessed three major waves of translating Western scholarship, and the scale increases each time. After the first wave, represented by Yan Fu, the second wave came between the May Fourth Movement and 1966, with its major outcome being the translation of the first ‘politico-juridical can5 **Yan Fu (1854–1921) was a pioneer in translating modern Western Classics. He turned to translation after studying at Royal Naval College, England, and became especially influential for his introduction of Thomas Huxley’s writings on evolution theory.



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on’ – the complete works of Marx, Engels, Lenin, and Stalin. At this point, the plan to translate the Western cannon according to a Marxist perspective was also outlined. The 1980s saw the third wave of translations, which con­tinues to this day. The canonical works selected by Yan Fu mostly fall into the liberalist tradition; translation projects since the May Fourth Movement in general do not deviate from Yan Fu’s focus, and go on to broaden Chinese intellectuals’ perspectives on Western liberalism and the Enlightenment worldview. In retrospect, it is obvious that every time Western works on political philosophy and law are introduced, controversies arise. This seems to indicate that Chinese intellectuals are strongly opinionated in this regard. Yan Fu, for example, criticized Liang Qichao6 for translating Jean-Jacques Rousseau; according to Yan, regardless of its merits, it was better not to introduce this kind of thinking.7 On the other hand, the most eye-catching translations – and arguably the most effective politically – are those of the Marxist works on political theory, though there are, as always, people who speak against them. It is not difficult to understand the reason for Chinese scholars’ discrimination: for them, this is not a purely scholarly endeavor; their major concern behind this project is a crucial and practical problem, namely how to shape a new China. Thus, it is no surprise that the third wave of translating Western scholarship in the last two decades has been filled with controversy. For example, I was criticized for introducing Christian theology early on, though it did not cause any major debate. However, around 2000, I started to introduce Carl Schmitt’s ‘political jurisprudence’ and especially Leo Strauss’s ‘Classical political philosophy,’ and strong criticisms immediately followed. Many people, including Western scholars whose attention is not usually directed to China, ask why I introduced Strauss. Faced with this question, I have my own perplexities. In Western universities, Strauss’s thought is not a very trendy topic, but the Chinese intellectual community has indeed paid much attention to him. Some scholars have a skeptical or even strongly averse attitude toward him. This is indeed natural. What baffles me is that, when we introduce more prominent theories by people like Michel Foucault, John Rawls, Jürgen Habermas, Friedrich Hayek, and Jacques Derrida, I do not hear Western scholars ask why we introduce them; neither have Chinese scholars expressed such a doubtful or fiercely oppositional attitude. Why does the relatively less prominent Strauss alone cause such a fuss? 6 **Liang Qichao (1873–1929) was a prominent scholar who led the constitutional monarch reform movement. 7 Cai 1990.



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Strauss’s theory is called ‘political philosophy,’ but so are the more popular theories by the aforementioned names. The difference is that Strauss’s has the attribute ‘Classical,’ or to be more precise, ‘Platonic.’ Therefore, the real problem lies in why this ‘Classical’ or ‘Platonic’ attribute sparks such a controversy. Today, ‘political philosophy’ primarily signifies a division within philosophy, next to other divisions such as ethics, religious studies, aesthetics, and social theory. That is why in universities the department of political science is placed side by side with those of economics and sociology. This is a new system of taxonomy that has come into being in the modern era; it did not exist in either ancient China or ancient Europe. As early as the 1930s, there were already discussions about Confucius’s or Zhuangzi’s ‘political philosophy,’ which meant that they also had economic and ethical thoughts, etc. In Lang Qingxiao’s Zhuangzi Doctrine, after discussing the authenticity of certain chapters in Zhuangzi, the author goes on to talk about Zhuangzi’s ‘ontology,’ ‘philosophy of nature,’ ‘theory of evolution,’ ‘philosophy of life,’ ‘political philosophy,’ ‘economics,’ ‘psychology,’ ‘dialectics,’ and ‘literary theory.’ This is evidence of Western thought’s dissection and restructuring of Classical Chinese scholarship, exactly like what it has done to Western Classical scholarship. A funny example would be to try to interpret Zhuangzi as a liberalist classic. The more prominent theories of Foucault, Rawls, Habermas, and Derrida are not subject to divisions such as political philosophy. Strictly speaking, they are ‘discourses’ rather than political philosophy. For example, liberalism, conservatism, neo-Leftism, structuralism, feminism, etc., are not subjects in a ­disciplinary sense, and hence cannot be taxonomized as such. They appear to overlap with ethics, religious studies, aesthetics, sociology, and so on. If we open a current textbook of political philosophy, we are likely to come across such theories. And they all become popular first in the West, then in China. In this sense, Strauss’s Classical political philosophy seems to be one among them. However, these discourses are similar to Classical political philosophy only in appearance. From a Classical point of view, they are not strictly political philosophy, because in the Western tradition, the meaning of ‘philosophy’ primarily denotes contemplative reflection; even political philosophy has to be contemplative rather than politically practical. No matter how elaborate the philosophy behind these ‘discourses’ is, they are first of all theories of political practice, and appear intense, realistic, and combatant. Looking at them reminds me of Nietzsche’s words in the preface to The Dawn of Day: ‘With such a fanatic intention, Kant was just the worthy son of his century, the century that should be called one of fanaticism more than any others.’8 The century ‘of fa8 Nietzsche 1924: 4.



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naticism’ of course means the Enlightenment eighteenth century. According to Nietzsche, there is an inner spiritual connection between Rousseau, Kant, and Robespierre. A lot of theories or ‘discourses’ since the nineteenth century have developed along this line. Indeed, the Enlightenment has been attacked by postmodernist theorists such as Foucault and Derrida, but their approaches are none other than a more radical version of Enlightenment itself. The political philosophy that Strauss advocates emphasizes the ‘Classical’ spirit, which first of all means a fundamental critique of ‘fanatic’ modern thought (be it conservative, leftist, or liberal). The main reason for introducing Strauss to China is to avoid the century-long fanaticism toward all kinds of modern Western discourses. Someone might ask: why ‘avoid’? What is wrong with following modern discourses? Is Strauss’s political theory not another kind of discourse? My answer is this: it is improper to call Strauss’s political philosophy ‘Straussism,’ because a so-called ‘ism’ has an explicitly practical goal, but Strauss’s Classical political philosophy directs students’ attention toward the old texts. Even if these students turn to political practice afterward, they at least know about history and an entire intellectual tradition, understand the teaching of the ancients, and are no longer politically naive. On the contrary, most modern discourses only believe in individual experience, and hence more often than not they teach people to be fanatical and naive. In Western academia, especially in America, Strauss is considered by some as a representative of conservatism. Very likely he himself had predicted it, because at the end of his Thoughts on Machiavelli, he does stress that ‘the Classics were for almost all practical purposes what now are called conservatives.’9 Interestingly, he singles out ‘almost all practical purposes’ and contradicts it by noting the ‘the contradistinction’ between the Classical and the conservative.10 In the end, Strauss’s ‘Classical’ principle is critical of all modern discourses, conservatism included. This means that Classical political philosophy requires (1) a comprehensive re-examination of modern political philosophy (from Machiavelli, Hobbes, Rousseau, Kant, and Robespierre all the way to Derrida); this inevitably leads to (2) an understanding of the Classics through the eyes of the ancients, and on the basis of this understanding, an evaluation of modern political theories according to a Classical standard. Strauss’s Classical political philosophy is not so prominent in Western academia partly because all kinds of modern discourses have dominated Western universities. On the other hand, if Strauss’s Classical approach makes radical Chinese scholars uncomfortable, it is likely because 9 Strauss 1958: 298. 10 Ibid.



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they are nurtured by Robespierre’s political ideal of ‘de fonder sur la terre l’empire de la sagesse, de la justice et de la vertu,’11 which is a typically modern and secular one. To realize this secular vision, we need a secular education system that shares the same ideal and serves the same purpose. The education system in the West is now well established following this line, with social science being the perfect embodiment of this ideal. But in China, the education system is still relatively malleable. There are still various options to choose from. In this sense, Strauss’s Classical political theory might play a much more significant role in directing China’s university education reform than in today’s West. According to the empiricist and positivist principal of social science, the guiding philosophy of today’s education, higher education should not teach students to focus on those great souls in history, but only on their own desires and imaginations. Therefore it is no longer mandatory for students to read the Classics; they only need to explore all kinds of individual desire, memory, and imagination. Then they can become moral people, and go on to critique current social systems. Thanks to modern university education, students now learn to question the Classics: Why are they inherently good? Is this not too opinionated? How is it possible that modern thinkers are all wrong save Strauss? This is a good question, and is of the same nature as the one I posed earlier: What is wrong with studying modern theories? These questions are certainly directed toward Strauss himself. And the answer should be found by carefully studying his writings. Strauss was aware of these questions, and had already carefully explicated his answer. Actually, a concise and straightforward answer can be found in the preface to Thoughts on Machiavelli, in which Strauss says that according to ‘the oldfashioned and simple opinion,’ Machiavelli ‘was an evil man,’ because ‘only an evil man will stoop to teach maxims of public and private gangsterism.’12 It is not surprising that there are evil people. But it seems rare to have a teacher of evil. Machiavelli is probably the only philosopher that perfectly combines an evil nature and great intellectual skills. In his description, Strauss uses three terms: ‘evil man,’13 ‘teacher of evil,’ and ‘a unique philosopher.’14 ‘Teacher’ and ‘philosopher’ can be considered synonyms in the sense that philosophers are teachers of the highest order, namely sophists. Therefore, is it not surprising to see an evil man become a unique philosopher? 11 12 13 14



Nietzsche 1924: 5. Strauss 1958: 9. Ibid. Strauss 1958: 10.

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Strauss goes on to say that although the old-fashioned opinion has its faults, it nevertheless touches upon the most important issue: Machiavelli’s teaching is immoral. However, twentieth-century philosophers consider this line of thinking not scholarly enough; they propose even ‘more sophisticated views’15 to defend Machiavelli. For them, he is not an evil teacher of evil, but rather a ‘passionate patriot,’ and also ‘a scientific student of society.’ In other words, he is a pioneer in social science, especially in political philosophy. Here Strauss sees an opposition between simple morals and sophisticated, scholarly and amoral views. For Strauss, even though the old-fashioned, simple morals are not perfect, he still prefers them, because they adhere to the fundamental distinction between good and evil. According to Strauss, even if one agrees that Machiavelli is patriotic, one still cannot deny that he is at the same time an evil teacher precisely because of his ‘indifference to the distinction between right and wrong.’16 To regard Machiavellian patriotism as moral is to be ‘blind to that which is higher than patriotism.’17 As to the opinion that Machiavelli is a scientist who studies society, this is nothing other than saying that the scientific method of sociology should be separated from the moral obligations of people as citizens and human beings. This means ‘moral obtuseness’ should be a precondition of the scientific analysis of society. Since Machiavelli is a philosopher, it is impossible for him to be free from such a ‘moral obtuseness.’ At the time when Strauss was writing this book, social science was at the height of its power in Western academia. The opening of Thoughts on Machiavelli is a critique of the entire Western regime of social science and education, which does not teach the distinction between good and evil. As a result, it is possible that those who have received higher education might not become morally superior to those who haven’t; they could even be immoral in a scholarly way. Well aware of the criticisms in advance, Strauss still argues that the reason contemporary social scientists champion Machiavelli is because they are his pupils, or their teachers are heirs to the Machiavellian tradition. It is in this sense that Strauss proposes to ‘recover the pre-modern heritage of the Western world, both Biblical and classical.’18 Otherwise it is impossible to recognize the evil nature of Machiavelli’s thoughts. Strauss does draw a lot of fierce criticism, which is not surprising, considering the unpopularity of the ‘simple and old-fashioned’ teachings. But it also proves that a lot of scholars are indeed ‘pupils’ of Machiavelli. In fact, at least 15 16 17 18

Strauss 1958: 10. Strauss 1958: 11. Ibid. Strauss 1958: 12.



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in Thoughts on Machiavelli, Strauss has not yet presupposed that Classical thoughts are good, but he is against the presupposition that Classical thoughts are bad and backward. First of all, we need to adopt an unbiased perspective when we look at them. The primary problem with Machiavelli is that he brings about a modern bias and a modern superstition. If a modern perspective has helped us get rid of the superstition of the Classics, then today we need to get rid of the superstition of the modern. That is why Strauss re-inaugurates the quarrel between the ancients and the moderns. If Strauss wanted to blindly and fanatically encourage a return to the ancients in a conservative manner, he would not have put so much effort into demonstrating the fact that Machiavelli wants to betray the Classics in the guise of the Classics. He would also not have reminded us that the three major waves of modernity put on the disguise of ‘returning to the Classics.’ After all, Strauss never naively proposes a return to the ancients. Among the diverse topics Strauss has touched upon, his study on Machiavelli occupies a unique place. First of all, this is the longest study published during Strauss’s lifetime, and is arguably the most controversial. Secondly, Strauss’s thoughts are most thoroughly demonstrated in this book. In my opinion, this book is the most intense in presenting the problems that preoccupy Strauss. In general, it is agreed that Strauss’s major preoccupations include the relationship between philosophy and theological politics, that between revelation and reason, and the quarrel between the ancients and the moderns. These are all true, but I think they are not as pointed as this one: Strauss is primarily concerned with the moral degeneration of the philosopher. Strauss never denies Machiavelli’s intellectual brilliance, namely ‘the intrepidity of his thought, the grandeur of his vision, and the graceful subtlety of his speech.’19 But Strauss wants us to remember the ‘profound theological truth that the devil is a fallen angel.’20 That is why in Machiavelli’s thoughts, there is ‘perverted nobility of a very high order.’21 Strauss demonstrates this through an explanation of Machiavelli’s writings. This makes me think of a question: What is a Straussian way of reading? Neither close reading nor an eye to esoteric meaning is especially Straussian; we find them in ancient scholars as well as Nietzsche, for example. Someone would say a re-reading of the Classics from the perspective of the relationship between religion and philosophy, or between revelation and reason, is typical of Strauss. But these have always been fundamental questions of Western history of thought anyway, and we do not need Strauss to remind us of 19 20 21



Strauss 1958: 13. Ibid. Ibid.

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them. In my opinion, the uniqueness of Strauss’s way of reading is to be acutely attentive to the philosopher’s moral-political quality, or the moral-political aspect of philosophy. This is the primary question of political philosophy. ‘The problem inherent in the surface of things, and only in the surface of things, is the heart of things.’22 This is Strauss’s famous motto about reading the Classics. It is not accidental that it appears at the beginning of the book that criticizes Machiavelli’s political morals. It is precisely from this point that we can understand why Strauss further defines ‘Classical’ political philosophy as ‘Platonic.’ The reason has Socrates as its starting point. In the trial of Socrates, the core of the problem is the philosopher’s political morality, or the political relationship between the philosopher and his society. The crimes Socrates was charged with included (1) not believing in the gods of the city and (2) corrupting the youth. Ever since the trial of Socrates, whether the philosopher corrupts the youth has become an everpresent moral-political problem. However, since Machiavelli, philosophers have gradually become social scientists or intellectuals. It follows that the right to charge a philosopher with moral crimes has been abolished. Thus one is free of moral-political obligations as long as he or she is ‘scientifically studying society.’ Strauss sees clearly that Machiavelli tries to look at politics only from a political perspective, cancelling the moral-religious dimension. On the contrary, Platonic philosophers require that one look at politics from the moralreligious perspective; this is a result of the lesson one learns from the trial of Socrates: from the moral-political point of view, Athenian citizens are completely right to charge Socrates. In this sense, Platonic philosophy is nothing other than a different kind of enlightenment teaching for the few wise ones instead of the common majority. This is the exact opposite of Machiavelli’s modern Enlightenment teaching for the masses. That is why Strauss states that ‘we shall have to consider whether that Enlightenment deserves its name or whether its true name is Obfuscation.’23 Through the political philosophy and liberal education he advocates, Strauss endeavors to re-establish such a Platonic enlightenment philosophy, whose more recent advocates, as named by Strauss, include Jonathan Swift and Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. What do these two people have to do with conservatism or the extreme right? Who would think that Swift is conservative, or that Lessing is on the extreme right? Around the age of thirty, Strauss had already firmly adopted a position that transcends both liberalism and conservatism. At the end of a 1931 lecture entitled ‘Cohen and Maimonides,’ he announces his quest for 22 23

Strauss 1958: 13. Strauss 1958: 173.



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a horizon beyond the opposition progress/conservatism, Left/Right, Enlight­enment/Romanticism, or however one wants to designate this opposition … [and an understanding of] the idea of the eternal good, the eter­nal order, free from all regard for progress or regress.24 Correspondingly, at the very beginning of Strauss’s preface to Spinoza’s Critique of Religion, he observes that ‘the man (in this case Hitler) with the strongest will or single-mindedness, the greatest ruthless, daring, and power over his following, and the best judgment about the strength of the various forces in the immediately relevant political field was the leader of the revolution.’25 Are these not all precious qualities in political practice? Unfortunately, they are married to those base souls who do not care about common sense and ­morality. Certain intellectuals in China today have to decide whether to follow the modern Western Enlightenment or the Classical path of Platonic enlightenment. And here lies the second reason for my introducing Strauss: we should maintain a cautious attitude toward the philosophical basis of the Western humanities in modern times. The Classical teaching advocated by Strauss provides us with an opportunity to do so. Classical teaching requires that we learn from great souls of the past, which are embodied in the Classics passed down to us. The distinction between good and evil has to be based upon certain moral principles. This is an idea shared by both Chinese and Western civilizations. But modern social science abolishes these principles and establishes a different, secular principle. Now we need to retrieve the classical principles to restore the moral-political quality of modern scholarship. Since Chinese uni­ versities are still developing, it is the perfect time to advance Strauss’s idea of classical education. Since the 1980s, Chinese intellectuals have been striving to break through c­ ommunist ideological confinements. Well into the nineties, Enlightenment liberalism and its related modern and postmodern theories are still the mainstream. This is a natural reaction against the previous ideological domination. Then come the neo-leftists who, in the eyes of the liberalists, are trying to resurrect the old communist ideology. When classical political philosophy is introduced, the liberalists sense a bigger, more fundamental threat, but this time it is impossible to associate the new enemy with the old ideology. It is not surprising that the introduction of Strauss to China has been greeted with an angry attack, because the attack comes from those holding a modern, 24 25



Strauss 1931: 222. Strauss 1965: 1.

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Enlightenment position, while Strauss’s criticism is directed precisely against the Enlightenment. Today, the legitimacy of the Enlightenment, democracy, and liberalism has become absolutely unchallengeable. But what Strauss tries to do is to reopen the case concerning the quality of these ideas. By reintroducing the perspective of Classical political philosophy, Strauss reminds us that the attitude toward democracy and a universal Enlightenment was already an extremely important subject of debate in classical Greek political philosophy. Reviewing ancient thought enables us to cautiously reconsider various political problems. According to Strauss, liberalism in its Classical sense pursues virtue.26 It then follows that Machiavelli, by pursuing vice rather than virtue, becomes the true enemy of Classical liberalism. But a leading figure in liberalism, Isaiah Berlin, considers Machiavelli to be someone who provided the basis of liberalism.27 The liberalist philosopher Quentin Skinner criticizes Strauss for being ‘a hanging judge’ rather than ‘a recording angel,’ as is expected of a historian.28 To unravel these arguments, let us look at one example from Strauss’s writings. How does Machiavelli become a pioneer in modern democracy, and why? As Strauss explains: Machiavelli opposes the entire Western Classical tradition and ‘the common opinion’ held by Classical thinkers about ‘the wisdom and the constancy of the multitude.’29 Opposing attitudes toward this very ‘wisdom and constancy of the multitude’ lies at the heart of the quarrel between ancients and moderns. Ancient ideas are based on the common opinion, whereas modern ideas are based on a universal opinion. According to Machiavelli, the multitude has more wisdom and constancy than princes as individuals. He goes on to call the voice of the multitude ‘a universal opinion’ and even compares it to ‘the voice of god.’30 In this context, the word ‘universal’ implies a philosophical superiority over ‘common’ wisdom. Machiavelli’s modernist attack on the ancients is nothing more than pitting philosophy against common moral opinion. Therefore, Strauss calls Machiavelli ‘the first philosopher’ to challenge the good regime in the name of the multitude and of democracy. In this formulation, there are two points worth our attention: first, democracy is nothing other than the rule of the multitude; second, Classical philosophy promotes a good regime and presents its preconditions. The Confucian tradition

26 27 28 29 30

Strauss 1968: 4. Berlin 1979: 99. Skinner 2000: 99. Strauss 1958: 127. Ibid.



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advocates a similar good regime, and the attempt to find democratic tendencies in Confucianism is destined to fail. Let us further consider Machiavelli’s intention. According to him, the purpose of the people is more honest and just than the purpose of the great. It should be noted that in Strauss’s wording, ‘the multitude’ now becomes ‘the people,’ and ‘the prince’ now becomes ‘the great.’ Is Strauss randomly changing his wording? Of course not. He is returning the concepts to their Classical sense. According to the ancients, the prince should be the great: in Aristotle’s words, the prince ‘must possess not only virtue but also capacity that will render him capable of action.’31 Another shift in wording is the substitution of ‘wisdom and constancy’ with ‘honest or just.’ Thus moral qualities replace philosophical ones. But Strauss continues to argue that Machiavelli does not really support the rule of the multitude, because he is well aware that ‘all simple regimes are bad; every so-called democracy is in fact an oligarchy unless it verges on anarchy.’32 So why does Machiavelli still advocate democracy? Is this not contradictory? How do we explain that while well aware of the disadvantages of democracy, Machiavelli still promotes it? Strauss’s answer is that Machiavelli’s ‘bias in favor of the multitude enabled or compelled him not to identify himself simply with’ the good system of the Classical tradition. Perhaps some would think that this explanation is too simplistic and too common. But indeed, Strauss does not resort to profound philosophy, but adheres to common sense: as we know from our experience, there are people who do things that they know are not good. This is due to their disposition; there is not much reason in it. However, there is an important condition in Strauss’s argument: Machiavelli is a philosopher. One of the Classical meanings of being a philosopher is to have command over one’s own disposition, otherwise he or she cannot be a ‘free person.’33 Since Machiavelli is no longer able to have command over his own disposition, his quality as a philosopher is already corrupted. The corruption of the philosopher’s quality is at the core of the symptoms of modernity. Nietzsche is well aware of this problem. The reason he is fiercely against Rousseau is because he thinks the latter breaks down the difference between noble philosophers and commoners. Such an effort at equalization renders the establishment of moral order in politics impossible. This is the reason why the modern political system continues to produce radical democratic appeals. The change that Machiavelli brings about is that one does not begin from on high 31 32 33



Aristotle, Politics 1325b.10–14. Strauss 1958: 127. Xenophon, Memorabilia 2.1.

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and try to incorporate the low, but starts from the low and drags the high down. The Prince uses various examples from antiquity, one of which is the speculative dialogue that Philopoemen and his friends engage in. This is precisely a Socratic method. But what Machiavelli makes his characters discuss are not problems of truth, good, or beauty, but practical, strategic, and instrumental issues, such as how to deal with enemies occupying a superior position, and his goal is to drag them down (see The Prince, chapter fourteen). In Classical political philosophy, the discussion of the political system is associated with a distinction between different types of souls. Machiavelli does not ignore this issue, but he denies the careful comparison of types of souls. He simplifies souls into merely two types, the idea-oriented and the practice-oriented. He then dismisses the former in favor of the latter. More importantly, by dismissing the idea-oriented soul, we no longer have any moral standard by which to measure the practice-oriented souls. This becomes a fundamental orientation in modern scholarship. To realize the political ideal of equalization, modern political theory not only adopts a secular outlook, but also reconstructs philosophy from the perspective of the low. From such a new philosophy, it proceeds to create rational principles to reform the empirical world. Modern humanistic education is based on this philosophy. In the modern world, the democratic proliferation of philosophy and all kinds of theories are intended for the same purpose of equalization. But then what we have is no longer philosophy. The Enlightenment ideal of equalization brings China out of the archaic confinement of ‘celestial empire’ ideology into the Western world of universal values. This is the Enlightenment’s great contribution to China. But those ‘enlightened’ Chinese thinkers have to answer some fundamental questions: What is China’s own ethical identity? What is the relationship between the Chinese ‘Tao’ and the Western ‘Tao’? These are fundamental questions that have preoccupied Chinese intellectuals since the late imperial period. The relationship between Marxism and traditional Chinese values in the age of globalization is one among many examples. And here lies the third reason for my introducing Strauss: his Classical political philosophy reminds us that, for the past hundred years, what the Chinese ‘Tao’ has been faced with is merely the modern ‘Tao’ of the West, rather than the Classical one. It helps us to revise our habit of measuring China’s Classical thinking against the West’s modern thought and frees us from the ‘fanatic’ political imaginations of the West’s modern humanistic system. Perhaps some would argue that using Strauss’s theory to explain Chinese Classics again falls into the trap of Western theoretical colonization. This is not 

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true, because Strauss does not have a theory of his own to interpret the Classics. He only encourages us to read the Classics with a Classical perspective. Therefore, if we learn a set of methods from Strauss, they are actually methods of the ancients rather than Strauss’s own. In this sense, Strauss’s Classical political philosophy differs from most of the Western theories introduced to China: it is not a theory, nor a nouva scienza, but rather an orientation, or more precisely, a Classical disposition. The introduction of Strauss to China should be a meeting of the Classical minds. For three hundreds years in the West, and for over a hundred years in China, this Classical spirit has been in exile, losing its place in academia. Today, this spirit is striving to regain its home within the postmodern university system. It is in this sense that the introduction of Strauss to China should serve as an inspiration for the reestablishment of Classical scholarship in China. This is also the reason why our model is not the department of Classics found in Western universities. Nietzsche argues that we should retain the tension between the ancient and the modern, and balance the modern elements of the humanities through Classical education, because in comparison with the mode of life which prevailed among men for thousands of years, we men of the present day are living in a very immoral age: the power of custom has been weakened to a remarkable degree, and the sense of morality is so refined and elevated that we might almost describe it as volatilized. That is why we latecomers experience such difficulty in obtaining a fundamental conception of the origin of morality: and even if we do obtain it, our words of explanation stick in our throats, so coarse would they sound if we uttered them!34 However, for the past century, scholars have only concentrated on his theory of the Übermensch, ignoring his teachings on the Classics. In fact, in Western aca­ demia, ancient Greek and Latin scholarship is to a certain extent confined to departments of Classics, losing its connection to the present. What is more, after the rise of modern anthropology and linguistics, the essence of the Classics may have been missed: For so great is the conceit of our classical teachers, who would almost make it appear that they had gained full control over the ancients, that they pass on this conceit to their pupils, together with the suspicion that 34



Nietzsche 1924: 14.

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such a possession is of little use for making people happy, but is good enough for honest, foolish old bookworms.35 The liveliest example of Classical scholarship is to be found in America. However, it is not in the departments of Classics, but rather in the trans-disciplinary colleges of liberal arts and their general education programs. This means that Classical scholarship must transcend the narrow domain that the modern academic system has assigned to it, strive to become the foundational subject of modern humanities education, and regain its connection to the present. The purpose of a universal Classical education is not to train more PhDs in Classics, but to provide humanities and the social sciences with good students. Therefore, we should not simply copy Western universities’ departments of Classics. Our Classical studies should take the Chinese Classical tradition as its basis, and eliminate the boundaries between literature, history, and philosophy. Its subjects should include both Chinese and Western Classics. It should have a place in undergraduate education. On the other hand, we also need to establish Classical civilization as a primary-level subject, with its own department. Under this umbrella, Chinese, Greek-Latin, Judeo-Christian, and Indian civilizations are secondary-level subjects. For over a century, Chinese intellectuals have pursued a variety of trends in Western philosophy. Pragmatism was much sought after in the thirties, but no trace of its academic popularity remains today. In the eighties, existentialism became extremely popular, but now it has passed its prime. In the present, Western philosophy in Chinese academia is dominated by phenomenology, analytic philosophy, hermeneutics, and deconstructionism, all of which have their foundations in Enlightenment thought. In contrast, Strauss’s ‘political philosophy’ is based upon the Platonic tradition and weaves into itself the entire Western history of thought. His scholarly works are mostly interpretations of writings of the past, or introductory pieces that important professors do not care to write; he did not offer his own system of theory; he was low-key and unassuming. He taught at the University of Chicago for almost two decades, during which time several Chinese students studied there. But none of them mentioned to me that Strauss had any influence on them. In fact, his ‘political philosophy’ was developed less than ten years after Heidegger’s phenomenology, and much earlier than Hans-Georg Gadamer’s hermeneutics, let alone Derrida’s deconstructionism. Already in the eighties, hermeneutics was very influential in China. After all, Truth and Method is theoretically elaborate and convenient to use. But due to its relatively low popularity, Strauss’s thought 35

Nietzsche 1924: 197.



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entered Chinese academia very late, even later than deconstructionism. Part of his foundational text ‘What Is Political Philosophy?’ was translated into ­Chinese in the eighties, but at that time no one noticed its profound significance. After Strauss’s death in the early seventies, it turned out that his scholarship had changed the course of the Anglo-American study of Classics; the positivist-historicist school in Classics has been seriously undermined. Since the end of the last century, the debates caused by Strauss’s posthumous influence have been heavily politicized: liberals accuse Strauss of harboring hostility toward liberalism and democracy, and of being a politically reactionary god­father of conservatism. For example, in 1963, five years after the publication of Thoughts on Machiavelli, Robert J. McShea published an article entitled ‘Leo Strauss on Machiavelli’ in Political Research Quarterly, claiming that ‘Strauss is not merely an admirer of Classical thought. He actually desires a return to the type of society envisaged by Plato and Cicero, a society seen as hierarchical or aristocratic, conservative, and endowed with a state religion.’36 Such politicized debates in American academia soon spread to China, causing no small crisis. In China, state media often accuse ‘Western capitalist liberalism’ of causing confusion and crises. Interestingly, now it is the liberalists who are worried about confusion and crises. This at least demonstrates one thing: namely, that various modern ‘discourses’ have obscured the vision of our scholars. Upholding the perspectives of these discourses, it is no wonder we are not able to see the permanent qualities of Strauss’s answer to the centuryold question, namely the root of Western civilization’s crisis. His strategy is to go back to Classical works of political philosophy. He revives the problematization of the trial of Socrates. He urges intellectuals to confront the fundamental ethical problem before tackling academic issues. Strauss’s teaching aims to introduce generations of students to the Platonic philosophical tradition, helping them find an ultimate reference point in Classics. Once the Classics become the foundation of a country’s scholarship, prominence will no longer be given to Strauss, but to the Classics themselves. Therefore, we are mistaken if we try to glean certain doctrines from Strauss. Whether Strauss has some esoteric teaching to share, and what it is, concern us little. His serious attitude toward the Classical texts and his pursuit of true political-philosophical problems place him among the great minds of history. Under the guidance of this philosophy, young scholars’ intellectual passion can be seasoned through immersion in the Classics. This will then enable them to understand the seriousness and complexity of political life, and to avoid 36



McShea 1963: 787.

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naively pursuing any political claims propagated by the media. Today, the crisis of Chinese civilization is already tied to that of the West. Strauss’s teaching inspires us to move beyond liberalism, conservatism, neo-leftism, and postmodernism when dealing with this crisis.

References Cited

Aristotle (1944), Aristotle in Twenty-Three Volumes. Loeb Classical Library, vol. 21, trans. H. Rackham. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann Ltd. Berlin, Isaiah (2013), ‘The Originality of Machiavelli,’ in Against the Current: Essays in the History of Ideas, ed. Henry Hardy, 33–100. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Cai Lesu 蔡乐苏 (1990), ‘Yan Fu ju Lusuo yi zai feng Kang, Liang 严复拒卢梭意在讽 康、梁’ (Yan Fu implicitly criticizes Kang Youwei and Liang Qichao by rejecting Rousseau), Jindai shi yanjiu 近代史研究 5 (1998): 20–39. Lang Qingxiao 朗擎霄 (1990), Zhuangzi Xue’an 庄子学案 (Zhuangzi doctrine). Tianjin: Tianjin guji chubanshe. McShea, Robert J. (1963), ‘Leo Strauss on Machiavelli,’ Political Research Quarterly 16: 782–797. Nietzsche, Friedrich (1924), The Dawn of Day, trans. J.M. Kennedy. New York: Macmillan. Skinner, Quentin (2000), Machiavelli: A Very Short Introduction. Oxford: Oxford Uni­ versity Press. Strauss, Leo (2013), ‘Cohen and Maimonides,’ in Leo Strauss on Maimonides: The Complete Writings, ed. Kenneth Hart Green, 173–222. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Strauss, Leo (1958), Thoughts on Machiavelli. Glencoe: Free Press. Strauss, Leo (1965), Spinoza’s Critique of Religion, trans. E.M. Sinclair. New York: Schocken Books. Strauss, Leo (1968), Liberalism, Ancient and Modern. New York: Basic Books. Xenophon (1888), The Memorable Thoughts of Socrates, trans. Edward Bysshe. London: Cassell & Company.



Chapter 11

The Ancient Greeks in Modern China: History and Metamorphosis Shadi Bartsch We in the West look to Plato and Aristotle as the originators of our political and philosophical traditions:1 they are the source of a dialogue that continued in antiquity; dimmed during the Middle Ages; was taken up again with gusto in the Renaissance; trumpeted the value of rational thought in the Enlightenment; and remains today a major part of the college curriculum in the US, Europe, and former colonies of the British Crown.2 In fact, the influence of Greco-Roman thought on the West remains so great as to be occasionally invisible – paradoxically enough – to those of us who grew up breathing its air. One way of bringing to light this influence (which, I emphasize, does not necessarily result from familiarity with the actual texts) is to look at the reception of this tradition elsewhere: in surveying the reception of our Classical texts by contemporary Chinese scholars and intellectuals, we look at a reflecting mirror in which we see the Chinese looking at us, and in which this quasi-invisible context, its assumptions and blind spots, can come to light. Not all such acts of Chinese reception present extremes, to be sure. Nonetheless, such a procedure can help us to grasp why important subgroups in these two cultures – the Chinese and the Americans – can have such different views on what constitutes ethical and responsible forms of individualism, citizenship, and government. Two points of ideological divergence based on different traditions emerge so immediately that they can be acknowledged at the outset. First is the Western notion of rationality as a fundamental practice in the art of being human. As is well known, the ancient Greek philosophers thought that rationality was 1 In its development, this chapter has benefitted from the kind remarks and observations of a number of people. In particular, I would like to thank Huang Yang, Zhang Longxi, Zhou Yiqun, G.E.R. Lloyd, and Haun Saussy. 2 Of course, this is not merely a story of the triumph of pagan thinking; as we know, it requires a cautionary amendment, since the advent of Christianity dealt the Classical tradition a solid blow. Tertullian’s famous question, ‘What does Athens have to do with Jerusalem?’ (De praescriptione, vii), reminds us that for a long time the answer was ‘nothing at all,’ and that the categories of thought represented by Classical thinkers remained suspect to the defenders of Christian faith for over a millennium.

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man’s particular arête. Plato, for example, linked the exercise of the rational part of the soul to the achievement of eudaimonia and stressed the grasping of truth through the Socratic dialectic in which any man could participate. This does not just have ramifications for the individual, but also for the existence of the philosopher-kings and the idealized state that Plato devises, since book 6 of the Republic makes it clear that those who cannot order their souls in this way should be ruled by someone who can.3 Rational thought thus ends up as an ordering principle in a political system. Aristotle, meanwhile, hypothesizes in the Nicomachean Ethics that reason is ‘what each person is, and the decent person likes this the most of all’;4 likewise, theoretical reason is ‘either divine or the most divine element in us.’5 The Western philosophical tradition has thus already focused on the human qualities that are prerequisite for democratic citizenship, even if individual thinkers – among them Plato – could not commend this form of government because the mass of men lacked the ability to make reason master of their souls. The emphasis on the value of the rational citizen might have had less influence on us had it not been taken up again with gusto in the Enlightenment,6 when it became the foundational impulse behind knowledge, scientific advancement, and, some would argue, market-based economies. It is not that rationality did not have its own detractors at the same time; there was certainly a ‘Counter-Enlightenment’ that criticized the potential disruption of religious values and social order.7 But the point is, as most scholars would argue, that the Chinese had no parallel Enlightenment movement before the twenti3 4 5 6

7

Rep. 590d; cf. Lane 2009. NE 1169a. NE 1177a. Cf. Honneth 1987: 692–693: ‘What is unique to enlightenment is its immanent relation to a criterion of rational validity which acts as a standard against which opinions and convictions can be upheld by rational examination. Although it is hardly possible to develop a concept of enlightening thought without such a relation to rationality, ever since the days of that “Enlightenment” epoch, thinkers have nevertheless strongly contested the manner and possibility of providing the foundations of a meaningful concept of human rationality.’ On the Enlightenment’s relation to instrumental rationality, he writes (1987: 695–696): ‘Rationality or reason has an instrumental character, because it serves as a means to know (erkennen) existing states of affairs and to make it possible to handle practical tasks. This form of the critique of reason – which can take motifs from early Romanticism as precedents and which found impressive expression in Dialectic of Enlightenment – starts from the assertion that, by the capacity for rational behavior, we usually mean the ability to know objects in order then to manipulate or control them in terms of the goals of one’s own action reason.’ Cf. McMahon 2001: 109ff. on the ‘low Counter-Enlightenment’ that fought the encyclopédistes on religion and social order. Rousseau, for example, argued in his First Discourse 

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eth century. The ancient Chinese philosophical tradition which has its roots in the writings of Confucius and his followers through the centuries has consistently emphasized hierarchy, piety, ritual, family, and duty. Confucianism took many forms over time, and Confucius himself was a comparatively rational and secular thinker.8 However, state Confucianism in particular underplayed any focus on individual rights, freedom, or political participation, and dwelling on man’s capacity for theoretical rationality is not a major element of this tradition. Although in Confucian thought, as in Plato’s, a key concept is that to govern others one must first govern oneself, this is usually referred back to the idea of the beneficient ruler rather than the active citizen.9 In this philosophical system, the very Western idea of the ‘citizen’ is problematized – and this is my second point. Indeed, a word for this idea of the citizen had to be coined in the late nineteenth century in the context of the collapsing Qing Dynasty. This new term, guomin, came to stand for the key idea behind the articulation of a fledgling nationalist movement that desperately wanted to rid China of its dynasties and set up a republic.10 The Confucian tradition had left little room for the citizen to intervene in politics, because there was no developed notion of the citizen and no state in which citizenship could be practiced. Instead of a stress on citizenship, we find other values elevated: believing that the good of the individual is secondary to the good of the collective; ranking reasoning after traditional and time-tested ethical values; holding that family love (not rational thought) is the basis for social organization. The notion of equality among citizens does not fit within this view, because within the family natural hierarchies exist that will be replicated in the good society at large. As Confucius wrote in Analects 1.2, ‘They are few who, being filial and fraternal, are fond of offending against their superiors. There have been none, who, not liking to offend against their superiors, have been fond of stirring up confusion.’11 As to the scientific context of these views from

8

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that progress in the arts and in science had damaged morals, encouraging licentiousness and false gods, respectively. As Zhang Longxi points out to me (personal communication 2013), ‘That is why precisely in the Enlightenment, Voltaire and some other philosophers thought Confucius was a model. Many decades ago, Adolf Reichwein claims that “Confucius became the patron saint of eighteenth-century Enlightenment. Only through him could it find a connection link with China”’ (Reichwein 1925: 77). Some scholars have argued that the Confucian tradition has deliberately downplayed the ‘active citizen’ aspect of Confucius’s thought, in which the public can act to remove an immoral leader. Shen and Chien 2006: 50. Trans. J. Legge 1960.

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dynastic China, as Max Weber writes, ‘There was no rational science, no rational practice of art, no rational theology, jurisprudence, medicine, natural science or technology; there was neither divine nor human authority which could contest the bureaucracy.’12 Let me now turn to the reception of Classical culture in contemporary China, or at least, given the restraints of space, to a few features of that reception, and to paint a rough picture of what seems to be the trajectory of our most prominent Classical texts in the hands of some of the most visible public intellectuals in China today. I say ‘trajectory’ because it seems to me that something very different is taking place today if we contrast the role that the Western Classics played in China in the last century. In my conclusion I will return to these themes of rationality, citizenship, and empire for a few speculative comments about what I am calling the twenty-first-century ‘turn’ in the reception of the Classics. My starting point is an op-ed piece that appeared in The New York Times in February 2012. Its author, the Chinese exceptionalist and venture capitalist Eric X. Li,13 offered some pointed comments on American democracy, arguing that the US would do well to take a good look at Athens and the fate of its democracy before trumpeting the value and universality of the American form of government. Setting up a parallel between Athens and modern America, Li argues that in the history of human governance, spanning thousands of years, there have been two major experiments in democracy. The first was Athens, which lasted a century and a half; the second is the modern West. If one defines democracy as one citizen one vote, American democracy is only 92 years old. In practice it is only 47 years old, if one begins counting after the Voting Rights Act of 1965 – far more ephemeral than all but a handful of China’s dynasties. Why, then, do so many boldly claim they have discovered the ideal political system for all mankind and that its success is forever assured? As Li continues, a striking point about this essay emerges which I do not believe any reader has yet commented on: his critique of democracy draws on the 12 13

Weber 1951: 151. Mr. Li is a regular blogger for the Huffington Post and serves on the board of directors of China Europe International Business School (CEIBS) and of the Nicolas Berggruen Institute. A brief biography may be found at TED.com (2013). For a statement of similar views, see Brenner 2003.



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critical voice of a Classical Western text critical of democracy, that is, Thucydides’ Peloponnesian War. However complex Thucydides’ point of view on the Athenian democracy may have been, it seems safe to say that he held that one factor contributing to the deterioration of the Athenian democracy was the fatal inability of its citizens to make wise choices in leadership.14 Only the general Pericles, both farsighted and strong-willed, was able to keep them in hand, because he was governed neither by self-interest nor fear.15 But after his death, Thucydides claims, the people succumbed to one demagogue after the other, following the lead of any politician who promised them personal benefit, and unwilling to make the sacrifices or show the self-restraint that would keep Athens on the winning side of the Peloponnesian War. Of the demagogues after Pericles, Thucydides writes, ‘but his successors were more on an equality with one another, and, each one struggling to be first himself, they were ready to sacrifice the whole conduct of affairs to the whims of the people. Such weakness in a great and imperial city led to many errors.’16 So too says Eric Li of the modern US. Arguing that America is plagued by what ailed Athens as well, he offers several examples. First, ‘elected representatives have no minds of their own and respond only to the whims of public opinion as they seek re-election.’ Second, the Americans have elevated democracy to the status of an absolute good. If Pericles thought Athens’ democracy made Athens unique and rendered her a school ‘to the rest of Greece,’ we have followed suit, making our politics our religion: ‘The modern West sees democracy and human rights as the pinnacle of human development. It is a belief premised on an absolute faith.’ This belief renders us incapable of making wise choices, either for ourselves or for others. Finally, Li argues that ‘history does not bode well for the American way. Indeed, faith-based ideological hubris may soon drive democracy over the cliff.’ Like Thucydides, then, he feels democracy is a political system that will evolve in a way that ensures its own destruction. Eric Li’s claims about the fate of the US may or may not be proven correct, given that he elides two and a half millennia of historical change and two different forms of democracy. He also does not comment on the anti-democratic 14 15

16



For a recent study of the question, see Taylor 2010. ‘The reason of the difference was that he, deriving authority from his capacity and acknowledged worth, being also a man of transparent integrity, was able to control the multitude in a free spirit; he led them rather than was led by them; for, not seeking power by dishonest arts, he had no need to say pleasant things, but, on the strength of his own high character, could venture to oppose and even to anger them’ (PW 2, no. 65: 8; trans. B. Jowett). PW 2, no. 65: 10–11; trans. B. Jowett.

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tradition in the West itself, nor about the founding fathers’ protracted efforts to write a constitution that would not share the vulnerabilities of democratic Athens. But his approach is nonetheless interesting: he co-opts a Western Classic to argue against the West. It’s as if an American venture capitalist read Confucius’s Analects and published an op-ed piece in the Renmin Ribao, the People’s Daily, criticizing modern China with an argument based on Confucian ethics. The question is: Does Li’s position represent a way of treating the Western Classics that is shared by other Chinese intellectuals and scholars in the present time? Or, to go further: What of the Classical texts that are less readily read in terms critical of Western values? To what degree might one argue that these texts, while treated as conveyers of important, even timeless truths, are being read in a way modern Classicists might find to be ‘against the grain’? And if this is the case, does it differ from how the Western Classics were received a century earlier, after the fall of the Qing Dynasty in 1911? To answer this basic question, we have to go back to the end of the dynastic system altogether and revisit the political unrest that preceded this fall. Around the turn of the century, many Chinese intellectuals argued that China could learn not only from the West, but also from its Classical texts, especially those on politics and history. Note here the positive attitude toward the Western Classics. There are many scholars whose work we could look at, including Wang Guowei, Hu Shi, and Zhou Zuoren. However, most important among these for our purposes was the influential thinker Liang Qichao, a journalist, philosopher, and political reformist who read deeply in the Western canon and was responsible for introducing many of its ideas to the Chinese: from December 1898 to 1903, he published some thirty monographs on Greek and Roman history. Liang agitated for popular participation in the political process, a radical idea at the time, and in particular argued that the democratic institutions known from Athens (i.e., public assemblies, popular deliberation, a conception of the rights of the citizen), should be integrated into a new Chinese constitutional order.17 In at least part of this, he was influenced by his reading in Aristotle’s Politics, and in particular its central idea that humans are political by nature;18 like Aristotle, he argued that the state is prior to the citizen in the 17

18

However, he was not a fan of the historical Athens, which he saw as an aristocratic slave state rather than a democracy. On this point (and on Liang’s view of the undeveloped seeds of democracy in ancient China), see Liang Qichao 1999, 1: 108. Nor did he advocate abolishing Confucian thought, as Hu Shi did. Liang, Xinmin shuo, 12 (in Liang 1999). As Chen Dezheng points out, in Xinmin congbao (New citizen review), Liang published ‘Aristotle’s Political Doctrine,’ a text describing the origin of Aristotle’s political theory, theory of nature, and views on the separation of powers.



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sense that latter exists for former. As he wrote in his essay ‘On Grouping’ (Shuo qun), ‘Of the animals best at grouping themselves (as the saying of the Western scholar Aristotle goes), people are the foremost – is this not what makes us so far above the animals?’19 All of this was in drastic contrast to the Confucian tradition’s stress on obedience, piety, and harmony under a wise emperor. One might wonder why Liang and other reformers were particularly keen on Aristotle, given that like Plato he did not argue that democracy was the best possible constitution. However, it is a peculiar truth that the translator of Aristotle’s Politics into Mandarin, Yan Fu, distorted his views to make them pro-democratic.20 In addition, Liang praised Roman law as the origin of modern civilization because it was rights based, not duty based.21 Liang is even credited with inventing the Mandarin word for citizen, guomin, mentioned above.22 But this is not to say he felt China was already full of such citizens. In his view China was full of slaves. There was no awareness of the relationships between the nation and the citizens, but rather all the latter were the obedient children of the former. As he wrote of his own countrymen,23 ‘The biggest problem of the Chinese people is that we do not know what kind of thing a nation is and thus confuse the nation and the court, mistakenly believing that the nation is the property of the court…. One family owns the nation and all the rest of the people are slaves of the family. This is why, although there are forty million people in China, there are actually only dozens of human beings (ren).’24 Liang’s writings were hugely influential in the pro-democratic and proWestern demonstrations during this period, such as the May Fourth Movement in 1919 in which students called for democratic values and political reform. Like him, the leaders of the May Fourth Movement were critical of traditional Chinese values and culture, holding them responsible for the political and scientific weakness of the nation and its humiliating treatment after 19 20 21 22

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Cited in Kaufman 2007: 94. See Mi 1997: 253. Liang 1999, 3: 1311. ‘In introducing the concept of civic nationalism in China, Liang introduced the concept of the people (min) at the same time. Before its link with nationalism, min meant no more than the population of a region’ (Yang 2002: 23). It is not insignificant that Liang Qichao was a student of the revolutionary figure Kang Youwei, who was himself influenced by Plato’s Republic. Kang wrote a treatise entitled ‘Utopia’ that borrows much from Plato’s thought; for example, and in radical contrast to Confucian teaching, he downplayed the five basic Confucian relationships and urged the abolition of the family and filial piety (Kang 1987: 285). Liang 1999, 1: 413–414; quoted in Yang 2002: 20.

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World War I. Although they were fervent Chinese nationalists, they called for at least a selective adoption of Western science and democracy.25 One of them, Chen Duxiu, edited a journal entitled New Youth (Xin qingnian) that provided a forum for debate on the causes of China’s weakness, with Confucian culture receiving most of the blame. Chen himself explicitly called for ‘Mr. Confucius’ to be replaced by ‘Mr. Science’ and ‘Mr. Democracy.’ A second figure we must mention in this context is the Chinese economist Gu Zhun (1915–1974), who bears at least some responsibility for the new ideologies that led to the confrontation of government and university students at the end of the 1980s in Tiananmen Square. Gu Zhun’s situation is unique in that he was actually a high-level member of the Communist Party before his fall into disgrace. In 1952 he was charged with counter-revolutionary tendencies and sentenced to ‘remolding,’ an experience that eventually led to his rejection of communist ideology. As he wrote in his prison diary, ‘I also believed in the same ideology. However, when people revert revolutionary idealism to conservative and reactionary autocraticism in the name of revolution, I will unambiguously choose realism and pluralism as guidance and fight this autocraticism to the end.’26, 27 In his study On the Institution of the City-State in Greece (Xila chengbang zhidu, probably written in his last year of life, 1974, but not published until 1982), Gu made some radical claims contrasting the history of Chinese and Greek civilization and trade, much to the detriment of China. He argued that maritime civilizations like ancient Athens encouraged colonization, trade, cultural exchange, the weakening of blood ties, which, eventually, led to economic growth and through that to a direct democratic system with citizen rights, intellectual freedom, and the rule of law: ‘Capitalism was the fruit of Greek-Roman civilization. The Indian, Chinese, Arabian and Orthodox traditions cannot breed capitalism. This is not accidental.’28 By contrast, nonmaritime civilizations had an affinity for authoritarianism and tended toward political and economic stagnation. 25

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Needless to say, not everyone was keen on these anti-traditional developments. Liang’s ideas were criticized as nonsense by some of his peers, who sprang up to defend the truth of Confucian texts. To quote one of them, ‘Recently some people who chase after Western doctrines have even claimed that every human being has the right to liberty. This is ridiculous’ (Zhang Zhidong, quoted in Su 1898/1970: 127). Gu Zhun’s Collected Works: 230; trans. Wang 1999. Wikipedia (2015) notes that ‘the recovery and publication of Gu’s prison diaries and theoretical writings caused a sensation in intellectual circles when published posthumously in the mid 1990s.’ Gu Zhun’s Collected Works: 318; trans. Wang 1999.



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Gu’s ideas and the subsequent ferment that they created, once published, indirectly supplied the basis for a famous, and fateful, Chinese TV documentary called ‘River Elegy’ (Heshang) that borrowed his fundamental ideas.29 Broadcast in six parts by China Central Television in 1988, it was made in the period of maximum openness and freedom of the press right before the 1989 student movement. This series sought to answer the much-debated question of how China had fallen so far behind the West. It did so by drawing a clear distinction, expressed in color metaphors, between cultures of the earth and cultures of the sea, yellow cultures and blue cultures. In the documentary the ‘yellow’ of the Yellow River is arrayed against the ‘blue’ of the ocean and the sky; and while yellow is linked to feudalism, stagnation, and closure, blue represents trade, exploration, expansion, and progress. As the voice-over opined, ‘This stretch of dirt-yellow land cannot teach us the true spirit of science. The unruly Yellow River cannot teach us a true democratic consciousness.’30 Even that proud Chinese symbol, the Great Wall, was reinterpreted as a wall that shut China in rather than keeping the barbarians out. By contrast, Athens and its ‘blue’ democracy was the result of trade, sea power, and citizen demands. The message of the documentary was that in order to survive, China had to learn from such maritime-based ‘blue civilizations,’ establishing inter alia a market-based economy.31 Eyewitness David Moser, who was studying at Peking University at the time, has described online the reaction to this documentary: During the week the show was broadcast it became clear that the documentary had hit academic circles like an atomic bomb. The series’ content – a sweeping, brutally painful critique of the deep structure of Chinese culture – was the topic of conversation among many of the Peking University grad students I was hanging out with. They had seen nothing like it. ‘At last,’ they would say to me, ‘a TV show that tells the truth.’ … Seen by more than 200 million viewers, the miniseries also galvanized the general population. The People’s Daily actually published

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I am greatly indebted here to Zhou Yiqun’s essay ‘Greek Antiquity, Chinese Modernity,’ delivered at a conference on the Western Classics in Modern China in Beijing, April 2012, for first bringing this series to my attention. See Zhou 2017. Su and Wang 1991: 260–261. Astonishingly, the six parts of the documentary are available online on YouTube.

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transcripts of River Elegy, and references to the themes of the documentary began popping up everywhere in the local newsstands.32, 33 Unfortunately the outcome of this unrest was the tragic denouement at Tiananmen Square. Provoked at least in part by this documentary, students took over the square in a call for political reform and freedom of the press. The government initially attempted to appease the protesters through concessions, but, ultimately, Deng Xiaoping and the party leadership turned to force to suppress the movement. Martial law was declared and military convoys entered Beijing on the evening of June 3rd. Under strict orders to clear Tiananmen Square by dawn, the army mowed down the protesters in their path, killing hundreds and possibly thousands of civilians. The tragic and perhaps inevitable irony here was that it was Deng Xiaoping’s own policy of reform and openness to the West that had created the possibility of such protest in the first place. At least up to this point in 1989, then, we could argue that the Chinese readers of Classical texts in the twentieth century turned to them as a source for the values – and successes – of modern Western civilization. They looked to the ancient world, in particular Athenian democracy, as a model for these values. Where the ancient texts waxed skeptical or at least cautionary, they translated them to show a preference for a democratic government. They wanted to introduce the concepts of individualism, citizenship, liberty, and human rights. They wanted a voice in politics. They criticized the Chinese bureaucratic education that stressed moralism and duty, ritual observation and filial piety. They linked economic and political values, suggesting that it was the symbiotic relationship between the two that led to Athenian greatness. They tied these values to scientific and economic success in the West and to the flourishing of the Enlightenment. Far from drawing fine lines, they embraced broad outlines and took them for truth: as Zhang34 puts it, ‘Throughout the 1980s, Western

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Moser 2011. Zhang (1997: 40) writes that in the 1980s, the chemist Jin Guantao wrote an article entitled ‘Why Didn’t the Ancient Chinese Philosophers Discover the Syllogism? A Comparison between Aristotle and the Ancient Chinese Philosophers,’ which argued for the ‘internal restraint on logical thinking by the culture.’ Zhang adds: ‘Tradition, reduced to “culture” as an immanent pattern, is unconditionally subject to a universal “scientific” measure, which is itself a ruthless reduction of the West, whose own historical, ideological contradictions are left out of the picture altogether.’ Zhang 1997: 15.



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literary, aesthetic and theoretical discourses were introduced to China, not as ideology but as knowledge as such, that is, as science.’35 Now, after June 4, 1989, the Party and its representatives publicly criticized Heshang as an anti-communist work, and arrested several of those responsible for its production. The New York Times noted the new development in an editorial by Nicholas Kristof, who wrote that the Party now criticized Heshang as ‘an anti-communist work that mistakenly advocated bourgeoisie-liberal ideologies and provoked student unrest.’36 But the interest in Classics, if suppressed for a while, rebounded surprisingly soon. There has been a striking increase in the publication and availability of Classical texts in China over the past decade, as well as in the interest in Classics. One can name, for example: (1) the creation of the Center for Western Classical Studies at Peking University, founded by Professor Yang Huang (PhD, University of London); (2) a core nucleus of Classics faculty in History at Fudan University, Shanghai Normal University, and Tianjin University; (3) the founding of the Chinese Journal of Classical Studies (Gudian Yanjiu) in 2010, devoted to the Western, Chinese, and Hebrew classics;37 (4) the founding of a special liberal arts core college (Boya College, within Zhongshan University), whose students are handpicked by its dean, the well-known scholar and public intellectual Gan Yang, and who study exclusively Greek, Latin, Classical Chinese, and Hebrew languages and literatures; and (5) the creation of an experimental class for Classical studies in Renmin University around 2009, led by another controversial public intellectual, Xiaofeng Liu, which has now developed into the Society for Classical Studies. Although the government has yet to recognize the Western Classics as a field of study in and of itself (most Classicists in China are in philosophy or history departments), the burgeoning of interest seems indisputable. However, we are not in a pre-Tiananmen situation in political or cultural terms. Over the past twenty-five years, the negative governmental view of Western values such as democracy and human rights has not shifted much; in the famous Document No. 9, circulated to Communist Party cadres in August of this year, for example, the Chinese leadership denounced ‘Western forces hostile to China and dissidents within the country’ for ‘constantly infiltrating 35

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Tu Wei-ming (1991: 104) makes a similar point: ‘The post–May Fourth intellectuals in China have been themselves children of the Enlightenment with a vengeance. The iconoclastic attack on Confucianism as the ideology of hierarchy, status, and authority clearly shows that they have fully subscribed to the Enlightenment rhetoric.’ For a more detailed account of this development, see the introductory essays in Su and Wang 1991. Gudian Yanjiu 2010.

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the ideological sphere.’38 As the New York Times reports, this infiltration is identified by Xi Jin Ping’s leadership as posing seven great perils for the country, including civic participation among other ‘perils’ surprising from the Western point of view. So why an uptick in the interest in these most ideological and authoritative of Western texts and in Western antiquity? We have here no fervent (if slightly misguided) readers of Aristotle announcing that democracy is the best political form. In fact, a closer look reveals that the most visible academic interest in the Classics in China reflects a strategy of appropriation and alteration rather than an effort to understand them in terms of their original cultural context. I do not mean to suggest this is a negative; the Western Classics are still being treated as a locus of great and lasting value, and all interpretations are at bottom forms of appropriation. But I do want to suggest that this represents a new ‘turn’ in the way the Classics are being studied by one prominent, if small, subgroup of Chinese scholars.39 For example, if we turn to self-description of the Chinese Journal of Classical Studies, we find that the editorial board carefully articulates their mission as motivated by considerations other than just scholarship and understanding. In fact, they explicitly aspire to undo some of the harm inflicted by Western culture on Chinese culture: Chinese civilization has a surefooted and temperate education [sic] tradition. However, under the impact of the modern culture initiated by Western civilization, this tradition has already been shattered to pieces. For over 100 years, scholars of our country have faced the yet unfulfilled historical mission to command a profound understanding of Western civilization and then to restore the spirit of the traditional civilization of China … [my italics]. If we do not know the classical civilization of the West, we are probably unable to have a comprehensive and profound grasp of modern civilization of the West, and … we will not be able to

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According to the editorial, this document ‘has not been openly published, but a version was shown to The New York Times and was verified by four sources close to senior officials, including an editor with a party newspaper.’ The second, larger, but less vocal group of Classicists in Chinese academia – such as Huang Yang at Fudan University and a number of others – does not receive the attention it deserves in this essay. It is in general much more like its Western counterparts, focusing on linguistic and historical issues rather than broad sweeps of ideology, and unattended by public followings. I would say it remains committed to understanding the texts on their own terms to the greatest degree possible.



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fully and deeply understand and grasp the spiritual situation of the Chinese civilization and its future destiny.40 Here we have a fairly negative perspective on the West, and the impetus to study its texts is to understand China’s destiny and restore China’s traditions, not to engage in political reform. The editor-in-chief of this journal, Xiaofeng Liu, is a faculty member at Renmin University in Beijing and a controversial public intellectual who has written broadly on Strauss, Plato, and other important Western philosophers. We will return to his influence below. Likewise, Gan Yang, the Dean of Boya College who advocates teaching the Western Classics in China, has recently spoken at a conference on the Classics in Yunnan to say, ‘I believe that the main purpose of people in China who research in classical Western studies is to serve their counterparts in classical Chinese studies.’41 How might one use Classical Western studies to advocate for classical Chinese studies and indeed for China itself, as these two scholars have suggested? I think we can identify three basic approaches to our Classical texts that serve this function. The first is illustrated by Eric Li’s editorial in the New York Times: using the Western Classics to criticize the West itself. For example, one might argue that Thucydides showed long ago that democracy inevitably turns into demagoguery and collapse. A second approach is to link ancient philosophy and the Enlightenment as both fatally flawed by the emphasis on rationality; here rationality is represented in negative terms as instrumental rationality and, as such, is open to the criticisms of instrumental rationality voiced by figures such as Max Weber, Martin Heidegger, and others. For example, Gan Yang argues, in a 2012 essay entitled ‘Freed from Western Superstition’ (‘Cong xifang mixin zhong jiefang chulai’), that the West has had three ‘enlightenments.’42 The first was the Greek victory of philosophical reason over myth. The second was the European Enlightenment and its abolishment of superstition, or ­rather Christianity. Finally, the West’s third enlightenment took place in the ­twentieth century. It was the revelation that the Enlightenment and its values were ­themselves a form of superstition: that the emphasis on rationality above all other values birthed ‘instrumental rationality,’ which contributed to a slavery consisting in human exploitation. As Gan Yang remarks, ‘The largest superstition to be cracked is enlightenment itself, that is, the contemporary superstition caused by Western contemporary enlightenment – the superstition of technology, of rationality and especially “instrumental rationality,” of the right 40 41 42



Gudian Yanjiu 2010. Gan et al. 2012. Ibid.

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of human being’s plundering and enslaving nature, of the “grand words” and “universalism,” and of the theory that the Western is the center.’43 The article features a photo of a 1936 Nazi rally in Berlin, in which an Olympic torchbearer runs up a long aisle to the dais on which Hitler awaits, and Gan cites National Socialism as an example of ‘the Enlightenment gone mad.’44 That is, he seems to have bought into Zygmunt Bauman’s suggestion, in his 1991 book Modernity and the Holocaust, that modernity provided the ‘necessary conditions’45 for the Holocaust to occur: according to Bauman, that the principles of rationality and efficiency typical of the modern era were Hitler’s helpmates in contributing to the scale of the Holocaust.46 This idea is a familiar one in the West. Ever since the work of the German sociologist Max Weber, we in the West have become acquainted with the idea that instrumental rationality is an inadequate measure by which to judge human life. Incredibile dictu, Weber himself in his 1919 essay ‘Science as Vocation’ traced instrumental rationality back to Plato’s forms. Seeing rational argument as ‘a handy means by which one could put the logical screws upon somebody,’ and arguing that ‘redemption from the rationalism and intellectualism of ­science is the fundamental presupposition of living in union with the divine,’ Weber damned Platonic knowledge as the ultimate form of scientific expertise.47 Not only, according to this argument, did Plato lie at the basis of rational thought, but his thinking also provided the necessary, if not sufficient, conditions for Western capitalism! In Weber’s view, the factors which produced capitalism were ‘the rational permanent enterprise, rational accounting, rational technology and rational law, but again not these alone. Necessary complemen43

44 45 46

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The article seems to suggest that the source of the ‘three superstitions’ is actually Gadamer. ‘As the German thinker Gadamer pointed out, enlightenment in the West did not begin from contemporary age. In history there were at least three times of enlightenment.’ The accompanying Chinese text reads in part: ‘Measured in this huge scene, the modern Olympic Games and Nazism represent both sides of the Enlightenment.’ Bauman 1991: 13. Contrast this treatment of instrumental rationality to that of earlier days: As Tran Van Doan writes of Dr. Y.B. Tsai, chancellor of the National University of Peking in the 1920s, ‘Tsai transformed the university into a locus of research with mottos like “not to the preservation of national quintessence but to its reevaluation by scientific methods” […] or absolute academic freedom, free expression of all theories and viewpoints on rational ground’ (2001: 188). As Stephen Turner remarks (2008: 129), for Weber, ‘the Platonic idea of knowledge of the forms as the highest and controlling form of knowledge is a model of possible expertise, which happens to have been based on epistemic error.’ This interpretation ‘would help Weber preserve his image of rationality as distinctly western.’



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tary factors were the rational spirit, the rationalization of the conduct of life in general, and a rationalistic economic ethic.’48 In sum, that this perspective is a Western refrain as well is absolutely true; but it is the refrain being picked up by Chinese Classicists now, and for that it is significant.49 The final technique in the trio of appropriating methodologies I name here is again a borrowing from the West, now used to serve the needs of a particular Chinese intelligentsia. The philosopher Leo Strauss has surprisingly become a significant intermediary between China and the Western Classics. As is well known, Strauss introduced the concept of ‘esoteric’ and ‘exoteric’ readings of philosophical texts, the former consisting of carefully disguised messages for the special few, and the latter a more apparent meaning to be picked up by the general public. The esoteric messages generally suggest that ancient philosophers understood some basic truths that they could only share with other intellectuals. Why? Because these truths were dangerous. As Robert Locke explains, ‘Philosophy calls into question the conventional morality upon which civil order in society depends; it also reveals ugly truths that weaken men’s attachment to their societies…. Therefore philosophy has a tendency to promote nihilism in mediocre minds, and they must be prevented from being exposed to it. The civil authorities are frequently aware of this, and therefore they persecute and seek to silence philosophers.’50 These esoteric truths are partly about their own existence – that is, the text aims to let you know a special message exists – and partly about conveying truths destructive of civil society: for example, state propaganda is false, but necessary for political stability; or, there are no gods, and no metaphysical moral values, but without religion, society collapses. Strauss’s methodology has been popular among the students of Gan Yang and Xiaofeng Liu, as well as evident in the two scholars’ own writings on Western philosophical texts. Both have also published on Strauss (in Chinese): Liu, 48 49

50



Weber 1961: 260. Note that even – or especially – Boya College’s manifesto is against what might be deemed instrumental rationality: ‘It is by no means a coincidence that universities in Guangdong breaks new ground in liberal arts education. The key reason for the breakthrough is that Guangdong has accumulated enough capacity to relinquish the acts of staging cultural activities for the sake of economy and go beyond the stage of “wenhua da tai, jingji changxi (culture serves as the cover for the economic development.” [...] One of the obstacles is that people are satisfied with the instrumental role of culture as a money-making machine, which is empty and shallow. In order to achieve the great cultural advancement, we need to go beyond the doctrine of “culture serves for economy” with the economic development’ (Sun Yat-Sen University 2009). Locke 2002.

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for example, has authored The Docility of the Hedgehog: Five Essays in Political Philosophy (2001); ‘The Path of Leo Strauss’ (2002), and ‘Nietzsche’s Exotic and Esoteric Teachings’ (2002). Gan wrote a long introduction to a Chinese translation of Strauss’s Natural Right and History, which later appeared as the offprint Leo Strauss as Political Philosopher (2003). Their elevation of Strauss and his methodology has made good sense to many of their followers. As Tao Wang writes, Leo Strauss has influenced Chinese scholars in three ways. First, his interpretation of the conflict between revelation and reason in the Western tradition made Chinese scholars aware of the problem of modern rationalism. Second, Strauss’s emphasis on the quarrel between the ancients and the moderns showed Chinese scholars the connection between the origins of modern rationalism and the drastic turn from contemplation to action, providing them with a new lens through which to reconceive modernity…. Finally, Strauss’s explanation of the relationship between philosophy and politics lets Chinese scholars understand the inevitable conflict between these ways of life, as well as the importance of the philosophic life that transcends politics. Through his influence, some Chinese scholars have been able to overcome the narrowness and trendiness of the modern academy, and discover a very broad and deep way of understanding the future of Chinese civilization, and even of human civilization.51 Certainly many of the essays on the Greco-Roman Classics in the Chinese Journal of Classical Studies, which Liu edits, show Strauss’s influence, with the result that Classical authors are read as if they too had a secret message much like the esoteric messages of the texts Strauss himself interpreted. The Aeneid emerges as a warning about the dangers of philosophy if practiced by common Romans, written by Virgil in response to the distant and unpunishing gods pictured in Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura. Virgil’s ultimate goal was to advance religious obedience and piety, imbue people with a national myth, and promote a strong and military government. Plato’s Republic is not about the possibility of the just city, nor a text about transcendent values represented by the forms of the Good and of Virtue. It is instead a text about the impossibility of the just city, the philosopher’s refusal to rule or participate in politics, and the necessity for a strong ruler with a strong myth behind him to control his fallible and wayward human subjects. Like Strauss, the Chinese Straussians look especially 51

Tao Wang 2012.



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to ‘hints’ in the text given by the characters in the dialogue and find Plato’s meaning here rather than in what Socrates himself says. Other Chinese Classicists have not interpreted these initiatives as benignly as Tao Wang. On at least three separate occasions, I have had it pointed out to me that the adoption of a Straussian agenda in Classical works puts Straussian academics in the position of being those in the know. These Classicists argue that Liu and Gan have in fact been explicit about their aim ‘to train an intellectual and moral elite who rise above the pragmatic and materialistic pursuits that define the pedagogical goal of most Chinese universities,’ and that their fascination with esoteric readings suggests that they envision themselves ‘as members of an exclusive community of intellectual and moral elite who are endowed with the mission to enlighten and lead the uninitiated masses.’52 Ironically, one might argue that these intellectuals had sought for themselves a Straussian safe harbor where what they said need not interfere with political process – were it not for the fact that it is precisely this group that is having the largest impact on Classical studies in China, that has attracted the most public attention, and that speaks most openly about politics, ideologies, and the future. Where do these points about the contemporary reception of the Classics in China leave us? We can certainly conclude that a current strand of anti-Western thinking in China has replaced the idealization of Western political and philosophical thought earlier in this century. It seems that the three strands in the interpretation of the Classics briefly described above have allowed some Chinese scholars to ‘do something new’ with the West’s own authoritative texts: they can now put them to use to criticize democracy, capitalism, individualism, the consumer mentality, the rational basis of the good society, and various other Western features frowned upon by communist and neo-Confucians ideology. In short, these texts can be used to bolster one form of nationalism, one derived from the sense that China has its own indigenous intellectual traditions which are not only valid, but validated by the ancient traditions of the West as well.

52



I will keep these sources anonymous, as the issue is a sensitive one. We might remember, though, that training the elite for future positions in government was exactly the function the Classics served in the West up to a century ago.

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References Cited

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Part 4 Pluralizing Legacies: Visual, Material, and Performing Cultures

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Chapter 12

Cool Rome and Warm Japan: Thermae Romae and the Promotion of Japanese Everyday Culture Sari Kawana Despite its significance to world history and its status as one of the foundations of Western civilization, ancient Rome has been given short shrift in Japanese secondary and postsecondary education. Readers interested in Roman history and culture have tended to approach the world of antiquity as a form of selfenrichment (kyōyō) and a private hobby seemingly limited to a small circle of autodidacts. Bucking this trend is Thermae Romae (2008–2013), a series of manga by Yamazaki Mari (1967–) about a Roman bath architect who travels through time and space to contemporary Japan and discovers the marvels of Japanese bath culture (see fig. 12.1).1 The six-volume work has garnered prestigious prizes, including the coveted Tezuka Osamu Cultural Prize for short ­manga (Tezuka Osamu bunkashō for tanpen) in 2010.2 To date, the manga series has cumulatively sold more than nine million copies and has been adapted into works of anime (2012) and cinematic media such as Thermae Romae (2012) and Thermae ­Romae II (2014).3 The film version (2012) succeeded as the second highest-grossing domestic picture of the year and earned close to sixty million dollars at the box office.4 It would be no exaggeration to say that thanks to this 1 The author would like to acknowledge Yamazaki Mari for kindly granting permission to reproduce images from Thermae Romae for this chapter. The author also appreciates the support from the following: KADOKAWA Corporation, Kasai Yasunori of the University of Tokyo, Taida Ichirō of Toyo University, Watanabe Akihiko of Otsuma Women’s University, as well as the attendees of the Classical Seminar at the University of Tokyo on March 24, 2014. All Japanese names will appear according to Japanese convention, with family name first. All translations from the Japanese are my own unless otherwise noted. 2 Thermae Romae also won a number of other prizes, including the Cartoon Grand Prize (manga taishō) in 2010. It was this prize – known for its objective rankings of new works through questionnaires completed by bookstore employees across Japan – that boosted the visibility and popularity of the series. Prior to 2010, these rankings were compiled privately by the Japan Publication Wholesalers Association. See Nikkei entateinmento, April 2010, 66–67 (67 in particular). 3 KADOKAWA Corporation, personal communication, 2014. 4 Nihon eiga seisakusha renmei 2012. The sequel, Thermae Romae II, was released on April 26, 2014.

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cross-media promotion the series’s protagonist Lucius Quintus Modestus has now become one of the most recognizable manga characters in recent years.5 This study examines the reception of Western antiquity in Japan, and ancient Rome in particular, through the example of Thermae Romae. Rather than pontificate to lay readers about the greatness of Roman culture, Thermae Romae gives the comical story of a non-Japanese – displaced in time and space – who becomes an ardent fan of contemporary Japanese culture. Lucius learns through amusing and often misinformed observations of and interactions with people he calls the ‘flat-faced tribe’ (hiratai kao zoku), and applies his newly acquired knowledge to improve life back in Rome. This approach has helped Japanese readers to access information about imperial Roman life, culture, and history that they are not likely to encounter elsewhere; at the same time, it has also become an opportunity for contemporary Japanese to appreciate what is noteworthy and exportable about their own culture. Under the guise of entertainment, Thermae Romae not only invites readers to an exotic world that prima facie has little or no relevance to their culture but also gives context and texture to the cursory textbook descriptions, dry historical documentaries, and dramatized Hollywood portrayals that otherwise may be their only sources of engaging information on Western antiquity. Beyond the encouragement of self-enrichment, the series also highlights a set of values that evokes the warmth and humanity of traditional Japanese hospitality and acts as a counterweight to the ‘Cool Japan’ trend that has been promoted by industry and government as Japan’s newest and strongest export product.6 By portray5 For instance, the character of Lucius has been used in recently published titles about bath culture and Rome: e.g., Otona fami henshūbu 2012 and Shinpo 2012. The former uses illustrations from the manga series, and the latter uses screenshots from the cinema adaptation. In addition, the release date for Thermae Romae II was set as April 26, 2014, and was designated ‘Good Bath Day’ (yoi furo no hi, a pun of the Japanese readings of the numbers four, two, and six) by the Japan Anniversary Association. In conjunction with the film release, several companies collaborated to run a special advertisement on the pages of the Asahi shinbun, in which the actor Abe Hiroshi (1967–) poses as Lucius to promote various products including Ōedo onsen monogatari (a bath-related theme park in the Odaiba area of Tokyo) and TOTO (Japan’s leading toilet manufacturer known for its Washlet electronic toilet seat). These posters are listed at the Newspapers Ads Data Archive: (accessed on February 4, 2018). The ads incorporate images of Abe in the same statuesque poses and against the same polka-dot background as the belly bands (obi) that were wrapped around the dust jackets of the original manga volumes. 6 For information on official ‘Cool Japan’ efforts, see the websites of the Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry at and the Cool Japan Fund at (both accessed February 4, 2018).



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Figure 12.1 Cover of Thermae Romae. An ancient statue of a Romanesque figure with a red towel slung over his shoulder and a wooden pail (oke) in hand – these props evoke a trip to a public bathhouse in Japan. Yamazaki 2009–2013, volume 1, cover. © MARI YAMAZAKI 2009. Courtesy of Yamazaki Mari.

ing the wonder and affection that Lucius comes to feel toward bath culture, hot springs, and the customs and people involved in these traditions, Thermae Romae works to foster an appreciation for the ‘coolness’ of Roman history as well as a feeling of nostalgia for the simple pleasures of the past – a kind of ‘Warm Japan’ that can showcase the cultural contributions of traditional Japan to the contemporary world.

The Ancient World in the Classroom

In her author’s comments included in volume 5 of Thermae Romae, Yamazaki Mari confesses that at the beginning of the series she had no illusion of mass 

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appeal and only aspired to reach five hundred readers throughout Japan.7 Yamazaki has since then repeatedly mentioned her amazement at how popular her work has become.8 Her surprise is justified: manga bestsellers in Japan have often been those that uphold the ideals of ‘Friendship’ (yūjō), ‘Perseverance’ (doryoku), and ‘Victory’ (shōri), as do various successful serializations in Shūeisha’s youth-oriented weekly magazine Shōnen Jump, while Thermae Romae does not explicitly address these themes.9 Thermae Romae was serialized in Komikku bīmu (Comic Beam, 1995–), a manga monthly catering to a general audience of mature readers. Even within Komikku bīmu, the original episode of Thermae Romae appeared in a marginal space without any indication that it would grow into a full-fledged series.10 Yamazaki’s modest expectations for Thermae Romae are also understandable considering the relatively unknown status of ancient Roman culture among Japanese readers. Most Japanese audiences do not have the same familiarity with the ancient world of the West, as a thorough education about Western antiquity is not part of regular public school curricula; typically, middle and high school world history (sekaishi) textbooks present just rudimentary information on the Greek polis, the Roman Republic, and the Roman Empire while giving students no exposure to primary sources. Among the variety of high school textbooks in world history, Yamakawa shuppansha’s version dominates, with a market share close to 60 percent.11 Of the 418 pages of narrative in the 7 8

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Yamazaki 2009–2013, 5: 52. Yamazaki also elaborates how she felt when she won the Cartoon Grand Prize in 2010: ‘I am probably the person most in disbelief about this in the entire world’ (Yamazaki 2012b, 104). Nishimura 1997, 31. The most notable and recent example of this may be Oda Eiichirō’s One Piece (1997–), in which Monkey D. Luffy, a boy who accidentally acquires special powers, goes on an adventure with his companions to find the ultimate treasure after which the series is named. Reflecting its increased popularity, the series went from a marginal space toward the back of the February 2008 issue, where it was published as a one-off manga short (tanpatsu; 425–55 in an issue of 518 pages), to top billing at the front of the April 2013 issue, which included a commemorative interview with the actor Abe Hiroshi, who played Lucius in the movie version. ‘Kyōkasho repōto’ henshū iinkai, ed., 2013, 60. In Tokyo alone, 68 out of 128 public schools adopt Yamakawa’s edition. The standard Japanese high school curriculum divides world history into parts A and B: the former focuses on modern history, while the latter covers ‘fundamental matters from the ancient period to the present.’ Both A and B are occasions for students ‘to study for the first time the history of the world in a coherent form.’ ‘World History A’ (four credits) is allotted twice the class time of ‘World History B’ (two credits). See ‘Dai ni setsu: Sekaishi B’ (World History, Part B) in Monbu kagakushō 2010, 28–49.



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Yamakawa textbook, the chapter ‘The Orient and the Mediterranean World’ (Oriento to Chichūkai sekai) is accorded 38 pages (14–51), and the entire discussion of Rome unfolds in 12 short pages (40–51). While Yamakawa’s edition is one of the most detailed – if not the most detailed – text in its genre, its description of Roman history is still cursory at best. The emperor Hadrian (76– 138 CE; reign 117–38 CE), who ruled over the empire at a critical time in its history and who was the most illustrious client served by Lucius in Thermae Romae, receives just a one-line mention in a footnote.12 As a result, readers interested in ancient Western civilization have little choice but to pursue this knowledge outside of their formal education. Thermae Romae caters to such unfulfilled desire by cleverly incorporating such peculiarities of imperial ­Roman culture as slavery (which is found throughout the series) and such historical specificities as the discord between the Senate and Hadrian (which prompts an attempt on Lucius’s life) as well as the parvenu preferences of emancipated slaves that are in conflict with Hadrian’s refined tastes (the discrepancy between them make it difficult for Lucius to comply with a request from the priestly order Augustales to construct an extremely vulgar thermae with overt displays of opulence and female flesh).13

Self-Enrichment and Western Antiquity

That contemporary Japanese readers have sought to learn more about Roman history not through formal education but through their own reading hearkens back to the autodidactic trends in Japanese society prevalent during the early twentieth century. The concept of self-enrichment as a mode of thinking that sought to promote intellectual enrichment through reading Classic works – most typically those in philosophy, history, and literature – became prevalent in Japan during the early Taishō period (1912–1926).14 Whereas moralism (shūyō shugi), the dominant philosophical ideal of the Meiji period (1868–1912), sought betterment in ethical values and practical knowledge, self-enrichment endeavored toward broad and general learning, advocating knowledge for its 12 13

14



Kimura et al. 2013, 44. The Senate sends a false decree from Hadrian to lure Lucius to Beneventum, the area near Mount Vesuvius where the descendants of Pompeii refugees live as fearless bandits (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 3: 3–76); Lucius agrees to design a thermae commissioned by this charitable society for emancipated slaves in order to help his friend Marcus’s struggling atelier (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 3: 83–184). Takeuchi 2003, 40.

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own sake.15 Moreover, while the mandate for self-improvement in moralism tended to come top-down, as in the form of explicit teachings in textbooks or imperial rescripts, self-enrichment encouraged its proponents to seek knowledge on their own in accordance with their individualized ideals.16 Since its heyday in the early twentieth century, the value of self-enrichment has waxed and waned depending on the political ideologies, economic factors, and practical resources that were prevalent at any given time. Today, Japanese readers interested in Western antiquity can consult a variety of sources in order to increase their knowledge of ancient history and culture to make up for its cursory treatment in contemporary textbooks. While world history courses in Japanese secondary education rarely include exposure to primary sources, all key texts are in print and available at most large bookstores for those interested enough to seek them out. Classical texts were originally brought to Japan by Portuguese traders and missionaries in the mid-sixteenth century, and their modest importation continued until the start of the isolationist policy during the Tokugawa period in the seventeenth century; however, references to these texts were sparse during the subsequent two-and-a-half centuries.17 With the advent of the Meiji period, scholars of Western antiquity became able to prepare a wide array of key works on ancient Rome in Japanese translation, and these texts have been made available to respond to the desire for self-enrichment through ancient Western history and culture. For instance, Iwanami bunko, the mass market paperback imprint of the publisher Iwanami shoten, has provided affordable access to the seminal texts of the Western tradition since its inauguration in 1927. The imprint has issued a wide range of Greek and Roman texts including the Iliad, the Odyssey, and various Greek tragedies and philosophical works, as well as Apuleius’s (ca. 124–ca. 170 CE) The Golden Ass, Ovid’s (43 BCE–17 CE) Metamorphoses, and Julius Caesar’s (100–44 BCE) Gallic War.18 Japanese translations of canonical secondary works on Roman history and culture are also available. Edward Gibbon’s The History and the Decline and Fall 15

16 17 18

Tsutsui Kiyotada argues that Meiji moralism evolved into Taishō self-enrichment. See ‘Kindai Nihon ni okeru kyōyō shugi no seiritsu’ (The formation of self-enrichment in modern Japan) in Tsutsui 1995. See Segawa 2005, 48. Watanabe 2008, 6. As of February 2018, these Iwanami bunko titles and quite a few others are in circulation. The only notable absence from the list is the Aeneid, which has gone out of print. Today, the Aeneid is available from Kyōto daigaku shuppankai or Shinhyōron. The latter is a new translation published in 2013, and both are priced at ¥5,000–¥6,000 (approximately US$50–60).



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of the Roman Empire (1776–1789) is still available as a ten-volume paperback edition in the Chikuma gakugei bunko; Theodor Mommsen’s History of Rome (original German title Römische Geschichte, 1854–1856) was condensed into a two-volume series from Bungeisha in 2012. Various works from the ever-helpful French introductory series Que sais-je? have also been translated and published by Hakusuisha for approximately ¥1,000–¥1,200 (US$10–12).19 Even for ‘junior’ readers, there are manga versions of world history from Shūeisha in which the first few volumes are dedicated to ancient history in not only the West but also the Middle East and China.20 So it is fitting that in Thermae Romae, Odate Satsuki, a young woman who works part-time as a geisha but also dabbles in Roman archeology, reads about the ancient world in her spare time. Her romantic relationship with Lucius is what drives the last three volumes of the series. Satsuki is an only child who lost her geisha mother as a preteen. Her mother’s last word of advice to Satsuki was that a woman’s happiness depends on finding a good mate: ‘an indomitable man of simplicity and fortitude’ (shitsujitsu gōken de fukutsu no otoko).21 Young Satsuki, however, is at a loss for where to find such a man in contemporary Japan. This uncertainty continued until one summer, when Satsuki was still a precocious elementary school student who used vacation as a chance to read voraciously outside of her formal education. It was then that she encountered for the first time the story of Julius Caesar and discovers the embodiment of her ideal man (see fig. 12.2). The book in which Satsuki encounters the biography of Caesar is left untitled in the manga. As a fourth grader in a Japanese public elementary school she would have been too young to study world history in class, and a brief line or two on the life of Caesar in her middle school or even high school world history textbook is not likely to have piqued her interest. Could it be Mommsen’s work, in which he describes Caesar as the ‘sole creative genius produced by Rome’?22 Or could it be Jérôme Carcopino’s La vie quotidienne de Rome à l’apogée de l’Empire (1940), the original French edition of which 19

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The Japanese translations from Que sais-je? on Western antiquity include: Dominique Briquel, Les Étrusques; Pierre Grimal, La vie à Rome dans l’Antiquité; Alexandre Grandazzi, Les origines de Rome; Bertrand Lançon, L’Antiquité tardive; Patrick Le Roux, L’Empire romain; Bernard Rémy, Dioclétien et la tétrarchie. The series is published by Presses Universitaires de France (PUF). The first version of Gakushū manga sekai no rekishi (History of the world in educational manga) was published in 1986; the newer, revised version, Manga ban sekai no rekishi (History of the world manga version), was published in 2002. Yamazaki 2009–2013, 4: 69. Mommsen 1921, 424.

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Figure 12.2 Satsuki and Julius Caesar. Satsuki discovers Julius Caesar as the embodiment of her ideal man (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 4: 70). © MARI YAMAZAKI 2009. Courtesy of Yamazaki Mari.

Satsuki is seen reading later?23 While it is likely that Satsuki’s book symbolizes the amalgam of all works on Caesar that eulogize his achievements and lament his tragic end, if one was to choose one most likely title in Japanese it would have to be Shiono Nanami’s (1937–) magnum opus The Story of the Romans (Rōmajin no monogatari, with the Latin title: Res gestae populi Romani, 1992– 2006). It is not a scholarly work per se – Shiono explicitly entitles her work as a ‘story’ (monogatari) rather than a ‘history,’ and takes creative license whenever appropriate by making educated and informed speculations as she traces the history of Rome from its beginnings to its end. Despite such elements of fiction, it remains a bestseller and perhaps the single most popular Japanese source on Roman history to date. Motomura Ryōji (1947–), one of Japan’s lead23

Yamazaki 2009–2013, 4: 73.



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ing scholars of Roman history who also enjoys popular portrayals of antiquity, describes Shiono’s oeuvre: ‘As everyone knows, Shiono Nanami’s The Story of the Romans has been well received by a large number of readers. This is due not only to the author’s abilities, but also to the deepening and expanding interest in the Romans.’24 Notable critic Kida Jun’ichirō finds the charm of Shiono’s work in the way that the ‘intricate political and social milieu and the interpersonal relationships [in the story] unfold in [the author’s] distinctive voice and hold [the reader’s] interest over the longer stretches. The stately descriptions draw faithfully from the original sources yet do not lose their lucid touch. And [the reader] appreciates the author’s craft in weaving elaborate details into the narrative without relying on annotation.’25 Yamazaki is one such reader who was enlightened by Shiono’s narrative, as The Story of the Romans was also one of her sources of information and inspiration prior to drafting what would be the first episode of Thermae Romae.26 One of the key features of Shiono’s work in addition to its sheer exhaustiveness is its treatment of the life of Julius Caesar. As ancient historian Hasegawa Takeo points out, ‘It is clear that [Shiono] especially favors Caesar, and the reason for [the book’s] popularity is that it was read as linking the rise and fall of the Roman Empire with the hopeful future of Japan.’27 Shiono accords Caesar two volumes (out of fifteen total) as she narrates the entire history of Rome from the time of Romulus to the fall of the Western Roman Empire. Among the numerous episodes that illustrate Caesar’s rise to greatness, the crossing of the Rubicon is narrated with the most aplomb. Unlike in Classical accounts, Shiono’s Caesar is decisive, brave, and quick to action: Caesar stood on the bank of the Rubicon but did not cross right away; for a while he stood on the riverbank without speaking. The soldiers of the Thirteenth Legion also remained silent, watching the back of their commander. Caesar finally turned to his staff officers nearby and said:  ‘Crossing here will bring misery to all humanity; but not crossing will bring my own destruction.’ And upon this he moved toward the soldiers who were watching him and shouted in a voice loud enough to throw aside his dilemma, ‘Let us go where the favor of the Gods and the iniquity of our enemies await us. The die is now cast!’

24 25 26 27



Motomura 2012, 17. Kida 1996, 13. Yamazaki 2012a, 339. Hasegawa 2011, 6.

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 His soldiers responded in unison with a battle cry, and led by Caesar, who spurred his horse ahead, the group crossed the Rubicon together. This was on January 12, 49 BCE, on the morning of Caesar’s fiftieth year and sixth month.28 Unlike in Plutarch’s (ca. 46 CE–120 CE) account, in which he ‘discussed his perplexities with his friends who were present, among whom was Asinius Pollio, estimating the great evils for all mankind which would follow their passage of the river, and the wide fame of it which they would leave to posterity,’29 Shiono’s Caesar is resolute and heroic. Moreover, unlike in Suetonius’s (ca. 69– ca. 122 CE) account there is no supernatural omen after the cited scene – insinuating that all of Caesar’s achievements were realized through his own efforts. Shiono’s Caesar is more charismatic than Caesar makes himself out to be in his own Commentarii de Bello Civili, in which he gives the Thirteenth Legion a plain speech about how his enemies have wronged him for the last time.30 As he invites young, school-aged readers of An Educational Manga History of the World: Alexander the Great and Caesar (Gakushū manga sekai no rekishi: Arekusandorosu daiō to Kaesaru), Motomura reveals that if he can be friends with someone among so-called historical heroes, he would choose Caesar because of his ‘decisiveness in the face of crisis: in a critical situation where crossing the Rubicon would make him a traitor and a public enemy, he decided to ‘cast the die’ and push forward into Rome; this power of decision is his natural gift.’31 Caesar’s moment of dilemma, and his resolute action thereafter as described in Shiono’s account, are also what likely captured young Satsuki’s heart – except that she fancied him as an ideal mate rather than a friend.

Rome as Manga

After ‘falling in love’ with Caesar, Satsuki passionately pursues all things Roman with utmost ferocity and eventually masters Latin as well as several modern European languages so that she is able to read secondary sources in the original, and ends up producing a doctoral thesis of unprecedented quality. However, even if she had not had access to sources in their original languages, 28 29 30 31

Shiono 2002, 455. Plutarch 1949, 523. Caesar 1879, 249–50. ‘Yōroppa sekai no kiso Girisha to Rōma’ (Foundations of the European world: Greece and Rome), in Motomura 2002, 163.



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she would still have been able to enjoy various high-quality educational and noneducational manga series on ancient Western history and culture.32 Thanks to the wealth of self-enrichment material that (perhaps over-) compensates for the weak presence of historical materials in the national school curriculum, various personae and events from antiquity have effectively been used as motifs and settings for noneducational manga in Japan. Some of the most noteworthy titles come in the genre of girls’ manga (shōjo manga) in particular. One of the longest-running girls’ manga series, The Crest of the Royal Family (Ōke no monshō by Hosokawa Chieko [1935–] and Fūmin [dates unknown], 1976–; fiftyeight volumes to date) is set in ancient Egypt and the Mediterranean world; Shinohara Chie’s Red River (Sora wa akai kawa no hotori, 1995–2003; twentyeight volumes) is about the ancient Hittite Empire under Mursili II (ca. 1321– 1295 BCE); another prominent girls’ manga author Satonaka Machiko (1948–) wrote Aton’s Daughter (Aton no musume, 1993–1994; three volumes; about ­Ankhesenamen, the wife of the boy king Tutankhamun). Even outside girls’ manga, Yasuhiko Yoshikazu (1947–), the animator and character designer of Mobile Suit Gundam (1979–1980) also wrote My Name is Nero (Waga na wa Nero, 1998–1999; two volumes) and Aléxandros (Arekusandorosu, original publication in 2003 and the complete edition published in 2008; one volume); Iwaaki Hitoshi’s (1960–) HISTORIĒ (2003–; eight volumes), a fictional ­bio­graphy of Eume­nes of Cardia (ca. 362–316 BCE), dares violent depictions. In these works, historical accuracy and creative license find comfortable balance, and figures who receive but brief mentions in history textbooks are given full life. Time travel is a common plot device in these historical manga. For instance, the heroine of The Crest of the Royal Family is a sixteen-year-old blonde-haired and blue-eyed American girl named Carol Reed who has a passion for Egyptian archeology.33 Carol visits the tomb of the assassinated teenage king Memphis with a team of archaeologists, but ends up being transported across time to ancient Egypt by the black magic of Memphis’s half-sister, Isis. Carol and Memphis eventually fall in love, but their romance is constantly obstructed by Isis, who is in love with her half-brother. A ritual of black magic also plays a central role in Red River, in which an ordinary Japanese middle school student, Suzuki Yūri, is brought to the ancient world because of a Hittite empress’s curse on her 32 33



By ‘noneducational’ manga I mean works that are not necessarily intended to be educational, even if they end up having educational value for readers. In the Japanese original, the protagonist’s name is given as Kyaroru Rīdo, but since this is a transliteration of an unknown English name, the English spelling is unclear – for example, Carole instead of Carol, Leed or Lido instead of Reed. For the sake of convenience I have adopted ‘Carol Reed’ simply because it is the most likely spelling.

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stepson (Mursili II, who later marries Yūri). Such examples of time travel within Japanese history are more numerous and include such works as Ueda Rinko’s (1970–) Ryō (1995–1999) and Akaishi Michiyo’s (1959–) AMAKUSA 1637 (2002– 2007).34  Thermae Romae follows the convention of time travel as a device that links two otherwise discrete worlds, but with a different spin. First, while the series ends with a Japanese woman, Satsuki, actively electing to ‘move’ permanently to ancient Rome just as Carol and Yūri do in their respective series, it is Lucius – a man from the distant past – who travels to the future for the rest of the series. Lucius at the beginning of the series is a proud Roman who believes that his people are the most civilized in the world. Just as in The Crest of the Royal Family, where Carol’s movements across time are beyond her control, Lucius is not able to control the timing of his time travel – but he is always transported to the exact location where he can find inspiration and an answer to his dilemma. For instance, as if led by the divine power of the Bath God who wants to spread bath culture throughout time and space, Lucius first travels via bath water to a public bath (sentō) in contemporary Japan soon after he despairs that his style has been criticized as ‘outdated’ and he has been fired by his employer.35 In this and subsequent episodes, he is transported back and forth between Rome and contemporary Japan and encounters several modern conveniences and technology that he takes back to his time in order to resurrect his reputation. Since Lucius travels forward in time, he comes to the contemporary world without any knowledge of the future. This forces him to comprehend his surroundings in familiar but limited Roman terms, and hilarious ‘misunder­ standings’ ensue. This humor starts immediately upon his first arrival to contemporary Japan. He initially interprets the wall painting of Mount Fuji, a common motif in a public bath, as Mount Vesuvius in Pompeii because he thinks that he was accidentally sucked into a Roman slave bath (see fig. 12.3).36 In turn, the Japanese characters who encounter Lucius mistake him for just another foreigner lost in Japan. Their mutual misunderstandings reach new heights in another episode, when an elderly man discovers Lucius in his bath 34

35 36

In Ryō, a contemporary Japanese high school student of the same name realizes that she is actually the historical Minamoto no Yoshitsune (1159–1189 CE) who is temporarily visiting contemporary Japan; AMAKUSA 1637 features a contemporary school girl and her friends who are transported to Shimabara in Kyūshū in the early seventeenth century, the site of a failed Christian revolt. The drama centers on their attempt to change history by making the revolt succeed. Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 10–14. Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 16.



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Figure 12.3 Mount Fuji vs. Mount Vesuvius. Lucius has been transported via bathwater to contemporary Japan. In his confusion, he mistakes the painting of Mount Fuji for one of Mount Vesuvius (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 16). © MARI YAMAZAKI 2009. Courtesy of Yamazaki Mari.

and confuses him with the visiting caregiver that he is expecting.37 Seeing the old man’s ‘shampoo hat’ (a kind of visor used mainly by children and the elderly that prevents shampoo from getting into their eyes), Lucius mistakes the hat for a crown, suspects that the man may be the head of his ‘flat-faced tribe,’ and regards the simple shower head as evidence of an advanced civilization (see fig. 12.4).38 In yet another episode, when Lucius emerges from a bathtub displayed in the showroom of a Japanese bath manufacturer, the attendants think that Lucius is the Italian client whom they have been awaiting. As in 37 38



Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 88. Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 93.

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Figure 12.4 Shampoo hat. The old man shows Lucius how to use a ‘shampoo hat,’ whereas Lucius thinks to himself: ‘A crown? Is this old man the head of this tribe?’ (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 93). © MARI YAMAZAKI 2009. Courtesy of Yamazaki Mari.

most other instances, Lucius arrives in the modern world completely naked, since he is usually in the middle of a bath just before he transports through time; however, his ‘foreign-ness’ is used as a reason to disregard even the oddest behavior.39 Despite the mutual misunderstandings between him and his adoptive Japanese acquaintances, Lucius learns several valuable lessons and ultimately is able to use this newfound knowledge to his advantage by reproducing Japanese ingenuity in Rome.

Hot Baths in Cool Japan

Through his observation of Japanese bath culture, Lucius joins the long list of foreigners who enthusiastically embrace what they have learned from the 39

Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 122–125. 

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Japan­ese rather than demean or discard it. When faced with sophisticated Japanese bathing customs and technologies – especially through a comical misunderstanding – Lucius expresses not just admiration for this advanced society but also dismay and embarrassment at the backwardness of his own civilization. This acknowledgment of defeat, usually portrayed with humorous exaggeration, might evoke among Japanese readers feelings of pride and appreciation toward their own culture. This evocation of national pride is significant when examined in the historical context of contemporary Japan. Since the end of World War II, Japan has looked to the West – America and Europe in particular – for affirmation and encouragement as it sought to build a democratic constitutional monarchy and an export-driven economy as a modern nation in good standing with its peers. From the ‘rapid economic growth’ of the 1950s and 1960s to the ‘Japanese miracle’ of the 1970s and 1980s, Japan’s national prestige surged as economic malaise gripped the West. No longer subordinated to America and Europe, Japan became the economic powerhouse from which everyone wanted to learn.40 But after the economic ‘bubble’ burst in the early 1990s, Japan became the target of intense criticism and popular faith in its national culture seemed to waver. During the long ‘lost decade’ at the end of the twentieth century, comments from foreigners were often used to gain new vantage points to reflect upon and often criticize Japanese ways.41 Despite a modest rebound in the mid2000s, the period has been described as ‘an economic recovery that still carries with it a vague, lingering sense of unease’42 and has supposedly failed to boost the confidence of the Japanese public. Accountant and bestselling author Yamada Shin’ya argues that the problem with the Japanese national, collective economic mission at that time was that ‘despite its spirited effort to catch and overtake [Europe and America], Japan lost sight of its goal as soon as it had actually caught up.’43

40

41

42 43 

The most notable example of this is Vogel 1979, in which the author describes Japan as the culturally distinctive and yet similar enough example from which the United States can learn for its better future. An example of this tendency was the television variety show Koko ga hen dayo Nihonjin (This is what’s weird about the Japanese; 1998–2002), in which a seemingly random collection of foreigners living in Japan appeared on the program and criticized various Japan­ese customs and institutions. See ‘“Futsū no gaikokujin” motomu! Maruchi nasho­ narizumu to media o tōshita shakai sanka’ (Seeking ‘regular foreigners’! Social participation through multinationalism and the media), in Iwabuchi 2007, 193–246. Kawaguchi 2007, 6. Yamada 2010, 13.

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Encouraged by the notions of ‘gross national cool’ by Douglas McGray and ‘soft power’ by Joseph Nye, Japan has seized upon its pop culture as the answer to the sluggish economy and sagging national morale.44 ‘Cool Japan’ has since become a mantra intoned by government and industry to further diplomatic aims and boost economic growth through exportation of its popular culture. For instance, the Cool Japan Fund was established in November 2013 with funding from both the government and private companies to further promote Japanese cultural products, including intangible values like ‘lifestyle’ and ‘omo­ tenashi’ (hospitality).45 However, as Jonathan Abel argues, ‘Cool Japan’ can operate as propaganda that entails a time lag and provokes willful misunderstanding by its exoticism.46 Perhaps more important, no matter how enthusiastically ‘Cool Japan’ is presented, it can still inspire anxiety among Japanese that their culture is frivolous and inferior compared to the ‘high’ culture of the West. Kawaguchi articulates this anxiety – and possible shame – hidden in the unexpected way in which this cultural hegemony has been accomplished: When Japan finally earned the honor of becoming a first world nation, its traditional high culture was supposed to be recognized by the world as being worthy of pride. These should have been things like bushido, the craftsman mentality, the sober austerity seen in the Katsura Detached Palace, [the aesthetic concept of] ‘mystery and depth’; but if you look at what appeared from some blind spot and took off overseas, these were lamentable things like the ‘half-assed’ type [yuru-kei] and the ‘good-fornothing’ type [hetare-kei], the ‘adorable’ character [moe-kyara], and the ‘kogal’ style [kogyaru-fū]. These shameful things should have remained hidden as an underground subculture.47 The arrival of Lucius to contemporary Japan is timely in light of this cultural anxiety. As the ultimate ‘foreigner’ from a distant country and an ancient culture, Lucius emerges from the time tunnel of bathwater into a society that has 44 45 46

47

Kawaguchi 2010, 14–15. See Nye 2004 and McGray 2002. The Cool Japan Fund identifies six target items in total; the other four are ‘contents,’ ‘traditional technique,’ ‘cuisine,’ and ‘fashion’ (Cool Japan Fund 2018). Jonathan Abel observes that ‘Cool Japan’ in the United States today has its roots in the exoticism of the late nineteenth century to early twentieth century (Abel 2010, 143); and that current fascination with Japanese culture is motivated by the aura Japan generated by the miraculous postwar economic recovery and the glory of the ‘bubble’ years (Abel 2010, 139). Kawaguchi 2010, 16–17.



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just reached the zenith of its glory but has started to turn inward and question the viability of its traditions and institutions. This suggests a historical parallel between contemporary Japan and the second-century Roman Empire, which is emphasized by the author of Thermae Romae by her choice to set the work in these two historical contexts. Lucius lives under the reign of Hadrian, by which time the chaos during and after the late Julio-Claudian dynasty were things of the past, and Rome had just achieved the largest expansion of its territory under Trajan (53–117 CE). At that time, an estimated sixty million people, about one third of all the world’s population, lived in the orbit of the Roman Empire.48 As Marguerite Yourcenar (1903–1987) quotes Gustave Flaubert (1821– 1880) in Mémoirs d’Hadrien, this was a time in Rome ‘just when the gods ceased to be, and the Christ had not yet come, there was a unique moment in history, between Cicero and Marcus Aurelius, when man stood alone.’49 But the problems that Hadrian faced – he clashed often with the Senate, fought multiple battles to quell uprisings in Judea, and rolled back the territorial gains of his predecessor – contributed to the sense that the empire had overreached and was now starting to decline. In the world of Thermae Romae, these troubles motivate Lucius to do his part in boosting the emperor’s spirits by building a lavish, one-of-a-kind bathhouse that draws upon the Japanese wisdom he has seen; in other words, he imports Japanese know-how in an attempt to save the Roman Empire. And through his actions, Lucius can also be a hero in Japan because he recognizes the value and utility of what he found there, and he reminds the Japanese people that they should be proud of their culture. As a respected artisan in the service of one of the most famous emperors in the history of Western civilization, Lucius has strong credentials as a foreign evaluator of Japanese culture, especially among readers who have some knowledge of Roman history beyond a few paltry lines in a school textbook. As such, Lucius is not unlike the many foreign celebrities who appear in Japanese advertisements and commercials to endorse Japanese products – that is, notable figures from the West who praise something from Japan and thereby boost the collective confidence of the Japanese people in their culture.50 48 49 50



Motomura 2012, 13. Gustave Flaubert, cited in Yourcenar 1995, 320–321. Originally published in 1951 by Librarie Plon. A recent notable example of a Western celebrity endorsement of Japanese culture is Lady Gaga (1986–), whose love for Japanese fashion makes her a regular visitor to Harajuku, the hub of youth fashion in Tokyo. She was also among the first celebrities to raise disaster relief funds after the Tōhoku earthquake of 2011. (accessed February 4, 2018).

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Promoting ‘Warm Japan’

Although Lucius is himself the protagonist of a popular manga series that has contributed to the ‘Cool Japan’ phenomenon, his watery travels foster an appreciation for the seemingly ‘uncool’ or pedestrian aspects of everyday Japanese life: he delights in simple food and drink, he venerates the immaculate hygiene of Japanese bathers, and he marvels at the ubiquitous hot springs where comfort and cleanliness are pursued with the utmost passion. He is impressed by the small yet functional ‘coffin-like’ bath of the aforementioned elderly man, the respect and courtesy shown toward other bathers in public baths, and the ingenious engineering that created a system of wooden plumbing to fill an outdoor bath. As emphasized in nearly every volume of Thermae Romae, Lucius is most drawn to things that are commonplace and not usually considered to be the ‘best’ that Japanese culture has to offer. At no point during his numerous stays in contemporary Japan does Lucius eat at Sukiyabashi Jirō, the three-star Michelin sushi bar that many consider the ultimate in Japanese cuisine. Instead, the kinds of food that he finds shockingly delicious are everyday things like pickled vegetables seasoned with shottsuru (a fish sauce that reminds Lucius of Roman garum), a bowl of ramen (served in a bowl decorated with what he thinks is a meandrous pattern and leads him to assume that the ‘flat-faced tribe’ are also a philhellenic society) accompanied by a plate of gyōza dumplings, and ‘fruit milk’ (furūtsu gyūnyū, a popular post-bath drink that Lucius recreates as faithfully as possible when he returns to Rome, where it becomes a smash hit). In other realms besides cuisine, Lucius is fascinated with the Washlet – a Western-style toilet seat equipped with an electronic bidet as well as a selfopening lid mechanism and a music function to mask embarrassing sounds. He is so impressed that he engineers a replica in imperial Rome for Hadrian’s use. He is by no means the first non-Japanese to grow fond of this contraption: the Washlet is an established hit item among pro-Japan foreigners, ranking at number one in a poll taken in 2009 by the hit show Cool Japan on the public broadcaster NHK.51 What is new about Lucius is that he gives the product the Roman stamp of approval (see fig. 12.5). Lucius is also amazed by the products and services that ordinary Japanese – not a particularly wealthy or culturally sophisticated elite – enjoy on a daily basis. As with the food examples, the Washlet is now commonplace and found 51

The poll was taken from one hundred respondents, all foreigners, for the hundredth anniversary show that aired in October 2009 (Tsutsumi 2013, 13–14).



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Figure 12.5 Washlet. With no understanding of modern technology, Lucius is puzzled as to how many slaves the flat-faced tribe employ in order to make the Washlet work (Yamazaki 2009–2013, 1: 131). © MARI YAMAZAKI 2009. Courtesy of Yamazaki Mari.



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in more than 70 percent of all regular (ippan) households, meaning that virtually all Japanese can enjoy its benefits.52 By fixing the reader’s attention on these ubiquitous luxuries, Lucius illustrates for the Japanese the cultural treasures already in their possession. In many ways, the message that Yamazaki suggests through Lucius is close to what Kawaguchi states is the mission of his book: From a global perspective, the range of products used by the Japanese freely and without a second thought abound with uniqueness. We can ‘take stock’ of these [products] and arrange them by the mentalities, emotions, and backgrounds of the Japanese who made them. Then, through these many examples, we can tease out the wonderful latent potential hidden within the Japanese people.53 The expression ‘latent potential’ suggests that the Japanese do not need to produce anything ‘new’ or ‘cool’ to secure their place in the world.54 Hara Ken’ya echoes Kawaguchi’s sentiment about contemporary Japanese culture and its hidden value. The culture of hospitality – as warm as the bathwater in which Lucius soaks – is so integral to the enjoyment of hot springs in Japan that it can also be considered one aspect of what Hara calls the ‘sensory resources’ (kankaku shigen) of the Japanese: ‘What if we were to reexamine our sensory resources as something that our culture can contribute to the world? By so doing, we can hold fast our confidence as a country that balances the kind of rationality and modesty needed in this world and advance toward the future.’55 Such ‘sensory resources’ are precisely what Japan played up in its successful bid in 2013 to host the 2020 Olympic Games in Tokyo and showed that the hospitality culture evoked by hot springs and public baths – encapsulated in the term omotenashi that became a buzzword during the Olympic bid – is potentially one of the strongest cultural exports that Japan can bring to the global

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Shōhi dōkō chōsa 2012. Kawaguchi 2007, 9–10. ‘The rest of Asia and the BRICS countries are steadily gaining on Japan’s industries. Going forward, Japan needs to rediscover its ‘uniquely Japanese’ direction in order to survive in the world. That said, there is no need for Japan to struggle with areas outside of its expertise in order to build up its own strength. It is important to rediscover the natural uniqueness that resides within the Japanese, and to apply those values firmly and strategically’ (Kawaguchi 2007, 8–9). Hara 2011, 6–7.



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marketplace.56 By emphasizing the ingenuity and cross-cultural appeal of every­­day comforts in contemporary Japan, Thermae Romae gives readers the warm feeling that the water from hot springs is actually as valuable – and exportable – as petroleum.57 To those readers who are insecure about Japanese culture and those who are proud of it but discouraged by the lack of attention it receives, this work shows that they need not do anything radically or superficially new – they can simply look to the treasures of their everyday culture. At the same time, Thermae Romae presents the danger that Japanese everyday culture may disappear if the Japanese neglect its maintenance. As Satsuki’s native town, Itō, faces the ‘invasion’ of out-of-town developers who have little regard for local residents or traditions and wish to construct a giant hot spring resort, Yamazaki (via Lucius) warns that once something is gone it is lost ­forever: ‘History and tradition are not flimsy things that can be bought with money! No matter the state of the economy, we must protect those things that we intend to pass down to future generations! This I have learned in Rome and in Athens – and Itō should be no different!’58 The mantra of Cool Japan may encourage profit over craft, and hot springs may seem like inexhaustible resources that bubble up from the ground. However, the maintenance of Japanese everyday culture requires ‘repair and preservation’ (hoshū to hogo), which, as Lucius’s architect grandfather once taught the young bath engineer, is something any great building needs.59 Such words of admonishment sound especially convincing when coming from Lucius: neither the city of Baiae, where Lucius devoted himself to the construction of a ‘hot spring utopia,’ nor Roman bath culture, which he sought to perfect by taking cues from the ‘flat-faced tribe,’ have survived to the modern era. Roman baths may still exist as ruins, but the experience of its bath culture – an important dimension of Roman everyday life – has largely dissipated like so much steam into the night air.

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The spirit of omotenashi was most emphasized in the speech given (in French) by television news anchor Takigawa Christel. See (accessed May 27, 2014). ‘[Japan] does not produce oil, but it has hot springs bubbling up everywhere’ (Hara 2011, 7). Yamazaki 2009–2013, 5: 145. Yamazaki 2009–2013, 5: 92.

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Conclusion: The Future of Ancient Rome in Japan

The balneal wisdom actually gleaned and implemented by fellow Roman bath engineers unfortunately did not survive the subsequent collapse of the empire and emergence of other powers. Roman hot spring resorts and public bathhouses have become romantic but lost fragments of the past. Still, modern bath enthusiasts cannot help but try to access this lost culture by mobilizing all of our resources and senses. In such an otherwise hopeless venture, creative but responsible fictionalization of the past and its visualization can be the best aid. Asked in an interview how she was able to conceive such an extraordinary story, Yamazaki listed several factors, including her Italian husband (a Roman history buff who constantly lectured her about Rome),60 and her apartment in Lisbon (where she longed for a Japanese-style bath but had to settle for a shower).61 In terms of the ‘look’ of her manga, her main source of inspiration was the BBC/HBO television series Rome (2005–2007), which recreated the ancient world for contemporary viewers like herself.62 The series played a crucial role for Yamazaki and Thermae Romae in three ways. First, the superb production values of the series gave her ideas for creating her own Roman world in visual form. Second, the series happened to air in Japan around the same time that Yamazaki received permission from the editors of Komikku bīmu to work on the one-shot (yomikiri) manga that would lead to the full series.63 Finally, when Thermae Romae was adapted into a movie, the production was able to use the same sets as the television series in the Cinecittà film studios in Italy. 60

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Yamazaki says that her husband kept on pointing out surprising similarities between contemporary Japan and ancient Rome during his visits to Japan. What impressed him most was that both cultures value relaxation as much as cleanliness in the bath, and consider such bathing time to be essential to daily life (Yamazaki 2010, 84). See also ‘Nihon no furo, kodai Rōma ni shōgeki’ 2010, 15. ‘Ponpei ten raigetsu 13-nichi kaimaku’ 2010, 30. She details her fascination in the following entries from Yamazaki 2012a: ‘BBC no taiga dorama “ROME” saikō’ (Reconsidering the BBC historical drama Rome), 179–180; ‘“ROME” chūdoku de renjitsu fumin’ (Addicted to Rome with insomnia nightly), 180–181; ‘Kureopatora’ (Cleopatra), 182–184; ‘“ROME” saishūshō no shokku kara sukoshi tachinaoru’ (Somewhat recovered from the shock of the Rome finale), 184–185; ‘Otaku dō masshigura’ (Full speed to Otaku-dom), 213–215. Original blog entries are from November 15, 19 (twice), and 24, 2006; and February 11, 2007, respectively. Yamazaki excitedly advertised the upcoming broadcast on her blog on May 11, 2007. See ‘7 gatsu, Nihon ni iyoiyo HBO “ROME” jōriku!!’ (In July, HBO’s Rome finally reaches Japan!!), in Yamazaki 2012a, 268.



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This is a good example of an excellent visual representation giving rise to another excellent visual representation. While the problem of historical accuracy is always present, one can never underestimate the importance of visual representation. Aforementioned Roman historian Motomura Ryōji proudly mentions that one of the ‘prompters’ behind his decision to become a historian of Rome was the ‘overwhelming allure’ of the movie Ben-Hur (1959, dir. William Wyler) that he saw as a middle school student.64 The unforgettable chariot race scene in Ben-Hur is something that Yamazaki also wished to recreate in her work, and she did just that by having Lucius chase Satsuki’s kidnappers in a two-horse ‘chariot’ normally used to cart around tourists in Itō.65 The success of Thermae Romae has inspired the publication of more titles on the ancient world that can serve as friendly introductions to the uniniti­ ated. According to the online catalog of the National Diet Library, approximately twenty-five titles about ancient Rome were published in Japan in 2008, including mass paperback editions of Shiono’s The Story of the Romans, new translations of Gibbon and Mommsen’s works as well as Montesquieu’s Considérations sur les causes de la grandeur des Romains et de leur décadence. The year 2009 saw about the same number of publications – among which are the first volume of Thermae Romae and one title intended for beginners ‘with zero knowledge.’66 Although there was a special exhibition on Pompeii planned at the Yokohama Art Museum in 2010, the output surprisingly declined to fifteen titles; however, in 2011, a year after Thermae Romae received the Tezuka Osamu Cultural Prize, the number jumped back to twenty-five, with more such novice-friendly titles like A Crash Course in ‘Roman History’: So Interesting You’ll Learn It All (‘Omoshiroi hodo sukkiri wakaru! ‘Rōma shi’ shūchū kōgi,’ Hase­ gawa Takeo); The World’s Most Understandable History of the Romans (‘Sekai ichi wakariyasui Rōmajin no rekishi,’ Mori Miyoko) and The 1,500-Year History of the Roman Empire (‘Rōma teikoku 1,500-nen shi,’ Sakamoto Hiroshi), both from Shin jinbutsu ōraisha; as well as Seishun shuppansha’s The Daily Lives of Ancient Romans through Maps and Outlines (‘Chizu to arasuji de wakaru! Kodai Rōmajin no hibi no kurashi,’ Sakamoto Hiroshi). The total number of books on Roman history and culture published in 2012 remained at the same level as the 64 65

66



Motomura 2002, 162. Motomura also discussed this during his final lecture at the University of Tokyo. In her afterword for the episode, Yamazaki reveals her steadfast resolve to draw the scene even if it meant forcibly inserting some elements into the plot. Yamazaki 2009–2013, 5: 188. Sakamoto 2009.

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other years, but there was a large increase in the number of new introductory books with titles like A Book to Understand Greek and Roman Mythology (‘Girisha / Rōma no shinwa ga yoku wakaru hon,’ Tōkyō sōgō hōrei shuppan), An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Ancient Roman Life (‘Kodai Rōmajin no kurashi zukan: Irasuto de wakaru,’ Takarajimasha), The Only Book You’ll Need! The Roman Empire (‘Kono issatsu de yokuwakaru! Rōma teikoku,’ Nihon bungeisha), The Roman Empire for Know-Nothings: Learning from the Advanced and Magnanimous Romans Who Built an Empire of Unprecedented Vastness (‘Zero kara wakaru Rōma teikoku: Kūzen no kyodai teikoku o kizuita Rōmajin no senshin to kandai ni manabu,’ Gakken paburisshingu). Whether Thermae Romae will have a long-lasting impact on the future of the Romano- or Italo-Japanese relationship remains to be seen – but in the short run it has made a tangible impact. In addition to the popularization of Roman history, there has been an increase of serious scholarly interest on the topic of Western antiquity in Japan. Kyoto University Press (Kyōto daigaku gakujutsu shuppankai), the publisher of the Library of Western Classics (Seiyō koten sōsho), published the hundredth title of the series in March 2014. Inaugurated in 1997, the series aims to provide university students with ‘readable translations based on a rigorous understanding of primary sources’ and ultimately publish three hundred titles in total, with half of these texts being translated into Japanese for the first time. The Aeneid, one of the few Classics not currently in circulation in paperback, was published in a hardback edition from this series and is their third-bestselling title.67 When other publishers thought that such a work would sell just ‘several hundred (copies) at best,’ Kyoto University Press has sold close to five thousand copies, which editor-in-chief Suzuki Tetsuya considers a reflection of the Japanese reading public’s latent interest.68 In addition, Yamazaki herself seems still intent on popularizing Roman culture among her Japanese readers; in January 2014 she started a new manga series in the magazine Shinchō based upon the last days of Pliny the Elder (23–79 CE) in Pompeii. Although ‘dumbed-down’ popular introductions and mass-marketed visual adaptations often provoke the ire of scholarly snobs because of their historical inaccuracy, such derivative works nonetheless provide to lay readers engaging access to culturally significant material, and push scholars to be bold and creative in analyzing historical reconstruction and literary interpretation. As a fictional but thrilling chariot race between two sworn enemies excited one 67 68

Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and Politics are the best and second bestsellers (‘“Seiyō koten sōsho” ga tsūkan 100-satsu’ 2013, 11). Ibid.



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viewer to pursue Roman history and another to depict Roman culture in ­manga form, perhaps the story of a time-traveling Roman bath engineer has already inspired the next generation of inquisitive and imaginative minds. It may not be an exaggeration to say that the absence of Roman history and culture from school curricula may be a blessing in disguise because it allows Japanese readers to face the history of Rome with an open mind. Perhaps Japan’s most valuable resource exists in the form of a pool of potential experts on Western antiquity that has yet to be tapped. Shiono Nanami, for one, believes so: ‘The Japanese have long been tabula rasa when it comes to Roman history, and as such they can learn about the ingenuity of the Romans in a straightforward way, with a perspective more balanced than that of Westerners. Is this not a fortunate thing?’69 Even before Lucius got sucked into a watery wormhole and traveled to ­twenty-first-century Japan, many Japanese scholars of antiquity as well as lay but passionate aficionados have perused the copious textual legacy of the ancients and strolled among the ruins of their society. Just as Shiono Nanami’s The Story of the Romans did in previous years, Yamazaki’s Thermae Romae has provided Japanese readers another opportunity to appreciate the mutual resonances between an ancient civilization and a modern society that are more familiar to each other than they would expect. Such opportunities for serendipitous encounter with the ancient world among a curious audience – be it through manga, cinema, or books that introduce Roman history in seemingly superficial or frivolous terms – are indeed what allow the ‘warmth’ of everyday life in Japan and the ‘coolness’ of Rome’s former glory to mingle together in the churning bathwaters of contemporary Japanese culture.

References Cited

Abel, Jonathan (2010), ‘Kūru Japanorojī no fukanōsei to kanōsei クール・ジャパノロジー の不可能性と可能性’ (The impossibilities and possibilities of Cool Japanology), in Nihonteki sōzōryoku no mirai: Kūru Japanorojī no kanōsei 日本的想像力の未来： クール・ジャパノロジーの可能性 (The future of Japanese imagination: The possibilities of Cool Japanology), ed. Azuma Hiroki 東浩紀, 135–160. Tokyo: NHK shuppan. Caesar, Caius Julius (1879), Caesar’s Commentaries on the Gallic and Civil Wars, trans. W.A. McDevitte and W.S. Bohn. New York: Harper and Row. Cool Japan Fund (2018), ‘What is Cool Japan Fund?’ (accessed February 4, 2018). 69



Shiono 2005, 315.

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Hara Ken’ya 原研哉 (2011), Nihon no dezain: biishiki ga tsukuru mirai 日本のデザイン： 美意識がつくる未来 (Japanese design: A future created by aesthetics). Tokyo: Iwanami shoten. Hasegawa Takeo 長谷川岳男 (2011), ‘Rōmashi’ shūchū kōgi 「ローマ史」集中講義 (An intensive course on Roman history). Tokyo: Seishun shuppansha. Iwabuchi Kōichi 岩渕功一 (2007), Bunka no taiwaryoku: sofuto pawā to burando nashonarizumu o koete 文化の対話力―ソフト・パワーとブランド・ナショナリズムを越えて (The dialogic power of culture: Beyond soft power and brand nationalism). Tokyo: Nihon keizai shinbun shuppansha. Kawaguchi Morinosuke 川口盛之助 (2007), Otaku de onnanoko na kuni no monozukuri オタクで女の子な国のモノづくり (Neon genesis of geeky-girly Japanese engineering). Tokyo: Kōdansha. Kawaguchi Morinosuke 川口盛之助 (2010), Sekai ga zessan suru ‘Meido in Japan’ 世界 が絶賛する「メイド・バイ・ジャパン」 (‘Made in Japan’ as acclaimed around the world). Tokyo: Sofutobanku kurieitibu. Kida Jun’ichirō 紀田順一郎 (1996), ‘Ureteru himitsu 売れてる秘密’ (The Secret of Its Sales). Review of Yuriusu kaesaru: Rubikon igo ユリウス・カエサル：ルビコン以後 (Julius Caesar: After the Rubicon) by Shiono Nanami (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1996), in Asahi shinbun, June 16, 13. Kimura Seiji 木村靖二, Satō Tsugitaka 佐藤次高, Kishimoto Mio 岸本美緒 et al. (2013), Shōsetsu sekaishi 詳説世界史 (World history in detail). Tokyo: Yamakawa shuppansha. ‘Kyōkasho repōto’ henshū iinkai 『教科書レポート』編集委員会, ed. (2013), Kyōkasho repōto 『教科書レポート』 (Textbook report), no. 56. Tokyo: Nihon shuppan rōdō kumiai rengōkai. McGray, Douglas (2002), ‘Japan’s Gross National Cool,’ Foreign Policy, no. 130 (May–June): 44–54. Mommsen, Theodor (1921), History of Rome, vol. 4. London: J.M. Dent & Sons. Monbu kagakushō 文部科学省 (2010), Kōtō gakkō gakushū shidō yōryō kaisetsu: Chiri rekishi hen 高等学校学習指導要領解説 地理歴史編 (Explanation of guidelines on high school education: Geography and history). Tokyo: Kyōiku shuppan. Motomura Ryōji 本村凌二 (2002), Arekusandorosu daiō to Kaesaru: Kodai Girisha to Rōma teikoku アレクサンドロス大王とカエサル：古代ギリシャとローマ帝国 (Alexander the Great and Caesar: Ancient Greece and the Roman Empire), vol. 2 of Gakushū manga sekai no rekishi 学習漫画世界の歴史 (Educational manga history of the world). Tokyo: Shūeisha. Motomura Ryōji 本村凌二 (2012), Rōmajin ni manabu ローマ人に学ぶ (Learning from the Romans). Tokyo: Shūeisha. Nihon eiga seisakusha renmei 日本映画製作者連盟 (2012), ‘2012-nen zenkoku eiga gaikyō ２０１２年全国映画概況’ (Overview of Japanese films, 2012), (accessed March 20, 2014).



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‘Nihon no furo, kodai Rōma ni shōgeki’ (Japanese baths make an impact on Ancient Rome) (2010), Asahi shinbun, April 19, 15. Nishimura Shigeo 西村繁男 (1997), Saraba, waga seishun no Shōnen Jump さらば、わが 青春の『少年ジャンプ』 (Farewell, Shōnen Jump of my youth). Tokyo: Gentōsha. Nye, Joseph (2004), Soft Power: The Means to Success in World Politics. New York: Public Affairs. Otona fami henshūbu オトナファミ編集部, ed., (2012), Terumae Romae kōshiki ofurobon: uchiburo no sahō テルマエ・ロマエ公式オフロ本：ウチ風呂の作法 (Thermae Romae official bath book: Etiquette for at-home bathing). Tokyo: Entā burein. Plutarch (1949), ‘Caesar,’ no. 32, in Plutarch’s Lives, with an English Translation by Bernadotte Perrin, vol. 7. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ‘Ponpei ten raigetsu 13-nichi kaimaku: Yamazaki-san mo kyōmi shinshin ポンペイ展 来月１３日開幕：ヤマザキさんも興味津々’ (Pompeii Exhibit opens on the 13th of next month: Ms. Yamazaki showing great interest) (2010), Yomiuri shinbun, May 30, 30. Sakamoto Hiroshi 阪本浩 (2009), Chishiki zero kara no Rōma teikoku nyūmon 知識ゼロ からのローマ帝国入門 (A zero-knowledge primer to the Roman Empire). Tokyo: Gentōsha. Segawa Dai 瀬川大 (2005), ‘“Shūyō” kenkyū no genzai 「修養」研究の現在’ (The present state of research on ‘self-cultivation’), Tōkyō daigaku daigakuin kyōikgaku kenkyūka kyōikugaku kenkyūshitsu kiyō 東京大学大学院教育学研究科教育学研究室紀要 31 (June): 47–53. ‘“Seiyō koten sōsho” ga tsūkan 100-satsu’ 「西洋古典叢書」が通巻１００冊 (‘Library of Western Classics’ reaches 100 volumes) (2013), Yomiuri shinbun, June 17, 11. Shinpo Yoshiaki 新保良明 (2012), Kodai Rōmajin no kurashi zukan 古代ローマ人の くらし図鑑 (Illustrated encyclopedia of ancient Roman life). Tokyo: Takarajimasha. Shiono Nanami 塩野七生 (2002), Hannibaru senki [chū] ハンニバル戦記 [中] (Battles of Hannibal, second volume), vol. 4 of Rōmajin no monogatari ローマ人の物語 (Story of the Romans). Tokyo: Shinchōsha. Shiono Nanami 塩野七生 (2005), Rōma kara Nihon ga mieru ローマから日本が見える (Seeing Japan from Rome). Tokyo: Shūeisha International. Shōhi dōkō chōsa 消費動向調査 (Survey of consumption trends) (2012). (accessed May 8, 2014). Takeuchi Yō 竹内洋 (2003), Kyōyō shugi no botsuraku: Kawariyuku erīto gakusei bunka 教養主義の没落：変わりゆくエリート学生文化 (The collapse of self-enrichment: The changing culture of elite students). Tokyo: Chūō kōronsha. Tsutsui Kiyotada 筒井清忠 (1995), Nihongata ‘kyōyō’ no unmei: Rekishi shakaigakuteki kōsatsu 日本型「教養」の運命：歴史社会学的考察 (The fate of Japanese-style ‘selfenrichment’: A historical-sociological study). Tokyo: Iwanami shoten. Tsutsumi Kazuhiko 堤和彦 (2013), NHK ‘Cool Japan’ kakkoii Nippon saihakken NHK 「COOL JAPAN」 かっこいいニッポン再発見 (Rediscovering the cool in ‘Cool Japan’). Tokyo: NHK shuppan.



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Vogel, Ezra (1979), Japan as Number One. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Watanabe, Akihiko (2008), ‘Classica Japonica: Greece and Rome in the Japanese Academia and Popular Literature,’ Amphora: A Publication of the American Philological Association 7, no. 1 (Spring): 6, 10–11. Yamada Shin’ya 山田真哉 (2010), ‘Kyōkun: Sekaijū no bunka to kigyō ni manabe 教訓： 世界中の文化と企業に学べ’ (A lesson: Learn from cultures and corporations around the world), Yomiuri shinbun, April 11, 13. Yamazaki Mari ヤマザキマリ (2009–2013), Thermae Romae. 6 vols. Tokyo: Entā burein. Yamazaki Mari ヤマザキマリ (2010), ‘Furo to otto to Rōma to watashi 風呂と夫とローマ と私’ (Bath, husband, Rome, myself), Bungei shunjū 文芸春秋 (September): 83–85. Yamazaki Mari ヤマザキマリ (2012a), Yamazaki Mari no Risubon nikki: Thermae wa ichi­ nichi ni shite narazu ヤマザキマリのリスボン日記：テルマエは一日にして成らず (The Lisbon diaries of Yamazaki Mari: Thermae was not built in a day). Tokyo: Furī sutairu. Yamazaki Mari ヤマザキマリ (2012b), Terumae senki テルマエ戦記 (Thermae battles). Tokyo: Entā burein. Yourcenar, Marguerite (1995), Memoirs of Hadrian; and, Reflections on the Composition of Memoirs of Hadrian, trans. Grace Frick. New York: Random House.



Chapter 13 

Back to the Future: Reviving Classical Figures in Japanese Comics Carla Scilabra The aim of this chapter* is to investigate how Classical heritage1 is perceived and depicted in Japanese comic production. Manga series represent a particular type of comic production which first appeared immediately after the Second World War and then grew – in a fairly progressive process – until it had reached almost every corner of the world.2 Nowadays, the manga phenomenon can be considered a central form of Japanese pop-culture expression, both in terms of the value system, themes, and worldview that it represents, and in the way in which it is widely diffused among different demographics. Simultaneously, manga can also be seen as a global trend, thanks to the favor it has gained in different countries throughout the years.3 In order to analyze this process, this study will consider elements from the Greco-Roman historical and cultural heritage that appear in these comics and how they are represented, before focusing on a more intricate question that, although it might seem thorny, could lead to a more complete understanding

* This article uses the Hepburn Romanization system for the transliteration of Japanese names and words. Japanese authors’ and characters’ names are indicated with the given name followed by the family name. 1 In this work the terms ‘Classic’ and ‘Classical heritage’ will refer exclusively to the ancient Greek and Roman cultural heritage, including under this definition both the myths and the history that concern these cultures. 2 The birth of kindai manga (lit. modern manga, which is essentially what the world indentifies with manga itself) is conventionally identified by scholars with the publication of Shin Takarajima (New Treasure Island) by Osamu Tezuka in 1947; while I do not provide here a complete analysis of such a complex phenomenon, I reiterate how this production grew constantly over the following decades, with the creation of new genres targeting different kinds of audiences (Bouissou 2010: 24–28; Kinsella 2000: 28–29; for an overview of the different stages of this development, see also Di Fratta 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003; about the creation of new genres, see also below, notes 41 and 49). 3 Regarding the diffusion of manga and anime outside Japan, see the considerations presented by Mouer and Norris 2009: 361–365; Bainbridge and Norris 2010: 239–242; and Ito 2012: xi.

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of these works: Where exactly are these topics taken from, and via which route did they reach the mangaka’s4 pencils? To be sure, this study is not the first one to try to show the reception of the Classics in manga production;5 however most of the essays published until now have not focused closely enough on the ways in which the reception of the Classics traveled. In addition, with the exception of a recent contribution focused on anime – Japanese animated production, often inspired by manga production – presented by Maria G. Castello and myself at the Imagines III conference held in Mainz in September 2012,6 the previous literature seems to underestimate the role that Japanese traditional and pop culture play in the creative process of these works. However, as we will see on the following pages, the influence of the local culture plays a pivotal role in the construction of the Classical past and how it is seen by Japanese cartoonists and their audiences. As has been frequently noted in literature, a study of ‘Classical reception’ should not only focus on noting or counting the recurrence of Classical elements in modern media or concentrate on identifying supposed ‘mistakes’ – meaning philological or iconographical inaccuracies – in the representation of such topics. On the contrary, its role should be to analyze the ways in which shreds of the Greco-Roman past have been perceived and ‘translated,’ as well as how they are interlaced with the culture that depitcs them. It is a process of construction that leads to something which is not just a mere echo or enactment, but something completely new, generated by the interaction between the issue received and the receiving culture.7 Therefore, in this study we will first try to analyze which sources influenced the mangaka and to identify precisely when Classical heritage made its first appearance in the Japanese comic industry. The chapter will then offer an overview of the use of Classical figures in manga imagery in an attempt to shed light on how its evocation of the Greco-Roman past can be considered highly 4 The word mangaka describes a manga artist, mainly meant as a professional figure who creates both the story and the drawing for the comic, as the suffix -ka applied to the term manga implies a complete mastership of the whole creation process (about the world of Japanese mangaka and how they interact with the manga industry, see McCarthy 2006: 14). 5 For an overview of the reception of the Greco-Roman heritage in Japanese comics and animated production, see Amato 2006; and Hernández Reyes 2008. Some interesting consideration about this phenomenon can also be found in Theisen 2011: 59–60, 62, 67; for a study that takes into consideration the role of the local culture in the construction of the image of the Classical past in Japanese pop culture, see Castello and Scilabra 2015. 6 Castello and Scilabra 2015. 7 On this matter, see Carlà 2015: 8–9.



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indicative of the wider diffusion of traces of Classics within Japanese pop culture. Finally, my focus will shift to the main topic of this research, the representation of Greek and Roman characters in present-day Japan, be it after having survived for centuries or having been reincarnated. My research seeks to understand whether such figures are employed as a way of expressing otherness or if there is something more behind their use, which could hint at a complete process of appropriation and construction of the Classical past.

Approaching Classics

Returning to the main topic – the presence of Classics within this type of comic production – it has to be noted that it has long been argued in the literature that Japanese manga artists, or at least some of them (and certainly much of their local audience), are not really familiar with such topics. However, that many works in manga production of the last four decades represent elements taken from Classical heritage is indisputable. Therefore, the approach that this study will adopt is to try to identify exactly what is the ‘Classic’ presented by mangaka and how this made it into Japanese pop culture. As a matter of fact, from a preliminary review of this type of comic production, we can guess that Greco-Roman heritage can follow at least three different paths to reach the pages of these comics. Firstly, there is the direct encounter with Classical sources. This is not really a common occurrence and applies only to some authors, whose work appears to be quite different – in a way more complex – than most of the works that we are analyzing in this essay. As has been pointed out in the literature many times, this trait is typical of the work of the so-called God of manga himself, Osamu Tezuka. Tezuka was a great expert on the Western world, and his works are strongly influenced by its heritage: in his production it is possible to find echoes of both Classical mythology and European folklore, as well as elements inspired by modern media, such as contemporary US comics and animation.8 Many of his manga draw inspiration from the Greco-Roman heritage, such as Hi no Tori (Bird of fire, 1967), Umi no Toriton (Triton of the sea, 1969), Aporo no Uta (Apollo’s song, 1970) and Yunico (Unico, 1976). In particular, it is worth remembering how a recent reinterpretation of one of his masterpieces, Aporo no Uta, has enlightened us as to how this series – aside from the explicit references to Classics that appear in its pages, like the figure of the goddess who judges the main character and sentences him to his punishment, which is 8 Schodt 1983: 11, 60; Bainbridge and Norris 2010: 243; Theisen 2011: 60.



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clearly inspired by Phidias’ Parthenos – could be read as a retelling of Aeschy­ lus’ Oresteia.9 Besides Tezuka, another author whose work can be seen as the result of a thoughtful encounter with the Classics is Yoshikazu Yasuhiko. His production – a large part of which has a historical setting10 (either Western or Asian) – includes works about Anton (Anton, 1992) and Alexander the Great (Arekusandorosu – Sekai Teikoku e no Yume: Alexandros – Dream of world conquest, 2003), as well as an elaborate manga characterized by a mythological setting, Arion (1979). The latter, which was also turned into an animated movie in 1986,11 revolves around the struggles among the Greek gods, who are fighting to acquire the right to rule the pantheon: such a framework is highly indicative of the author’s broad knowledge of Hellenic cosmogony and its dynamics; moreover, the choice of Arion, a somewhat minor mythological figure, seems to confirm his rather extensive knowledge of Classical antiquity. However, it is worth mentioning that even in these works, in which the authors’ knowledgeable approach to Classics is demonstrated, the narrative is usually contaminated by references originating in other Western traditions or in Japanese heritage and culture. This is an unvarying tendency concerning Classical themes which, although it manifests itself in different ways and with variable ascendancy, can be traced throughout the history of manga and anime.12 Aside from a direct encounter with Classical sources, mangaka can acquire some knowledge of Greco-Roman history and cultural tradition by consulting works about these topics intended for the wider public. It is well known that mangaka often use reference books in order to gain information on the topics they are writing about or the settings they are going to draw: the authors themselves often write about this habit in series that narrate a cartoonist’s life or joke about it in the omakes – side stories13 – of their works. A good example of this tendency can be found in a manga by Yuko Amane, Megane ni Koishite (Longing for spectacles, 2007). In the omake the author explains that her interest in Pompeii arose when she was a child, thanks to some books which she received as gifts on several occasions: the very same books became the refer9 10 11 12 13

Theisen 2011: 64–70. On Yasuhiko’s approach to history, see O’Dwyer 2013: 123–126. Clements and McCarthy 2012: 32. On the variety of sources that influenced Tezuka’s production, see Phillipps 2008: 68; Castello and Scilabra 2015: 178–182. Omake literally means ‘extra.’ This word is used to indicate bonus stories (see Goldberg 2010: 293, note 26).



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ences on which she based a short fictional, tragic love story about Pompeii’s famous lovers. Nevertheless, what seems to be the most common tendency is what we could call second – or sometimes even third – hand reception. In this case, the sources that inspire the authors can be identified in other fictional works, both Western (mainly Hollywood epics, but also comics or, less frequently, novels) and Japanese, especially previous manga and anime. These include, of course, Tezuka’s works, but also the creations of other mangaka, such as Hideo Azuma’s Olympus no Poron (Poron of Olympus, 1977). The latter, and even more so the animated series that it inspired,14 can be rightfully considered one of the milestones in popular knowledge of Classical heritage, thanks to its didactic approach to Greek myths.15

Classics and Manga

‘Classics’ – intended as referring to works of Greco-Roman heritage – and ‘manga’ might seem to be quite a strange match, yet their interlacing is a frequent occurrence. Immediately after the Second World War, Japanese comic production developed into two main streams: series for children, which were serialized in monthly magazines, and works called akabon (‘red books,’ a nickname obtained due to the use of the color red along with black-and-white). The latter were cheap products aimed at an adult audience and portrayed social matters, violence, and untellable, dark passions.16 Starting in 1957, a new term – gekiga – made an appearance in the local comic market. It was used to define works that were characterized by strongly graphic rendering and highly dramatic tones.17 Between the end of the 1950s and the beginning of the 1960s, manga editors also started to publish magazines which included series explicitly dedicated to an audience of boys and girls, with the birth of genres – shōjo and shōnen – that remain among the most popular today.18

14 15 16 17 18



Ochamegami no monogatari: Korokoro Poron! (The story of the little goddess: Korokoro Poron!; see Clements and McCarthy 2012: 498). For an analysis of the way in which this anime puts the Classical heritage on stage, see Hernández Reyes 2008: 639–640; Castello and Scilabra 2015. Bouissou 2010: 25–26. Ito 2008: 36. Ito 2008: 36, 38. For a more detailed discussion of this genre, see below.

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In this milieu, the influence of Western comics on this growing area of production was strong. This influence can be seen in some of their technical details, both in a graphic sense, as in some Disney-like details that characterize the series as meant for children, and from a storytelling perspective, as the preference for longer series suggests; Tezuka himself openly admitted the strong impact of American animators such as Disney and Fleisher on his work.19 Yet, at first, the influence of Western production and culture did not go so far as to include reception of Greco-Roman history and mythology. These would only make their first appearance in the manga world at the very end of the 1960s, with Tezuka’s series, mentioned above. To be sure, manga are not the only stream in Japanese pop culture to have fallen under the spell of Classical heritage. This is not the place to discuss such a complex matter, but we should recall that postwar Japanese literature produced a variety of texts in which the reception and interpretation of ancient Mediterranean culture are the main focus. It is impossible not to think of Yukio Mishima (1925–1970), whose oeuvre includes several plays and novels that represent a modern retelling of Greek mythology and literature, at least from his Niobe (1951) onward.20 Nevertheless, it is hard to find a direct connection between Mishima’s representation of the Classics and the path by which Greco-Roman heritage reached manga artists, who, as we have seen, seem instead to be strongly influenced by Western works, last but not least when it comes to technical details. Even though Mishima himself declared that he was a fan of some manga, especially the more gruesome ones, it is widely recognized in literature that it appears impossible to talk about these two worlds influencing each ­other.21 Even so, it is interesting to note how traces of the Classical tradition reached different media in a common cultural milieu, revealing a widespread interest in the culture that flourished in these decades. The last preliminary question concerns just what it was about Classical heritage that attracted the first mangaka to represent elements from Greek and Roman antiquity. Needless to say, it was myth, a theme that seems to be quite dear to Japanese comic writers. Myth appears in postwar manga production with works that revolve around Japanese folklore. The most astonishing title 19 20 21

Schodt 1983: 63; Drummond-Mathews 2010: 63; Brainbridge and Norris 2010: 243; Castello and Scilabra 2015: 180. On Yukio Mishima’s production and his relationship with the Classics, see Cardi in this volume. Gravett 2004: 98; Schodt 2014: 291–292.



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among them is Shigeru Mizuki’s Gegege no Kitarō (also called Hakaba no Kitarō: Kitarō of the graveyard, 1960), a comical series that involves several yōkai – Japanese supernatural creatures – some of which were literally invented by the author.22 Starting from the late 1960s, as we have seen, the spotlight shifted to the Classics: this was the high period of Greco-Roman presence in these comics, with works stretching from the 1970s – by Tezuka, Nagai, and Azuma, to mention the mangaka who were most active in this field – to the late 1980s, when masterpieces like Bishōjo Senshi Sērā Mūn (Pretty soldier sailor moon) by Naoko Takeuchi and Masami Kurumada’s Saint Seiya were published.23 After this period, it is possible to identify a new tendency, with a decrease in titles revolving around Classics and a renewed interest in local folklore. The author who best represents this refreshed interest in the local cultural identity is Rumiko Takahashi, whose series brought a world of local demons and spirits back to Japanese comic production in a way that mingles adventure and irony, almost as in Shigeru Mizuki’s early production.24 Recent decades have once again opened up to the representation of Classical heritage; it must be noted that the latest works – such as NGLife, which I analyze in this study – seem to have also taken an interest in historical, yet often fictional, settings along with myth, thus expanding the potential of the representation of Classical, or Classic-like, stories.

Drawing Classics

A last preliminary note must be made about the way in which Classical figures are graphically represented in manga. As we have mentioned above, a study concerning the reception of Classics should not restrict its focus to the accuracy of the Greco-Roman characters represented within it. Nevertheless, setting aside any philological bias, the choices that mangaka make when drawing Greco-Roman figures could itself be a precious source of information about the way in which the ‘Classic’ is perceived and about the message that the authors intend to send to their readers. Searching for iconographical solutions that could be praised for their ‘correctness’ would be totally meaningless, as we are talking about works that present a construction that represents what Classics is within Japanese pop culture. We must therefore expect that mangaka could draw their very own vision of 22 23 24



Foster 2008: 166–169. On these works, see below. Castello and Scilabra 2015: 190–191, 193–194.

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what Classical characters should be or could become, ranging from stereotyped Classic-like figures – perhaps drawn from a previous process of reception – to absolutely original, ironic, or frightening redrawings of Greco-Roman deities and people. After all, in some way this tendency could be seen as further proof of the extent to which Classical heritage has become part of a shared cultural background, since the same treatment is also given to figures from local folklore. I will not analyze such a complex subject here, but we should at least remember Rumiko Takahashi’s depiction of Japanese mythological creatures in her manga Urusei Yatsura (1978).25 A partial exception to this assumption could be found in an especially peculiar work (which is actually an anime) dating to the early 1980s, Uchū Densetsu Yurishīzu Sātīwan (Space legend Ulysses 31, first aired in 1981). This animated series, a Franco-Japanese coproduction, is a retelling of the Odyssey set in the thirty-first century which takes places among the stars. This anime represents a sort of unicum because its design explicitly and openly recalls the Classics, since Shingo Araki – the character designer who worked on it – took inspiration from Classical sculptures to create his drawings. This choice was in part due to a desire to please the Western audience at whom the cartoon was partially aimed.26 Aside from this particular case, it is possible to find some recurrent tendencies. In fact, the way Classical characters are depicted is mainly related to the role they play in the work in which they appear and to the manga’s target audience. Firstly, works that are set in the past aim to create an environment which evokes a somewhat historical setting, in which figures are depicted in a way that might meet the audience’s expectations of the Classics: they wear pepla and togae and move in a setting that would perfectly fit into the landscapes that the readers would see on postcards from friends and relatives visiting Greece and Italy. Yet Japanese heritage and culture, along with mangaka creativity, reveal themselves through this Classic-like outlook. Although these series are not the main focus of this research, we should at least remember how in Hideo Azuma’s Olympus no Poron, and to an even greater extent in its animated version Ochamegami no monogatari: Korokoro Poron!, Greek deities live in Doric temples but sometimes act like Shintō priests and love obentō and sake.27 25 26 27

On this manga, see below, note 34. Castello and Scilabra 2015: 183. On this anime, see above, note 14; on the representation of Greek deities in this animated series, see Castello and Scilabra 2015: 183–185.



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As for the manga that depict Classical figures in the twentieth and twentyfirst centuries, there seems to be a big distinction between the function the characters are given by the mangaka and, above all, by the genre of the manga itself. Characters that have been reincarnated as Japanese people are usually represented as normal, human-like figures, regardless of whether they were men or deities in their previous life; they also seem to blend in with their surroundings without arousing suspicion, whether or not they retain a memory of their former life.28 On the other hand, creatures that are projected into the present can be represented as normal humans – sometimes hiding their real form, which can appear under peculiar circumstances – or as monstrous creatures. The latter tendency can be identified mainly in some shōnen manga in which, as we will see below, Classical characters are used to represent otherness. The most astonishing examples of this tendency are Gō Nagai’s Majingā Zetto (Mazinger Z, 1972) and Gurēto Majingā (The great Mazinger, 1975), in which Mycenaean mechanical monsters assume a robotic, vaguely demonic, and at times chimerical quality.29

Classical Figures Acting in the Present Day: Tracing the Trend

Given the premises mentioned above, I will mainly consider a particular manga stream represented by the comics that depict figures taken from Greco-Roman heritage interacting with the contemporary world. Indeed, it is necessary to highlight that it is possible to identify two different basic tendencies in the representation of Classics in Japanese comics. On one hand, we have works set in a Classical environment, from the above-mentioned Olympus no Poron to the recent and most famous Thermae Romae by Yamazaki Mari (2008);30 whereas, on the other hand, we can find works set in present-day Japan which portray characters coming from the Classical past. This often, but not exclusively, occurs after a process of reincarnation, which brings these figures back to life in contemporary Japan; sometimes the characters, being supernal beings, have simply survived through the centuries until reaching this stage in time. Alternatively, in other works, it almost seems like the mangaka – without 28

29 30



On this matter, see, for example, the manga Deimosu no Hanayome (Bride of Deimos, 1975), which will be analyzed below; no one could distinguish the protagonist from any other high school girl. On the iconographical choices that characterize these works, see Scilabra 2015: 99–101; on these manga, see also below. On this manga, see Heinze 2012.

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any apparent explanation – has decided on a whim31 to introduce a Classical figure, usually a mythological one, among the protagonists of his work, which is usually set in present-day Japan. The latter tendency calls for greater consideration, since it occurs quite often in the works we are analyzing; furthermore, it is highly indicative of how the construction of manga imagery works. Firstly, it appears to belong to a far more diffuse trend, which does not exclusively involve Classical heritage. Indeed, in many manga we can find supernal beings happily living alongside humans in all kinds of settings, sometimes hiding their real identity. In many cases, these works even depict an environment that seems to be completely normal – such as a school or an office – with the sole exception of the presence of these characters.32 Certainly, this formula is not exclusively found in Japanese comic production, as its presence in some Western fictional works – like The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break, the recent bestseller by Steven Sherril33 – testifies; nevertheless, it is a fact that its frequent and widespread occurrence in manga series makes it one of Japanese manga artists’ favorite clichés. What makes this pattern even more interesting is that these characters can come from local mythology and folklore34 – like the shinigami, characters similar to Grim Reapers, or yōkai, Japanese demons – but can sometimes be borrowed from other cultures when they represent the image that the author is aiming to portray: hence, it is possible to find creatures from European folklore, the biblical tradition, and obviously, from Classical heritage.35 31

32 33 34

35

Theisen (2011: 62) argues that actually almost all the references to Classics in Japanese comic production should be read as whimsical decisions rather than as part of a larger process of the reception of a foreign heritage. Such an approach, however, could bring widespread, dangerous misinterpretations to the whole system of metaphors that underlie this production. Boissou (2011: 161–166) argues that this is due to the Japanese cultural substrate, because the supernatural is felt as immanent. On this novel, see Swift 2006. Works in which beings coming from Japanese culture live among humans are a very rich subgenre that includes series directed toward all kinds of demographics. Among the authors who depict the interaction between humans and yōkai, the most influential ­mangaka can be identified in the work of Rumiko Takahashi, whose creations (Urusei Yatsura, 1978; and Sengoku Otogizōshi Inuyasha, 1996) represent the most complex manga on this subject (Napier 2006: 126–127). As for what concerns Shinigami, it is necessary to at least mention the recent Bleach by Tite Kubo (2011) and, above all, Death Note by Takeshi Obata (Drummond-Mathews 2010: 67–68, 70). For a short introduction to this matter, see Bryce and Davies 2010: 35–37, which traces a summary of the different cultural traditions that have lent their mythological characters to manga artists’ pencils.



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This seemingly inexplicable custom is a part of a far larger process that finds both its source and its explanation in the way the reception of Classics – as well as the reception of any other foreign heritage – works in this peculiar form of comic production. The manga idiom is based on a metaphorical language that uses different figures as syntactical minimal unities: each character has a specific meaning, which is understood and acknowledged by both the author and his audience. So the single recognizable figures – which do not necessarily come from Japanese heritage – have been stigmatized through the decades, thus becoming icons of definite behaviors, avatars whose features are unambiguous and unanimously identifiable.36 In this regard, particularly symptomatic feedback comes from the series which do not even involve the actual presence of Classical characters but merely take their titles from a reference to Greco-Roman heritage: a deliberate choice that invests the whole story with a particular meaning, given by the mentioned character or event, and thus with a particular value or significance that the pop culture recognizes in it. This practice is something that can already be found in Hayao Miyazaki’s Kaze no Tani no Naushika (Nausicaä of the valley of the wind, 1982),37 and which has become even more common in the production of the last decade, as we can see from recent examples such as Takumi Fukui’s Cerberus (2010) and Yuki Kodama’s Sakamichi no Apollon (Apollo on the slope, 2007). Some of these series, especially but not necessarily the older ones, come with an etiologic explication of the myth they are referring to. An early example can be found in Riyoko Ikeda’s Orpheus no Mado (The window of Orpheus, 1975),38 a work that revolves around the Russian Revolution. The story begins in a college in which there is a sad legend about a window: if two students meet through it, they will be fated to live a very tragic love story, just like that of the characters who gave the name to this legend; for this reason, the author explicitly refers to the Orpheus myth, explaining the curse in a page in which she briefly recalls the main points of Orpheus and Eurydice’s legend. Shifting to the 1990s, another really interesting instance of this tendency is represented by Fuyumi Sōryō’s Mars (1996). In this manga the etiology is reduced to a couple of cues, yet the spirit that permeates the whole work strictly reflects the idea that the author intended to imprint on her story: the male protagonist, Rei Kashino – whose portrait will also be meaningfully entitled Mars by his girlfriend – is depicted both as a fighter who stops at nothing and 36 37 38



Castello and Scilabra 2015. Hairston 2010: 175–176. On this manga, see also Theisen 2011: 63.

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as a knight in shining armor who would do anything to protect his lover. Sōryō’s Roman god – just like her main character – is a being of pure strength, whose fury lingers under his exterior image of composure and perfect beauty. In many other works, however, the author does not provide any explanation of the Classical reference used. This is the case, for example, in Miyazaki’s Naushika, to name just one of the most popular series which had a large echo even in the Western world. Regarding this frequent occurrence, it is possible to interpret it in a way that suggests the presence of a common system of references linking the author and his readers: in other words, the mangaka inserts the reference to the Classics knowing that his audience will understand what he means by it because of a shared knowledge of the metaphorical and stereo­ typical meaning that lies beneath it. Approximately the same conclusions can be drawn about the series that actually depict a character taken from Classical mythology in a present-day setting, to which we referred above. Meeting a mythological creature in everyday manga life seems to be less rare than one would think. The most common occurrences can be found in the series that explore romance, a theme that can be approached in several ways, thus requiring the aid of different figures to help the storyline evolve. The figures that are selected to appear in this series can be ascribed to two different realms: cupids on one side, and incubi or succubi on the other. As one would expect, the former are featured in stories which represent characters who could use enhancement in the love department. A very meaningful example of this tendency can be identified in C.J. Michalski’s Takuhai kyūpiddo (Delivery cupid, 2004), a yaoi39 title that clearly shows the somewhat liberal way in which the Classical heritage is treated. To begin with, it is certainly worth noting how this supposed cupid is represented by the author, who depicts him as a sort of angel who comes and goes between heaven and earth on a flying scooter: the image of this little god, though maintaining his most important features – his bow and arrows – represents a strong contamination of Classical with local elements, as well as of ancient magic with modern daily utilities. Moreover, instead of instigating true love between two humans, the cupid himself becomes the partner of his appointed victim, a man whose lack of love could only be cured by the presence of such a strong love-deliverer.  Incubi and succubi, on the other hand, make their appearance in manga that involve an erotic, or sometimes even pornographic, development. Such 39

For an overview of manga genres targeting different kinds of audiences, see Norris 2009: 238–240; Bryce and Davis 2010: 34–61. The word yaoi describes comics concerning male homosexual relationships aimed toward a female public.



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characters, taken from the Roman tradition, are male (the incubi) and female (the succubi) demons whose rendering in Japanese comic production strongly emphasizes their supposedly preeminent characteristic: lust. Essentially they feed on sex. These figures can appear in ecchi manga40 aimed at all kinds of audience, both male and female, teenagers and adults. Furthermore, both beings – regardless of what the Western tradition records about them – can assume different features according to the demographic at which the series is aimed. Some particularly good examples of this can be identified in Yuki Yoshihara’s anthology Ningyo ōgi (The prince of mermaids, 2003) – a soft-erotic novel for women that depicts a pretty succubus who keeps devouring her victims until she finds love, and Lily Hoshino’s Toritsu Mahō Gakuen (Metropolitan magic academy, 2003), which narrates the love story between a magic student and his familiar spirit, an incubus. In both cases, the supernatural being is the impetus for sexual intercourse, essentially acting as the tool to turn the otherwise unwilling – though reluctant only at first – protagonist into a sexually active one and the manga itself into an erotic one. The incubus – or succubus – is essentially an ecchi-maker, the deus-ex-machina that allows the plot to evolve in an erotic way. A slightly different tendency can be identified in titles that follow trends that can be linked to temporary fads. In this regard, a symptomatic pattern in recent years has been the release of several comics concerning centaurs: the timing of their appearance, along with their characterization as long-living, wise, and chivalrous creatures suggests that we are witnessing a mode which is strongly influenced by the diffusion of the Narnia films. On a side note, it also has to be taken into consideration that the fame centaurs gained during this period could have been deeply conditioned by the widespread fame that the Harry Potter series gained among manga fandom. Indeed, in the production of the last decade, centaurs have appeared in many different works aimed at almost every type of audience. Shōnen works include some ecchi titles, such as Kei Murayama’s Sentōru no nayami (Centaur’s worries, 2011), a tale about an alternate universe inhabited by different kinds of beings, in which a female centaur strives to learn how to deal with the daily life of an adolescent, and Okayado’s Monsutā Musume no Iru Nichijō (Daily life with monster girls, 2012), a fantasy manga which revolves around the main character’s alien girlfriends, one of whom happens to be a centaur, a circumstance that makes the situation particularly delicate. Something quite different is Est Em’s centaurs’ universe, which includes two works – Hatarake, Kentaurosu! (Work, centaurs!, 2010) and Equus (2011) – in which these mythological creatures almost seem to become a metaphor for otherness striving to be accepted into society: the centaurs have 40



For a definition of ecchi manga (erotic comics), see Lechenaut 2014: 113, note 1.

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some rights, which allow them to live among humans in spite of their different nature, yet they are still struggling for more complete integration.

Classical Characters as Otherness

Aside from the works analyzed above, Japanese production presents some manga in which it is possible to witness a more direct revival of Classical, or supposedly Classical, characters. These series represent a completely different world from those previously mentioned due to the central role assumed by Classical heritage in both their storytelling and plot development. Firstly, it is possible to identify a group of manga, mainly shōnen,41 in which figures from the Mediterranean past are revived, or simply return after a period of quiescence, in order to make their appearance in present-day society, as enemies of humanity or in the form of powerful beings that surpass human civilization thanks to their form, supernatural powers, or technological knowledge. This peculiar use of Classical characters shows a deep meaning, as tracing its development enables an understanding of how the political and social history of Japan has influenced the manga world, which has been one of the main channels for pop-culture expression in recent decades. The beginning of this process can be found in Gō Nagai’s work, which is very well known, including by Western audiences. In his series, Majingā Zetto and Gurēto Majingā, the enemies of humanity, opposed by the robot pilots Kōji Kabuto and Tetsuya Tsurugi, are the surviving Mycenaeans:42 in order to avoid extinction after a catastrophe, the exponents of this advanced civilization were forced to retire toward the earth’s core, where they hid over time; now they are returning to the surface and aiming to usurp humans’ place on it. The otherness represented by Classical heritage is used here as a means of depicting the enemy of human civilization and values.43 Additionally, the choice of 41

42 43

Shōnen manga are comics that are mainly created in order to reach an audience composed of boys and young men (Schodt 1983: 68–87; Gravett 2004: 52–73), even though, according to the publishers’ official sales statistics, they seem to be appreciated by a wider public, perhaps thanks to the somehow universal appeal that characterizes the themes that animate them (Drumond-Mathews 2010: 62). Regarding Gō Nagai’s production, the influences that marked his work, and the values he infuses in his comics, see Gilson 1998: 368; Di Fratta 2000: 132–143; Pellitteri 2009: 276. Pellitteri (2009: 283) emphasizes this position, suggesting how it could also be read as a metaphor for a cultural contraposition between the Western world, whose noble traditions could degenerate and create frightening monsters looking to dominate the whole world, and Japan, where pacifism was felt at that time as a national value.



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an enemy coming from the West seems to be a clear political message that reflects the cold relationship between Japan and the Western world in those years as well as a veiled accusation about the recent World War conflict.44 A somewhat similar, yet in some ways reversed, setting can be found in ­Mitsuteru Yokoyama’s Mars (1976).45 In this work, Mars, Gaia, and some other Titans are depicted as extraterrestrial guardians who were left on Earth centuries ago: their duty is to exterminate humankind – prone to extreme brutality and gruesome behavior – whenever its technological evolution reaches the stage at which humans could become a threat to the other races living in the universe. After being awoken, Mars at first takes the side of humanity and fights against his comrades in order to save Earth. However, in the end, after witnessing the violence of which humans are capable, he issues his final judgment and terminates our planet. In this manga the Olympians are seen as fair yet cold rulers, while Earth’s real enemy is actually humankind, which only knows how to exploit the planet’s resources and mistreat the weak: history repeats itself, and humans continue to provoke fights that lead only to sorrow, prevarication, and desolation. This pessimistic view of humanity is typical of the production of the 1970s, in which ecological emergency and a total distrust of our belligerent species are widespread themes.46 The use of characters from the Classical pantheon – again a clear manifestation of otherness – as guarantors of the cosmic order strongly emphasizes these matters: the author invokes a fair restoration of peace in the universe, which is impossible for men and can only come from foreign beings. In some ways, the author gives an important role to the Titans, depicting them as fairy judges; yet their role as external ­judges invokes a feeling of complete otherness. More recent, and with a completely different tone, is Yū Aikawa’s Kuronosu – dīpu (Chronos – Deep, 2010), which depicts the interaction between the Titans and Japanese society of the twenty-first century: these supernal beings came from the world of shadows and reached Earth by possessing some children in order to save them from certain death in a plane crash. The fear that an 44 45

46



A detailed analysis of this scenario can be found in Scilabra 2015: 101–105. Yokoyama was one of the most prolific authors of his generation and is remembered for being the first mangaka to create a giant robot that could be controlled by a boy pilot (with his work Tetsuijin 28-Gō, published in 1956: Drummond-Mathews 2010: 68), thus opening the road for the successive great season of the mecha genre. The manga Mars inspired an animated series, God Mars (Clements and McCarthy 2012: 240–241), that aired in 1981. Regarding the uneasiness felt during the 1970s in Japan regarding these matters, see Pellitteri 2009: 286; on the role assumed by ecology in contemporary production, see also Schodt 2007: 143–144.

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external enemy or humanity itself could put an end to the world has become less urgent in Japanese imagery, and this is clearly evident in this work, where the fate of Earth is no longer at stake. The Olympians here are neither gruesome enemies nor impassive judges; instead, they appear somewhat whimsical and uninterested in the fate of humans, aside from their chosen ones. Again, the otherness, though not seen as a danger, is depicted as the impossibility of understanding human solidarity, and the superiority of the Titans causes them to be rather distant and at least partially unfeeling. Finally, a comic outcome of this tendency can be found in a recent bara47 manga, Mentaiko’s Priapus (2011). In this short story Zeus, the ruler of the gods, who is tired of the human race, which seems unable to find redemption, decides to send Priapus down to Earth as a punisher, his role being to turn all fertile men into gay ones, thus causing humanity to wipe itself out. The irony of this work is manifest: the supposedly mythological setting of the beginning is deliberately no more than an excuse to establish a setting in which a yakuzalike god can get his prey to his readers’ heart’s content. It is somewhat striking that the lesson about how Classical figures could represent the right otherness – powerful and unfeeling, but at the same time preoccupied by our race’s dangerousness – in order to terminate humankind evolved through the decades.

Classical Characters in Contemporary Society

A completely different way of portraying the Classics can be found in manga in which figures from Classical heritage find themselves on modern-day Earth after undergoing the cycle of reincarnation.48 Returning to life and thus being given a second chance to reach one’s goal, especially in order to fulfill a love that was impossible or tragic in a previous existence, is a very common topos in shôjo manga.49 This plot mainly involves fictional characters – such as Koi Ikeno’s Tokimeki Tunaitu (Exciting tonight, 47 48 49

Bara is a manga genre that stages male homosexual relationships aimed toward a gay male audience (Brenner and Wildsmith 2011: 98). On the use of reincarnation in the manga world, see Otani and Bryce 2011. The locution ‘shôjo manga’ basically stands for works that are mainly aimed toward an audience composed of girls in their prepubescent and adolescent years. This production appeared for the first time in Japan during the 1960s, with the birth of the magazine Shôjo furendo (Shôjo friend), first published in 1963 and soon followed by other titles (Ito 2008: 39); on the iconographical conventions that identify this genre and the contents, ­models, and modus narrandi that characterize it, see also Takahashi 2008: 120–125; Prough 2010: 93–97.



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1982), one of the bestsellers in the 1980s – and figures taken from Japanese heritage, like the protagonists of the Tale of Genji. This cliché can also concern figures – mythological, real or fictional – from the Classical past, with an outcome that changes considerably from case to case depending on the intentions of the different mangaka and on the source of their inspiration. Incidentally, this plot line is not exclusive to Japanese comics, and appears in other Asian productions as well, as we can see in Thousand Years of Romance (1996), a Taiwanese manhua by Huang Jia Li, which narrates the tale of Apollo and Daphne’s reunion in modern Greece, the nymph being reborn as a Taiwanese girl. A peculiar group of works that fall only partially under this study can be identified as titles that narrate the reincarnation of Classical – or rather, seemingly Classical, since they come from a world that only partly recalls the GrecoRoman one – figures into a fictional reality characterized by a large number of fantasy elements. Among them we must recall several masterpieces whose fame spread throughout the whole world, reaching the peak of their notoriety in Europe and in the U.S., especially with their animated versions. These are Masami Kurumada’s Saint Seiya (1986),50 which depicts a world of never-ending fights among the Olympians and their followers in which the guardian of justice, Athena, is reborn about every four hundred years; Naoko Takeuchi’s Bishōjo Senshi Sailor Moon (1992),51 a tale about female warriors whose guide, Tsukino Usagi, and his lover are the reincarnation of the lunar deity and En­ dym­ion; and Shoji Kawamori’s Sousei no Akuerion (The genesis of Aquarion, 2009),52 in which the main characters, Apollo and Silvia, were once two unlucky lovers – Taiyō no Tsubasa, an angel whose features recall a sun deity, and Selenia, who lived in Atlantia. In these works Classical heritage occupies the place of frame, its role being principally to offer the ideal setting for depicting epic battles and tragic love in a fairytale-like environment; in addition, it is strongly infused with Japanese culture and folklore.53 Nevertheless, in some ways this free use of elements taken from the Greco-Roman past can also be read as proof of the diffusion of at least basic Classical knowledge among the audience; otherwise all the half-hidden references that can be found in these series – to give a small example, one of Tsukino Usagi’s cats is called Artemis – would be completely meaningless.

50 51 52 53



Clements and McCarthy 2012: 554–555. Clements and McCarthy 2012: 552–553. Clements and McCarthy 2012: 27. For an exhaustive analysis of these three titles, see Castello and Scilabra 2015: 186–192; see also Hernandez Reyes 2008: 640–644; Theisen 2011: 62–63.

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Setting aside these last titles, our focus should turn to the last tendency that can be identified in the resurrection of Classical figures, which is the narration of their reincarnation as human beings living in present-day Japan. Again, within this particular type of production, it is possible to find an evolution that spans the decades and which is highly indicative of the process of reception of Classics which finally reached the stage recognizable in the works which have appeared in the last few years. An early example is Etsuko Ikeda and Yuho Asibe’s Deimosu no Hanayome (Bride of Deimos, 1975).54 The story, set in a Japanese high school, is about Minako, the supposed reincarnation of Venus, being pursued by the goddess’s original lover, Deimos, the Lord of Terror. The myth is adapted in order to create a perfect situation of forbidden love that justifies the tragic fate of the past lovers: Deimos is said to be Venus’s twin brother, and his demonic nature, instead of being his original character, is explained as a result of the punishment for his incestuous act, which also caused Venus’ death and seclusion in Hades. The choice of a somewhat minor character in the Greek mythological outline is justified by the direction in which the story, essentially a horror story, unfolds; the distortion of the original storyline, meanwhile, is functional to the shôjo setting. Furthermore, setting the previous life of the main characters in a distant and foreign past makes it easier to use a theme such as incest, surely a plus in the 1970s, when in girls’ manga all kinds of forbidden love were starting to take form.55 Projecting the past life of the two unlucky lovers among the Olympians, where unions between siblings were not uncommon, is a way of finding the ideal stage for this romance. Still, in the mangaka’s reconstruction of the myth, incest is said to be strictly forbidden even among Greek deities: this is a contamination of the myth that can be explained as a result of the influence of Japanese sensibility and narrative heritage;56 furthermore, it puts into motion the tragedy, which is necessary for this plot line, since happy lov54 55 56

Bryce and Davis 2010: 35. This manga was also turned into an anime aired in 1988 (Clements and McCarthy 2012: 76–77). Prough 2010: 94–96. The forbidden charm of incest in the Japanese narrative world dates way back to the eleventh century, when the Tale of Genji was composed. Additionally, incest, as well as other sexual taboos, plays an important role in the construction of manga imagery, in a way that could almost seem jarring to the eyes of the Western audience: we will not go as far as stating that it plays a liberating role with regard to social constrictions, but it is a given that the frequency with which it is depicted in works aimed toward different audiences (both as a tragic situation in which the characters struggle to protect their love and as a normal condition) suggests that this topos plays a pivotal role as a romance enhancer. On this matter, see Brenner 2007: 78–82. It must also be noted that incest wasn’t an



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ers are never able to undergo reincarnation. At the same time, as the volumes increase, the supposedly Classical main characters meet with several horror clichés typical of 1970s production. Most of these, like the possessed noh mask and Kaguya Hime, the snow princess, are taken from Japanese folklore. Random elements from Western culture also appear, such as vampires; sometimes they are even inspired by the Classical heritage. This manga surely shows an early stage of assimilation of the Classics, being mainly a Japanese-set work; nonetheless it demonstrates an early form of integration of Greco-Roman and Asian elements that proves how, even at the beginning of this process, the reception of Western heritage was anything but a passive form of emulation of foreign cultural models.57 Moving to the following decade, one astonishing work is Rurika Fuyuki’s Aries (1987), which tells the story of Hades and Persephone as they are reincarnated as Japanese high schoolers, with only the former retaining memories of other Olympians and their shared past. Once again, the mangaka bases her story on an alteration of the myth – Persephone is said to have been deceived by Zeus and is thus forcefully separated from Hades, her true love – providing the opportunity for a perfect shôjo stage: the main characters appear to be starcrossed lovers, and even though fate is against their love, the hero is openly willing to fight for it. A very interesting peculiarity of this manga is that, though we are still in the 1980s, it is already possible to recognize a fulfilled process of stereotyping of the Olympian creatures, since each of them, aside from the protagonist, is destined to repeat their fate over and over again: the author clearly shows the womanizer Zeus, jealous Hera, self-centred Narcissus, and so on.58 Switching to the new millennium, a title that deserves special attention is Mizuho Kusanagi’s NG Raifu (NG life, 2006). This work is one of the most indicative among those that have been analyzed in the previous pages because it reunites almost all of the tendencies traced above and testifies to the way the Classical past has completely become a lively part of Japanese pop culture. This manga narrates the story of some young people, all fictional characters, who died during the 79 AD eruption of Mount Vesuvius that destroyed

57 58



uncommon theme in the above-mentioned postwar ‘red books’ (Bouissou 2010: 26), which, in any case, tended to portray shameful and inadmissible behaviors. This manga was licensed at the same time as some of Tezuka’s works, which already show a great integration of the Classical heritage and Japanese culture. On the process that turned Greek mythological figures into stereotyped characters, see Castello and Scilabra 2015: 194. This manga, aside from the lack of irony, seems also to be strongly influenced by the lesson of Hideo Azuma in the way it stigmatizes the Olympians as icons of specific behavioral patterns.

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Pompeii. They are reincarnated in present-day Japan as high schoolers and their relatives, only some of whom – those with the deepest regrets – remember their past. The story moves between both temporal dimensions; through dreams and flashbacks we are informed about their previous life, but the main storyline is set in the present. In this series we find almost all of the tendencies that show the process of Classics reception in the Japanese manga world. Firstly, there is the strong influence of Hollywood films, especially Gladiator by Ridley Scott. The influence of this work manifests itself in two different ways. The main character, Syrix, is indeed a gladiator who became one due to misfortune and injustice: born a noble, his father was wrongly accused and suffered the death penalty in the arena, and at the same time Syrix had to become a gladiator. Although the story evolves in a totally different way, it is difficult not to find hints of Aelius Maximus Decimus Meridius’ personal history. Furthermore, we note a strong influence in terms of the setting: for example, Serena, the protagonist’s wife, is often drawn in a way that openly refers to scenes from the film Gladiator. Nevertheless, at the same time, there is a strong Japanification of the scenery: for example, a large part of the images of the past contain flowing cherry blossoms, a Japanese symbol for the fleetingness of human life,59 which also hints at the near, abrupt ending of the characters’ lives. In NG Life, Pompeii becomes a myth, an ideal Arcadia sealed up by nature’s furious strength, which offers the perfect scenario for this sad yet hopeful story: the life of the victims was a beautiful cherry blossom, while peace within the new environment can be reached only by letting go of old grudges and regrets. The sad poetry of the so-called ‘Pompeii lovers’ and the chivalry of the proud gladiators coexist with the fleeting feeling of youth and the need to accept one’s fate in order to gain equilibrium with the universe. At the same time, traces of the Classical past, such as Roman magistrates, arena games, and power struggles among patricians interact with Japanese traditions, such as the hanami – cherry blossom viewing – and other clichés taken from pop culture.  NGLife is a perfect pastiche and can be read as the climax in which all the tendencies that we have followed through the decades find their place: it is a perfect mirror of the construction of the Classics in Japanese pop culture, which reflects how the Greco-Roman world is perceived by the mangaka and their audience. This is the ultimate form that reception assumes in the manga world: it required a long period of assimilation, but the Classics are now felt to be part of a shared knowledge. Some might call it a mere process of ‘declassicizing,’ but, as we have seen, that is not the case; rather, it is a deep process of 59

Awazuhara 2007: 48–49.



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appropriation and then construction of a past that involves an encounter with the Classic itself and the stratification of the local audience’s backgrounds. This latter manga represents the latest product and therefore the current culmination of the path I have analyzed here. It is impossible to know whether future manga will continue in the same vein or choose a completely new path; hence, it remains an open question for future research on Classical receptions in the Japanese world.

References Cited

Amato, Eugenio (2006), ‘Da Omero a Miyazaki: La mitologia classica Negli “anime” (e nei “manga”) giapponesi: spunti per una futura ricerca,’ Anabases 4: 275–280. Awazuhara, Atsushi (2007), ‘Perceptions of Ambiguous Reality-Life, Death and Beauty in Sakura,’ Japanese Religions 32, nos. 1 and 2: 39–51. Bouissou, Jean-Marie (2010), ‘Manga: A Historical Overview,’ in Manga: An Anthology of Global and Cultural Perspectives, ed. Toni Johnson-Woods, 17–33. New York: Continuum. Bouissou, Jean-Marie (2011), Il manga: Storia e universi del fumetto giapponese. Latina, Italy: Tunué. Brainbridge, Jason, and Craig Norris (2010), ‘Hybrid Manga: Implications for the Global Knowledge Economy,’ in Manga: An Anthology of Global and Cultural Perspectives, ed. Toni Johnson-Woods, 235–252. New York: Continuum. Brenner, Robin E. (2007), Understanding Manga and Anime. Westport, CT: Libraries Unlimited. Brenner, Robin E., and Snow Wildsmith (2011), ‘Love through a Different Lens: Japanese Homoerotic Manga through the Eyes of American Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, and Other Sexualities Readers,’ in Mangatopia: Essays on Manga and Anime in the Modern World, ed. Timothy Perper and Martha Cornog, 89–118. Santa Barbara, CA: Libraries Unlimited. Bryce, Mio, and Jason Davis (2010), ‘An Overview of Manga Genres,’ in Manga: An Anthology of Global and Cultural Perspectives, ed. Toni Johnson-Woods, 34–71. New York: Continuum. Carlà, Filippo (2015), ‘Atena e l’ottovolante: “Affective turn,” estetica postmoderna e ricezione dell’antico,’ Status Quaestionis 8: 7–36. Castello, Maria G., and Carla Scilabra (2015), ‘Theoi Becoming Kami: Classical Mythology in the Anime World,’ in Ancient Magic and the Supernatural in the Modern Visual and Performing Arts, ed. Filippo Carlà and Irene Berti, 177–196. London: Bloomsbury. Clements, Jonathan, and Helen McCarthy (2012), The Anime Encyclopedia: Revised and Expanded Edition; A Guide to Japanese Animation since 1917. Berkeley: Stone Bridge Press.



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Di Fratta, Gianluca (2000), ‘Il fumetto in Giappone: (1) L’evoluzione del manga dagli anni Settanta agli anni Ottanta,’ Il Giappone 40: 127–155. Di Fratta, Gianluca (2001), ‘Il fumetto in Giappone: (2) Il manga nella prima metà degli anni Ottanta,’ Il Giappone 41: 205–221. Di Fratta, Gianluca (2002), ‘Il fumetto in Giappone: (3) Dal cyberpunk al manga degli anni Novanta,’ Il Giappone 42: 117–141. Di Fratta, Gianluca (2003), ‘Il fumetto in Giappone: (4) Il manga di fine millennio,’ Il Giappone 43: 175–186. Drumond-Mathews, Angela (2010), ‘What Boys Will Be: A Study of Shōnen Manga,’ in Manga: An Anthology of Global and Cultural Perspectives, ed. Toni Johnson-Woods, 62–76. New York: Continuum. Foster, Michael Dylan (2008), Pandemonium and Parade: Japanese Monsters and the Culture of Yokai. Berkeley: University of California Press. Gilson, Mark (1998), ‘A Brief History of Japanese Robophilia,’ Leonardo 31, no. 5: 367–369. Goldberg, Wendy (2010), ‘The Manga Phenomenon in America,’ in Manga: An Anthology of Global and Cultural Perspectives, ed. Toni Johnson-Woods, 281–296. New York: Continuum. Gravett, Paul (2004), Manga: Sixty Years of Japanese Comics. London: Laurence King Publishing; New York: Harper Design International. Hairston, Marc (2010), ‘The Reluctant Messiah: Miyazaki Hayao’s Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind Manga,’ in Manga: An Anthology of Global and Cultural Perspectives, ed. Toni Johnson-Woods, 173–235. New York: Continuum. Heinze, Ulrich (2012), ‘Time Travel topoi in Japanese manga,’ in Japan Forum 24, no. 2 (May): 163–184. Hernández Reyes, Adexe (2008), ‘Los mitos griegos en el manga japonés,’ in Imagines: La antigüedad en las artes escénicas y visuales, ed. María Josefa Castillo, Silke Knipp­ schild, Marta García Morcillo, and Carmen Herreros, 633–644. Logroño: Universidad de La Rioja. Ito, Kinko (2008), ‘Manga in Japanese History,’ in Japanese Visual Culture: Explorations in the World of Manga and Anime Japanese Visual Culture, ed. Mark W. MacWilliams, 26–47. New York: Routledge. Ito, Mizuki (2012), ‘Introduction,’ in Fandom Unbound: Otaku Culture in a Connected World, ed. Mizuki Ito, Diasuke Okabe, and Izumi Tsuji, xi–xxviii. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Kinsella, Sharon (2000), Adult Manga: Culture and Power in Contemporary Japanese Society. Honolulu/Richmond: University of Hawai‘i Press. Kubo, Tite (2011), Bleach. Tokyo: Shueisha. Lechenaut, Émilie (2014), ‘Pédagogie du manga érotique,’ Hermès, La Revue 69: 113–115.



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McCarthy, Helen (2006), 500 Manga Heroes & Villains. London: Collins & Brown. Mouer, Ross, and Craig Norris (2009), ‘Exporting Japan’s Culture: From Management Style to manga,’ in The Cambridge Companion to Modern Japanese Culture, ed. Yoshio Sugimoto, 352–368. Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. Napier, Susan (2006), Anime from Akira to Howl’s Moving Castles. Gordonsville, VA: Palgrave Macmillan. Norris, Craig (2009), ‘Manga, Anime and Visual Art Culture,’ in The Cambridge Companion to Modern Japanese Culture, ed. Yoshio Sugimoto, 352–368. Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. O’Dwyer, Emer (2013), ‘Heroes and Villains: Manchukuo in Yasuhiko Yoshikazu’s Rainbow Trotsky,’ in Manga and the Representation of Japanese History, ed. Roman Rosenbaum, 121–145. Abingdon, UK: Routledge. Otani, Kentaro, and Mio Bryce (2011), ‘Reincarnation in Manga,’ International Journal of the Humanities 9, no. 12: 73–82. Pellitteri, Marco (2009), ‘Nippon ex Machina: Japanese Postwar Identity in Robot Anime and the Case of “UFO Robo Grendizer,”’ Mechademia 4: 275–288. Phillipps, Susanne (2008), ‘Characters, Themes, and Narrative Patterns in the Manga of Osamu Tezuka,’ in Japanese Visual Culture: Explorations in the World of Manga and Anime Japanese Visual Culture, ed. Mark W. MacWilliams, 68–90. New York: Rotut­ledge. Prough, Jennifer (2010), ‘Shojo Manga in Japan and Abroad,’ in Manga: An Anthology of Global and Cultural Perspectives, ed. Toni Johnson-Woods, 93–106. New York: Con­­tinuum. Schodt, Frederik L. (1983), Manga! Manga! The World of Japanese Comics. New York: Kodansha International. Schodt, Frederik L. (2007), The Astro Boy Essays: Osamu Tezuka, Mighty Atom, and the Manga/Anime Revolution. Berkeley: Stone Bridge Press. Schodt, Frederik L. (2014), Dreamland Japan: Writings on Modern Manga. Berkeley: Stone Bridge Press. Scilabra, Carla (2015), ‘Vivono fra noi: L’uso del classico come espressione di alterità nella produzione fumettistica giapponese,’ Status Quaestionis 8: 92–109. Swift, Sondra F. (2006), ‘In and Out of the Labyrinth: Myth and Minotaur in MacDonald Harris’s Bull Fire and Steven Sherrill’s The Minotaur Takes a Cigarette Break,’ Journal of the Fantastic in the Arts 17, no. 3: 255–265. Takahashi, Mizuki (2008), ‘Opening the Closed World of Shojo Manga,’ in Japanese Visual Culture: Explorations in the World of Manga and Anime Japanese Visual Culture, ed. Mark W. MacWilliams, 114–136. New York: Routledge. Theisen, Nicholas A. (2011), ‘Declassicizing the Classical in Japanese Comics: Osamu Tezuka’s Apollo’s Song,’ in Classics and Comics, ed. George Kovacs and C.W. Marshall, 58–71. Oxford: Oxford University Press.



Chapter 14

Queen Hudijin: A Medea-like Chinese Woman in Guo Moruo’s Historical Play The Peacock’s Gallbladder Tianshu Yu Translated by Haiying Liu Guo Moruo (1892–1978) is of much academic importance in Sino-Western literary relations. Firstly, he is a prolific writer and has been rated among the greatest and the most versatile cultural figures in twentieth-century China. In 1957–1963, People’s Literature Press in Beijing published the seventeen-volume Moruo’s Literary Works. In 1982–1992, The Complete Works of Guo Moruo was published. It consists of thirty-eight volumes, of which the literary and historical ones were published by People’s Literature Press and the archeological ones by Beijing Science Press. Guo Moruo was a gifted poet, novelist, playwright, literary critic, calligrapher, translator, philologist, educator, historian, and archaeologist, as well as an internationally famous politician, thinker, and socialist. He made great contributions to the cultural communication between China and foreign countries. In his youth and adulthood, he translated a large number of Japanese, German, and English canonical literary works into Chinese, among which were Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther and Faust, and Schiller’s Wallenstein. His translations have undoubtedly helped Chinese readers gain access to German literary masterpieces, and thereby are considered a milestone in the history of Sino-German cultural activities. In his senior years, he saw many of his works translated into Japanese, Russian, English, Italian, and French and published around the world. Even those who might disapprove of some of his thoughts or behavior would find it hard to deny that Guo Moruo is a worthy Chinese man of letters possessing internationally influential power. While studying medicine in Japan, Guo Moruo began to read Western literature extensively. ‘Students were supposed to take three foreign languages – German, English, and Latin. We spent twenty-two or twenty-three hours per week on foreign language studies. Besides, the Japanese way of teaching foreign languages was unique in that they put much emphasis on reading. The teachers were generally bachelors of literature rather than linguists, and they did not major in medicine, so they frequently chose literary masterpieces as

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_016



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textbooks.’1 This teaching method entitled Guo Moruo to familiarize himself both with Western literature of the modern era and with outstanding ancient Greek dramatic works, the latter of which laid a solid cultural foundation for him to create a series of Chinese historical noblemen or noblewomen with an ancient Greek tragic ethos. As Guo Moruo wrote in the essay ‘How I Wrote ­Lilies,’ ‘I have read certain plays written by ancient Greek tragedians, Shakespeare, and Goethe. There is no denying that I attempted to write historical plays and poetic plays under their influence.’2 As an ancient Greek tragedian who was known for describing female psychological conditions, Euripides was a Western Classical poet that Guo Moruo understood very well, even at his young age. Guo Moruo wrote in ‘Genius and Education,’ an essay published in 1923: ‘In 500 bc, to the east of Athens was Persia, to its south was Sparta, to its west was the New Rome, to its north was Macedoina. Though Athens was surrounded by enemies and destroyed by them, the Athenian culture became an honorable part of world history forever. Such figures as Socrates, Plato, Phidias the sculptor, Euripides the poet, Aristophanes the dramatist were all talented people in that place.’3 Euripides was the youngest of the top three ancient Greek tragedians, but Guo Moruo only mentioned his name, proving how deeply he was fond of his works. The world-famous Medea was the representative of Euripides’ numerous plays featuring female characters, and also the one that influenced Guo Moruo most deeply. In Euripides’ play Medea, Medea betrayed her motherland and killed her brother because she fell in love with Jason. But, unfortunately, her husband abandoned Medea after she gave birth to two lovely sons. Then she took ruthless vengeance – she poisoned the soon-to-be bride, who was not alert to her wedding gift, and then determinedly killed her two sons. Guo Moruo had the short story ‘The Late Spring’ published in 1922, in which the protagonist’s dream of turning against his wife can be viewed as illustrating the story of Euripides’ Medea: On a night when the ground was covered with moonlight, as soon as I ran out the door, I saw my elder son lying asleep close to the door, naked, with blood on his chest. I trembled, and held him in my arms. Then I turned my head, only to see my second son sleeping in front of the well near the door, also naked, with blood on his chest, and with his arms and legs moving slightly. I trembled, and picked him up too. I carried the two dead 1 Guo 1992: 51. 2 Guo 1986: 272–273. 3 Guo 1990: 175–176.



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boys in my arms, wandering aimlessly in the moonlight.––‘Ah me, ah me! If I am guilty, you should just kill me, but why did you murder my innocent sons? Ah me, ah me! Can anyone endure such a tragic fate? Why am I not mad for it? Why am I not dead for it?’ I ran and cried till I heard my wife cursing me, her hair loose, wearing white pajamas, striding the ­balustrades of the building, ‘You the nothing fellow! You the less-than-­ nothing follow! You have lost your wife and kids. You have murdered our two sons. But you pretend to take pity on us? If you want to die, you should just die. Heaven asked me to get rid of you, wicked fellow!’ Having said so, she thrust a bloody knife into me. My two sons and I all fell to the ground.4 Comparatively speaking, Guo Moruo’s imitation of Medea seemed much too direct and rigid in ‘The Late Spring,’ published in the 1920s, but in his portrayal of characters in The Peacock’s Gallbladder in the 1940s, it was not totally apparent that he was emulating Euripides’ Medea. Guo Moruo’s The Peacock’s Gallbladder was first performed in the early 1940s. It was not only successfully performed and warmly welcomed at that time, but it is still popular with audiences and readers nowadays. The debut version was published in Literary Works (no. 6, vol. 1, 1943) in Guilin, Guangxi Province, China, and after that the play was published in its own right six times in the 1940s: December 1943, January 1946, May 1946, August 1946, February 1948, and October 1949. Subsequently, it was published in February 1950, May 1955, and October 1960. Forty years following its first publication, after Guo Moruo’s departure from the world, the play was included in Guo Moruo’s Complete Plays, published by China Drama Press in the 1980s, and was also adapted into a movie script. The play was included in Selected Works of Guo Moruo (1952) published by Open and Bright Bookstore, the seventeen-volume Moruo’s Literary Works (1957–1963), and the thirty-eight-volume Complete Works of Guo Moruo (1982–1992). Seventy years after its first publication, it came to be a great inspiration for Wu Rui, a Chinese avant-garde woman writer, who had a historical novel published in 2010 under the same title. It took Guo Moruo only five days to conceive and compose the four-act historical play The Peacock’s Gallbladder; hence it is an impromptu work. The story is derived from a part of history recorded in The History of China’s Ming Dynasty, The History of China’s Yuan Dynasty, and The New History of China’s Yuan Dynasty. It goes as follows: in the final years of China’s Yuan Dynasty (1271–1368), King Basalawarmi (a descendant of Kublai Khan [1162–227]) of 4 Guo 1985: 31–32.



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Yunnan State (composed of Mongolian people), defeated the peasants’ uprising army (the Han people) in Yunnan with the aid of Duan Gong, the ninth governor of Dali (Yunnan’s vassal state, composed of Bai people). In order to give his appreciation for Duan Gong’s life-saving behavior and to maintain an alliance with Dali’s military power, King Basalawarmi arranged for his beautiful daughter, Princess Argyle, to marry Duan Gong. The princess, the so-called yabruh flower (the nickname refers to a kind of rose that can save a person from death), adored Duan Gong and married him. However, before long, King Basalawarmi began to envy Duan Gong for his overwhelming military achievements, and poisoned him to death with the peacock’s gallbladder, a strong poisonous alcohol. Princess Argyle was a sentimental woman. The death of her husband made her so upset that she committed suicide soon afterward. Without the aid of the Dali people, King Basalawarmi turned out to be a loser, and he ‘committed a miserable suicide in a cottage one night after forcing his queen and children to jump into Yunnan Lake.’5 Guo Moruo’s The Peacock’s Gallbladder transformed this historical event, hardly remembered by ordinary readers, into a touching and tear-jerking tragic play. It opens with a hilarious scene in which the king and his officials attend a feast, and ends with the heartbreaking scene depicting the deaths of all the protagonists. Over the course of the play, Guo Moruo resourcefully presents a desperate and pure love affair between Duan Gong and Princess Argyle; vividly portrays the image of Princess Argyle, who is pretty, kind, and filial; and adds two villainous characters – Chancellor (the highest-ranking official in feudal China) Chelitemuer and Queen Hudijin – who strongly develop the story to its climax. It is because of the two new characters’ roles that the plot of the tragedy becomes so complicated and influential that the play was successfully performed many times seventy years ago, and that even today, its dramatic plot, multiple themes, and attractive characters are still hotly debated. Guo Moruo once claimed, in response to various criticisms of the play, that he had two motivations for writing it: that his major objective was to show the conflicts among different nationalities (Mongolian people, Han people, Bai people, and other nationalities) through Duan Gong and Princess Argyle’s confrontations with King Basalawarmi and Chancellor Chelitemuer; and his minor aim was to unfold the love affairs between Duan Gong, Argyle, and Chelitemuer. Hence, it is commonly believed that The Peacock’s Gallbladder is designed to present the theme of ‘inter-nationality unity’6 through the love affairs of Duan Gong, Princess Argyle, and Chelitemuer. As a consequence, crit5 Guo 1986b: 255. 6 Guo 1986b: 259.



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ics have unfairly ignored Queen Hudijin as transparent, regardless of the fact that she plays a crucial role in the play and that Guo Moruo depicted her elaborately. There are more readers who take pity on Princess Argyle, the noble-born and beautiful heroine, than who are concerned with Queen Hudijin’s sorrowful love story and miserable fate, but she is actually as nobly born and gracefully beautiful as Princess Argyle, and in the prime of her life as well. Generally the queen is simply viewed as the co-conspirator of Chancellor Chelitemuer, the evil murderer. Compared with Princess Argyle, Queen Hudijin has seldom been fully analyzed. Hence, I focus on the queen’s starring role and her significance in the play.  The Peacock’s Gallbladder is not verbose in creating Queen Hudijin’s image, but portrays a lamentable figure embracing sophisticated emotions and inner struggles briefly and vividly, in the way of Springs and Autumns, an ancient Chinese classical, historical text. Queen Hudijin is a multi-layered figure who displays diverse characteristics in front of different characters. In the mind of King Basalawarmi, a senior man and her husband, she has always been a paragon of virtues, for she has ever been a sentimental mistress who was ‘shy enough to turn her head into the King’s arms’7 while hearing his proposal of marriage, and she ‘remains full of tenderness and affection after getting married,’8 making Princess Argyle, the former queen’s child, feel ‘as if she were her natural mother’9 as well as a worthy virtuous wife of the king; in the eyes of Princess Argyle, she is a worthy stepmother whom her father genuinely respects, trusts, and favors, while Prince Muger firmly believes that she deceives his father, mistreats his sister, and often treats him coldly; Qiangnu, the daughter of Duan Gong, regards her as a generous, genial, and attentive grandmother. In front of all the officials, including Duan Gong, but with the exception of Chancellor Chelitemuer, Queen Hudijin’s words are prudent and her behaviors are discreet, which all show her dignified nature and thus earn her respect. Guo Moruo also manifests her tastes as a Mongolian noble lady by describing the luxurious decorations of her house and her familiarity with the art of savoring tea. Nevertheless, Chancellor Chelitemuer, her lover, regards her as an evil woman, as unchaste, as ‘a foxy spirit’10 who ‘seduced him to make love with her,’11 so that he ‘dreams

7 8 9 10 11

Guo 1986b: 150. Guo 1986b: 173. Guo 1986b: 148. Guo 1986b: 246. Ibid.



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of cutting her into pieces,’12 and as a tyrannical person who ‘doesn’t hesitate to poison her own son to death.’13 According to Chancellor Chelitemuer’s hateful words, we can infer that Queen Hudijin is not a character as simple as ‘the accomplice of Chelitemuer,’14 but a dominant and commanding person. She is bold in love and hate, but she frequently conceals her inner state of mind; she is ruthless and malicious, but she often appears to be deceived and exploited. Superficially, she poisoned her own son, Prince Muger, for the purpose of helping Chancellor Chelitemuer kill Duan Gong, Chelitemuer’s rival in love affairs with Princess Argyle. As a matter of fact, she has long been planning to kill her husband, King Basalawarmi, who has already lost his attraction to her, and murder Princess Argyle, the daughter of her husband and his former wife. She has even tried to force her lover Chelitemuer to kill them, but in vain. Because he is afraid of King Basalawarmi’s power, and because he wholeheartedly dotes on Princess Argyle, he keeps delaying the murders. His procrastination is also a result of the fact that King Basalawarmi has gained the strong military aid of Duan Gong, which puts Chancellor Chelitemuer in danger if he plots the king. Therefore, for the double purposes of sweeping away the barriers on her way to love and helping her junior son succeed to the throne, Queen Hudijin took the first action of killing Prince Muger, her and the king’s son, and planned to take advantage of Chancellor Chelitemuer to kill Duan Gong and Princess ­Argyle. See the following two parts of the play: Chelitemuer: No, I have an important thing to talk to you [about], a very important thing. You … the stuff you wanted me to get, now I … Hudijin: There is no hurry in saying that. Sit down first. (To the waitress) Let him sit over there. (Pointing to the bench opposite her)15 And: Chelitemuer: I have got the stuff you wanted. (Fetching it in his arms) Hudijin: (Hastily stops him doing so) No, there is no hurry. Princess Argyle has gone to the pond. Wait for me to take a look first. (Walks to the balustrades behind her, but does not see Shi Jizong, so returns to her original place) Take it out now. 12 13 14 15



Ibid. Ibid. Guo 1986b: 217. Guo 1986b: 164.

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Chelitemuer: (Taking out a small porcelain bottle) This is the arsenic I told Tie Zhiyuan to seek for me.16 According to the above two dialogues, the arsenic that Chancellor Chelitemuer has brought her is the stuff Queen Hudijin asked for, so it implies that the principal murderer of Prince Muger is not Chancellor Chelitemuer but Queen Hudijin, Prince Muger’s natural mother. Chancellor Chelitemuer naively thinks that Princess Argyle, the beautiful princess as fair as ‘the yabruh flower,’17will begin to love him after he kills Prince Muger, then places the blame on Duan Gong, his rival in love, and therefore put Duan Gong to death justifiably. But Queen Hudijin understands Princess Argyle and her tendencies so clearly that she is sure that Princess Argyle will die following Duan Gong’s death, as Prince Muger has been poisoned. As a female, she recognizes Chancellor Chelitemuer’s ‘arrogance and imprac­ ticality.’18 Since she believes that ‘women like Princess Argyle would rather kill her father than kill her husband after getting married,’19 she predicts that Princess Argyle might not live after her dear husband’s death. Though she knows the consequences, she has too sophisticated a mind to reveal them to Chancellor Chelitemuer, her lover. Queen Hudijin’s words and deeds determine all the major characters’ tragic fates in the two triangular love affairs – one circle concerns Queen Hudijin, King Basalawarmi, and Chancellor Chelitemuer; the other concerns Princess Argyle, Duan Gong, and Chancellor Chelitemuer. The consequences of Queen Hudijin’s murdering her own son are as follows: Prince Muger, her thirteenyear-old son, lost his young life; King Basalawarmi was denied the facts and lost hope after losing his two children; Duan Gong was blamed blindly and shot to death with arrows; Princess Argyle committed suicide for love of her husband; and as Chancellor Chelitemuer was killed by Duan Gong’s subordinate official, his aspiration to ascend to the king’s throne came to an end. Of course, eventually, Queen Hudijin ended her life by her own hand. Although there are a number of female characters who kill their children in traditional Chinese literature, their images are totally different from Queen Hudijin’s. Let’s take Xihou as an example from the famous Ghost Stories by Pu Songling (1640–1715), an author from the Qing Dynasty.

16 17 18 19

Guo 1986b: 165. Guo 1986b: 148. Guo 1986b: 221. Ibid.



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Xihou was a charming prostitute in Hangzhou, in southern China, who was adept at singing and dancing. But she was determined not to be a prostitute any longer after meeting Mansheng, an intellectual, whom she fell in love with and was secretly engaged to. Later, when Mansheng did not return in time but was imprisoned, a wealthy businessman adored her fame and beauty, so he intended to ransom her and marry her at a high cost. Having been flatly refused, the businessman knew the reason, and then he went to the prison to inquire for further news. Having learned that Manshen was soon to be released from prison, he bribed the prison official to extend Mansheng’s sentence for a long period of time, and lied to Xihou that Mansheng had already caught a serious disease and died in prison. Xihou did not believe him until a letter arrived from the prison telling of Mansheng’s death. Xihou did not know that the official wrote the letter as per the businessman’s request, so she believed it. She then had no choice but to marry the businessman, begin to lead a well-to-do life, and give birth to a son one year later. Just at this time, Mansheng was helped by his friend and was freed from prison. He tried every means to tell Xihou of the businessman’s vicious deception. Finally, realizing that Mansheng was alive and waiting for her, Xihou seized the opportunity when her husband went out to kill her son and resolutely leave her husband’s home to reunite with Man­sheng.20  Xihou was not a simple story of heart-to-heart love, but it told about a deed done by a virtuous woman who sought to avenge herself on her husband and erase her own disgrace. Though she had been a prostitute, once she determined to get married, she resolved to discipline herself to abide by the standards of a feminine ideal, and, accordingly, the man who promised to redeem her would be considered her legal husband. It was commonly held in Xihou’s time that a chaste woman should not marry two men, so a widow only remarried as a last resort. Xihou was married to the businessman on the condition that she thought Mansheng had already died. It was a woman’s burning shame if she was forced to marry again while her husband was still alive. If that happened, unfortunately, positive female heroines in ancient Chinese literary works had no alternative but to get revenge on the evil man and thus wipe out their own disgrace. I cite a husband-wife conversation in Mrs. Lin in The Ghost Stories to help us better understand the motivation behind Xihou’s filicide. In order to bear a child for her husband, Mrs. Lin once offered to make love to her husband by saying, ‘Farmers should plant seeds, no matter whether the seeds will grow and blossom or not. This evening is the best time to plant seeds.’21 20 21



Pu 2011: 791–794. Pu 2011: 785.

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Her husband then responded, ‘Here comes the farmer, but he regrets to say that his farming tools may not be favorable enough to cultivate the land satisfactorily.’22 That is to say, in the ancient Chinese people’s opinion, wives who can give birth to babies are just like productive land. A woman’s role is to provide the soil for her husband to plant his seeds, and the children are just the husband’s offspring. Accordingly, the severest way to punish a husband’s evil deeds is to kill his children, as Xihou did, preventing his bloodline from spreading thereafter. While another storyteller remarked on the filicide that ‘women were born to be so merciless as not to feel afraid of killing their children and committing suicide,’23 Pu Songling commented, ‘Xihou resolved to kill her baby first and then go for her beloved man. She was indeed too cruel!’24 Thus, though different from Medea’s Greek culture, ancient Chinese filicidal women represent the traditional moral and ethical virtues of virginity and justice. In the beginning of these stories, the husband was either killed by the robber and the wife was forced to marry the robber, or he was killed by his friend and the wife was deceived into marrying the friend, or the wife was slandered and deceived into marrying the monk. Then once the female protagonist learned the truth when her current husband confessed, she would never hesitate to take revenge on him. She might kill the evildoer or charge him in court, believing that ‘she should not bear any offspring for the gangster’25 and that ‘the two kids were both the descendants of the gangster, so neither of them should live any more.’26 She was sure to murder her own child(ren) to gain selfesteem no matter how long they were married or how many children she had already had. Obviously, she did so not on the basis of her individual affection, but rather for the purpose of propagandizing social justice. In this case, she intended to sacrifice ‘her evil child’27 for the social order without being trapped in any dilemma about whether to keep her child alive or to kill it, just like ­Xihou in The Ghost Stories. When she did so, she was too resolute to feel any of the painful emotional struggles that Medea suffered, having loved her children. It naturally followed that traditional Chinese heroines in literary works are generally identical to each other, bearing a sense of flatness and seeming mercilessness. 22 23 24 25 26 27

Pu 2011: 785. Hong 2010: 659. Pu 2011: 794. Xuan 1987: 304. Hong 2010: 1039. Pu 2011: 794.



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Queen Hudijin, created by Guo Moruo, is totally different from those ancient Chinese female filicides. The innovation derived from the Literary Revolutionary Movement in early twentieth-century China. During the period from the end of nineteenth century to the early twentieth century, ‘China suffered adversities, experiencing the critical time of survival or destruction’;28 ‘China’s adverse fate was too overwhelming for anybody to predict what the ill condition would result in’;29 ‘the state was both threatened by enemies abroad and oppressed by home-ruling powers’;30 and ‘human remains lay across the country, casting a gloom everywhere, indicating the loss of the elite.’31 The above-mentioned harsh reality rendered traditional Chinese culture unable to offer instructions to the current cultural movement. In a majority of famous intellectuals’ opinions, China’s sole way out of trouble was to repudiate the traditional Chinese culture, whose inferiority had been confirmed by these dismal realities, and to aspire to the superior Western civilization – that is, ‘to forget the tradition and seek the new voice from overseas countries.’32 What Chinese scholars were discussing most was how to acquire an air of European spirits, for we lag behind Europe not merely in terms of materialistic level, but also in spiritual level.33 … Before we admit that our technological sciences are not so advanced as theirs, if we consider our metaphysical study first, can we believe that we have done as good a job as them? Or forget the metaphysical study and talk about sinology, and we are supposed to be able to catch up, but there are a certain number of Western scholars whose contribution to the field of Sinology is more significant than ours, so that they are qualified to work as our experts and supervisors if we set up a traditional culture research institute.34 As another Chinese intellectual commented, ‘We have to admit that our moral level is not as high as [that of] the European people, and so it is with our knowledge, our literature, our music, our art, our health.’35 The national nihilism overflowed the literary field; for instance, Hu Shi held the opinion 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35



Wu 1922: 1. Wang 1915: 4. Chen Duxiu 1916: 1. Li 1916: 6. Lu 1908: 73. Chen Yuan 1928: 313. Chen Yuan 1928: 318. Hu 1930: 16.

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that China’s literature was much too incomplete to be any author’s model – as far as the genre is concerned, in prosaic works there are only short stories, lacking carefully-structured, logically-argued and beginning-echoing-ending novels, in verse there is only lyric poetry, lacking narrative poetry, to say nothing of epic, Chinese drama is in its childhood too; that some writers intend to narrate but know not how to contrive the structure, so that there are simply three or four fairly good novels which are still full of faults, and the most impressive short story or one-act play never existed; and that China’s literary works can never find any fine example as writing sources.36 Furthermore, he argued that ‘Western literary skills are far more complete and advanced than ours, so we should not neglect to take them as our examples … and that if we wish to do research on literary techniques, we have no other choice but to translate the Western works and use them as our models’;37 ‘what Chinese literature lacks most is the sense of tragedy, for both our novels and plays always end happily – this happy ending is the tough proof of the Chinese people’s weak mind, while [the Western men of letters] own the sense of tragedy and can produce meditative, meaningful, heart-touching, and thoughtprovoking works’;38 and ‘the techniques of plotting and depicting as displayed in ancient Greek plays two thousand five hundred years ago were at least ten times more wonderful than the Chinese Yuan Dynasty plays.’39 Additionally, the following comment, made by Hu Shi, was approved by scholars across ­China: ‘the modern Western literary works are perfect owing to the accuracy of their materials, the completeness of their genres, the height of their themes, the skillfulness of their descriptions, the complication of their psychological analyses, the thoroughness of their criticism of social problems, etc.’40 As a leading writer in the Literary Revolution, Guo Moruo took up his career precisely in the then-strong historical trend of learning from the West to benefit the East; therefore, he made a conscious effort to adopt the strong points of Western works while overcoming the weak points of Chinese works, which ­became the focal point through which the feminine images in his plays were ­differentiated from traditional Chinese figures.

36 37 38 39 40

Hu 1918a: 303–304. Hu 1918a: 304–305. Hu 1918b: 316–317. Hu 1918a: 304. Hu 1918a: 305.



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Similar to Euripides’ Medea, Queen Hudijin is a determined woman who prioritizes individual love and is ready to do anything to satisfy her personal affection. She also resembles Medea in that she breaks her heart while killing her own son, while traditional Chinese female filicides should feel obliged and delighted to do so. Guo Moruo invented a Chinese version of Medea by portraying Queen Hudijin in The Peacock’s Gallbladder as one who destroyed others’ and also her own happiness under the influence of her erotic love. Euri­pides’ Medea addresses herself as follows: Steel yourself, you, my heart, you must hold firm. The deed is dreadful but it must be done. Come, take up the sword, you wretched hand, Take it, and Move toward that dark frontier Where your life of sorrows begins. No cowardice, now, No thoughts about how dear your children are, Or how you are their mother. This one brief day Forget your love for them; grieve for them later.41 Similar to Medea, Queen Hudijin is also on the verge of emotional destruction after killing her son. Hudijin: (crying and complaining) My son, my dearest son, you are only a teenager. How can you just die suddenly! How dare you die suddenly! You took away my heart and hope! (Thereafter she keeps on crying and talking)42 … Hudijin: (crying loudly) Ah, my heart! (Crying bitterly, she leans on Mu Ge, as if dying of great anger, making no sound any more). Tie: Hurry, hurry up. The Queen is out of breath. Help her to the sleeping chair. (Waitresses in haste help her to lie in bed, massaging her hands and feet).43 The above quotation proves that though Queen Hudijin chooses to kill Prince Muger of her own free will, she feels so miserable upon seeing her son fall to the ground and die that she wails until she is out of breath, heartbroken. The scene portrays a queen whose reactions are spontaneously in accord with the 41 42 43



Euripides, Medea 1242–49. Guo 1986b: 176. Guo 1986b: 177.

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situation, rather than pretended behaviors. When Queen Hudijin cries for her son, readers familiar with Western literature find it easy to associate her with Medea, who shouted, ‘For though you will kill them, they were still your darlings…. I am a woman of sorrows.’44 She commits a Medea-like filicide rather than that of the ancient Chinese Xihou. Bearing a resemblance to Medea, what awaits her is endless pain and suffering, as she will mourn the son she killed forever. As we mentioned previously, Guo Moruo has claimed that he composed historical plays under the influence of ancient Greek tragic works. We argue that the Eastern version of Medea, Queen Hudijin, who commits filicide, is a product of this influence. The tragedy of Medea inspired Guo Moruo to endow the complicated, lamentable figure Queen Hudijin with fresh and rich individuality, elegant, graceful, noble, shy, charming, cruel, and above all tyrannical. Her crucial role in the play lies in the fact that her words and actions, especially her Medea-like behavior, determine the miserable fates of all the other characters in the tragedy. In summary, by successfully using Medea, the tragic character in the ancient Greek play of the same name, as a reference, Guo Moruo turned the last queen in The History of the Yuan Dynasty, who was forced by her husband to commit suicide and leave behind nothing but her name, into Hudijin, a complex tragic character in The Peacock’s Gallbladder, whose smiling and frowning could decide the life and death of others, which in turn enhanced the aesthetic power of the play. This power is so far-reaching that the image of Hudijin can be frequently identified in the popular TV series about feudal China’s royal family life, in which the queen and the concubines scheme against each other or even kill each other, fighting for the king’s affections either secretly or visibly – each of these female characters is so cruel and merciless that they never give up until the goal is achieved. The emotions conveyed in these plays do not represent ancient Chinese women’s true feelings, but they illuminate modern Chinese people’s interpretations of traditional characters. Western culture has made a great impact on this interpretative mode, which originated with those early twentieth-century literary pioneers, including Guo Moruo. The successful portrait of Queen Hudijin made it possible for a new image, as a means of using the ancient to satirize the modern, to appear on the stage of Chinese culture forever.

44

Euripides, Medea 1249–1250.



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References Cited

Chen Duxiu 陈独秀 (1916), ‘Wo zhi aiguozhuyi 我之爱国主义’ (My patriotism), Xin qingnian­新青年 (New youth) 2, no. 2 (October): 1–6. Chen Yuan 陈源 (1928), ‘Zhongguo de jingshen wenming 中国的精神文明’ (On China’s spiritual civilization), in Xi Ying xianhua 西滢闲话 (Xi Ying’s rambling talks), 311–18. Shanghai: Xinyue shudian. Euripides (1988), Medea, trans. Jeremy Brooks, in Euripides: Plays One, 1–50. London: Methuen. Guo Moruo 郭沫若 (1985), Guo Moruo quanji: Wenxue juan 郭沫若全集 文学卷 (The complete works of Guo Moruo: The literary works), vol. 9. Beijing: Renming wenxue chubanshe. Guo Moruo 郭沫若 (1986a), Guo Moruo quanji: Wenxue juan 郭沫若全集 文学卷 (The complete works of Guo Moruo: The literary works), vol. 6. Beijing: Renming wenxue chubanshe. Guo Moruo 郭沫若 (1986b), Guo Moruo quanji: Wenxue juan 郭沫若全集 文学卷 (The complete works of Guo Moruo: The literary works), vol. 7. Beijing: Renming wenxue chubanshe. Guo Moruo 郭沫若 (1990), Guo Moruo quanji: Wenxue juan 郭沫若全集 文学卷 (The complete works of Guo Moruo: The literary works), vol. 15. Beijing: Renming wenxue chubanshe. Guo Moruo 郭沫若 (1992), Guo Moruo quanji: Wenxue juan 郭沫若全集 文学卷 (The complete works of Guo Moruo: The literary works), vol. 12. Beijing: Renming wenxue chubanshe. Hong Mai 洪迈 (2010), Yijianzhi 夷坚志 (The stories by Yijian). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Hu Shi 胡适 (1918a), ‘Jianshe de wenxue geming lun: Guoyu de wenxue; Wenxue de guoyu 建设的文学革命论 — 国语的文学 文学的国语’ (A constructive literary revolution: The literature in the native language and the native language in the literature), Xin qingnian 新青年 (New youth) 4, no. 4 (April): 289–306. Hu Shi 胡适 (1918b), ‘Wenxue jinhua guannian yu xiju gailiang 文学进化观念与戏剧改 良’ (The view of literary evolution and the reformation of dramas), Xin qingnian 新 青年 (New youth) 5, no. 4 (October): 308–321. Hu Shi 胡适 (1930), ‘Jieshao wo ziji de sixiang: Hu Shi wenxuan zixu 介绍我自己的思想 — 《胡适文选》自序’ (An introduction to my own ideas: My preface to Selected Works of Hu Shi), in Hu Shi wenxuan 胡适文选 (The selected works of Hu Shi), vol. 16. Shanghai: Yadong tushuguan. Li Dazhao 李大钊 (1916), ‘Qingchun 青春’ (Youth), Xin qingnian 新青年 (New youth) 2, no. 1 (September): 1–12.



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Lu Xun 鲁迅 (1908), ‘Moluo shili shuo 摩罗诗力说’ (On the power of the Satanic School of poetry), Henan 河南 (South of river) 2 (February): 70–90. Pu Songling 蒲松龄 (2011), Liaozhaizhiyi 聊斋志异 (The strange tales from the Liaozhai Studio). Shanghai: Shanghai Shiji gufen youxiangongsi. Wang Shuqian 汪叔潜 (1915), ‘Xinjiu wenti 新旧问题’ (The problems of newness and oldness), Xin qingnian 新青年 (New youth) 1, no. 1 (September): 1–4. Wu Mi 吴宓 (1922), ‘Lun xinwenhua yundong 论新文化运动’ (On the New Cultural Movement), Xueheng 学衡 (The critical review) 4, no. 4 (April): 1–23. Xuan Ding 宣鼎 (1987), Yeyu qiudeng lu 夜雨秋灯录 (The stories written on raining autumn nights). Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe.



Chapter 15

Seoul as an Exhibition Space of Urban Daily Life: The Contemporary Korean Reception of Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata (2005) Yuh-Jhung Hwang It was in 2008 that Aeschylus’ collection of Greek tragedies, including The Oresteia – namely, Agamemnon, The Libation Bearers, and The Eumenides – was published in Seoul after being translated into Korean by Byung-Hee Chun, an honorary professor of German Literature at Dankook University at that time.1 This was the first time that this collection of Greek tragedy was directly translated from the original Greek into Korean by a Korean expert who had knowledge of both ancient and modern Greek languages. Before that, it was only possible for Korean readers to get Korean translations of Greek Classics that were based on an indirect translation from English or Japanese texts. In the Korean context, it is no exaggeration to say that most of the Greek Classics have been translated by Prof. Chun, since he began with Aristotle’s Poetics in 1977. According to Chun, his lifelong commitment to translating these works stems from his admiration for the democratic values of ancient Greece and its political system, which held that the politicians and the common people were equal.2 This becomes particularly apparent when one considers that Chun’s translation of Greek Classical works seems to have grown out of his experience under the military dictatorship in the 1960s and 1970s. In 1967, the Korean military government accused students who had studied in Germany in the 1960s of plotting a pro-North Korea rebellion. Chun was sentenced in this famous ‘East Berlin’ case and spent three years in jail.3 Indeed, this political incident was a result of South Korea’s ideological phobia with regard to the communism of North Korea. Given such social circumstances, for Korean intellectuals who studied outside of Korea or were college students in Korea under the military dictatorship, the implication of ‘ancient Greek’ could perhaps be summarized as a Western value meant to be an actualization of individual freedom, as opposed to the repressed political freedom of Korea at 1 Kang 2008. 2 D Voice 2009. 3 Sisain 2011.

 Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_017 ©

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that time. It is also thought that this ancient Greek value contrasts with the Confucian value that prioritizes the community at the expense of the individual. In fact, the increased interest in ancient Greek texts seems to parallel a sort of spiritual evolution in Korea. It was difficult to know the degree to which ancient Greek values concerning the freedom of the spirit were likely to be diffused into Korean society through the work of intellectuals, particularly during the period of the military dictatorship. However, it is certain that, in the context of Korea, admiring ancient Greek values was purely superficial and abstract. Koreans had no direct contact with Greek culture. Thus, any admiration of the ancient Greek spirit was a by-product of a particular intellectual force at the time. And, as Chun’s case reveals,4 having the capacity to read and translate ancient and modern Greek in Korea was the product of a devoted passion for Western culture. This is also demonstrated by the fact that there is only one university in Korea (HanKuk University of Foreign Studies) that has a Department of Greek studies, so it is indeed quite rare to find scholars who specialize in Greek literature and philosophy, in comparison to Korean scholars specializing in other areas of Western literature and philosophy. Nowadays, this tendency has changed somewhat. Ancient Greek Classics have been transmitted to the general Korean public through Greek mythology and culture in a broader sense than ever before. Recently, under the headline ‘The Fever of Reading Greek Classics in Korean Society,’5 one Korean newspaper reported on how a diverse range of ancient Greek texts have been consumed by Korean readers, taking the forms of introductory books on the Greek Classics, tourism essays on Greek culture, and self-coaching books. This tendency demonstrates that the Greek Classics are no longer the sole, specialized property of Korean intellectuals; instead, the Greek Classics are permeating daily life as a means to develop and enrich individual life and culture in Korea. In this sense, the contemporary Korean theater production of Agamem­non – The Ghost Sonata (2005) is significant, given how Greek values are transformed and refigured in the Korean context and discovered by this production in a concrete fashion. Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata was staged at the Seoul Arts Centre from April 23 to May 11, 2005 by a contemporary Greek theater director, Michael Marmarinos, in collaboration with Korean actors.6 Indeed, it 4 Chun studied and earned his PhD in German literature in Korea. Then he went on to study abroad in Germany. While studying German literature at Heidelberg University for five years, he earned certificates in both ancient and modern Greek (Chung 2011). 5 Kyunghyang Daily Newspaper 2013. 6 In terms of staging Greek tragedy in Korea, Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex was first introduced by a Korean director, Chul-Rye Kim, on the Korean stage in 1990. According to Bang-Ock Kim, this 

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was the first time in the history of Korean theater that Aeschylus’ Agamemnon had been staged by a Greek director working with Korean actors. For this reason, prior to the staging of this production, the Korean media put a strong emphasis on the fact that ‘the backbone of Greek tragedy’7 was reactualized at the hands of a Greek director who was born and raised in Athens, the hometown of the ancient Greek tragedy. No sooner had such high expectations for the production been established than the theater production was notably regarded as demonstrating the essence of Greek tragedy in the context of Korean society.  Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata was well received by Korean audiences and critics alike. Although some of the actors were criticized for their unclear delivery and vague diction,8 on the whole it was thought that the production ably demonstrated what Greek tragedy can mean in the context of contemporary society. In terms of staging Agamemnon in Korea, Michael Marmarinos said, ‘I am not interested in “modernizing” the ancient Greek tragedy.’9 According to Marmarinos, he chose Aeschylus’ Agamemnon because the play articulates the significance of the chorus more effectively than any other Greek tragedy. Thus, by focusing on the chorus, Marmarinos thought that the particularity of Korean culture and the universality of Greek tragedy could meet in the production. If Korean audiences and critics acknowledged this production as a noteworthy example of the contemporary Korean reception of Greek tragedy, this is because Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata demonstrates how one can deconstruct boundaries between the differences in Greek and Korean cultures as well as between actors and audience members, thereby also blurring the boundaries between gods and human beings. In doing so, Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata serves to underline how daily life in Seoul is transformed and reconfigured in the context of Greek tragedy, thus functioning as a pivotal example of the contemporary Korean reception of Greek tragedy that intertwines and mingles the Korean context with the values expressed in the ancient Greek Classics. With this in mind, this article explores the following issues: first of all, it discusses how this production’s rehearsal is conducted in the context of transferring fragmentary memories of Seoul into the text of Agamemnon; second, it points was the third time a Greek director produced Greek tragedy on a Korean stage; the first case was when the Greek national theater group staged Oedipus Rex during the Seoul International Festival in 1988; the second case was when the Greek ATTIS theater company staged Sophocles’ Antigone during the Seoul International Theatre Festival in 1997 (Kim 2005: 35). 7 Lim 2005. 8 Kim 2005: 38. 9 Marmarinos 2005: 9. 

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out how the playhouse at the Seoul Arts Centre becomes ‘the sensible,’ by discussing the implication of the chorus and the conditions of everyday life; third, it explores the ways in which such daily life could be constructed on the basis of the insecure political order in the play. Finally, I examine how this production is situated in the context of Korean theater in relation to showing urban daily life. 1

Rehearsal and the Transformation of Fragmentary Memories of Seoul

Rehearsals for the production of Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata took place over two months in the spring of 2005 at the Seoul Arts Centre. It would seem that the rehearsal is viewed as a transformative process, whereby fragmentary memories of Seoul are transplanted into the script of the performance, allowing the actors to perceive and embody the urban daily life of Seoul’s citizens. During the rehearsal period, in order to get a sense of the life of citizens of Seoul, Michael Marmarinos endeavored to collect local sounds and daily landscapes of Seoul by visiting tourist attractions and local markets. Since the audience was Korean, the Greek director wanted to capture moments in the lives of ordinary Korean people. Marmarinos also asked the actors participating in Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata to collect sounds and images of Seoul on their own, as he had. The materials collected by the director and actors then became part of the resources used in recreating the original text of Agamemnon. Throughout the entire period of rehearsal, there was a small studio inside the rehearsal room equipped with musical facilities for the use of Dimitris Kamarotos, a Greek composer.10 While observing the actors’ emotional response to the text and their movements, he composed music on the spot. According to Kamarotos, he stressed the fact that ‘there can be no pre-decided style or even compositions inspired by the story and the characters.’11 He also emphasized, [D]uring this process, as a sub-system of the performance mechanism, music will obtain its own rules. In the rehearsal small music[al] parts, new original compositions, music memories, fragments and mixes meet in the same way that people meet[,] communicate and exchange. Through this course of action, little by little […] the music of the performance [appears].12 10 11 12

Marmarinos 2005: 11. Marmarinos 2005: 10. Ibid. 

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The composer also combined Korean folk songs with the musical pieces he created during the rehearsal. In other words, by including in the text of the performance some dialogues spoken by the actors and pieces of music concomitant to what they felt and thought during the rehearsal, the original text of Agamemnon is restructured and recreated.13 Based on the plot of the original text, which starts with Agamemnon’s return to Argos after victory in the Trojan War and develops through Clytemnestra’s bloody revenge upon him, the narrative difference between the original text of Agamemnon and the Korean production of Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata is revealed as follows:14 Aeschylus’ Agamemnon

Prologue, Parodos

Episode 1: Queen receives the news of victory in the war Stasimon 1 Episode 2: Messenger Stasimon 2

Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata (Performance space in which each element of the production occurred) Prologue (the lobby of the playhouse, audience participation required) Episode 2: Festival in honor of Agamemnon’s return (backstage; audience participation required) Parodos (on stage) Episode 1: Queen receives the news of victory in the war Stasimon 1: How can you be sure? (on stage)

Episode 3: Agamemnon’s return to Argos

Stasimon 2: Helen (on stage)

Stasimon 3

Stasimon 3: Who can sing a song to alleviate my fears? (on stage)

Episode 4: Cassandra

Episode 3: Cassandra (on stage)

Stasimon 4

Episode 4: Ekkiklima (backstage; audience participation required)

Episode 5: Ekkiklima

Episode 5: An exhibition (backstage; audience participation required)

Exodus

Stasimon 4 (backstage; audience participation required)

13 14



Kim 2005: 39. Kim 2005: 40. See also the flyer advertising the performance, produced by the Seoul Arts Centre in 2005.

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As the comparison cited above reveals, staging the performance of Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata emphasized audience participation, which I will discuss below. However, what we must bear in mind is that the translation from Greek into Korean was one of the most challenging issues during rehearsals. As Myoung-Ryul Nam, who played a member of the chorus, recollected,15 the text of the performance involved the following process: the Greek director chose one of the eleven versions of Agamemnon written in modern Greek and then read and recorded it; by listening to what the Greek director read from the Greek text, a Korean translator, Jae-Won Yu, who has knowledge of both ancient and modern Greek, transcribed and translated it; the actors then used this text, and the text of the performance was later newly recreated by both the Greek director and the Korean actors during the rehearsal, as discussed above. Yet, as Nam recalled, the Korean translation based on the Greek director’s voice-recording was not natural enough,16 a fact which revealed a key cultural difference between Greece and Korea in terms of the attitude toward absolute authority, such as the gods. Regardless of the fact that the Greek text of Agamemnon used for the Korean production is written in modern Greek, the Korean translator used different language forms for the part of the gods, which required extremely formal written language, and that of the human beings, for which he used ordinary spoken language. This does not mean that the translator was not skilled in translation work. Rather, he created these nuances to comply with the culture and characteristics of the Korean language. There are certain distinguishable parameters in using daily Korean in terms of the ways in which Korean people speak. Because of the social convention that young Koreans use a formal and polite form of the language when speaking to elderly people, according to Nam,17 the translator did not seem to pay sufficient attention to the fact that there was no need for such a difference between godly and human language in the Greek text. The difference in this use of language was also evident in the actors’ performances during rehearsals. Recalling the process of rehearsal, Nam notes how one of the biggest difficulties that challenged his acting was how he had to speak to both gods and human beings with no ‘natural’ distinction.18 Although the actor knew in his head that, in the context of Greek mythology, human beings and gods are regarded as similar beings – insofar as gods acts like human beings, fall in love, experience jealousy, etc. – nevertheless, he found it difficult to treat both gods and human beings on an 15 16 17 18

Nam 2005: 64–65. Nam 2005: 65. Nam 2005: 64–65. Ibid.



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equal level.19 Such a situation reflects the fact that Korean cultural and social conventions are deeply rooted in respect for authority, as per the long tradition of Confucianism in Korea. For this reason, the Greek director constantly asked the actors to use everyday language in a natural way, as they do in a daily life.20 To put it differently, in order to transform and convey the daily fragmentary thoughts and memories of Seoul in the performance, it was necessary for the Korean actors engaged in the production to use natural, everyday spoken language, including Korean slang and jargon, as much as possible. This was a crucial point, enabling the production to achieve its realistic, vivid sense of Korean urban daily life. 2

The Playhouse and the Sensible

While Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata was staged in Seoul Arts Centre from April 23 to May 11, 2005, just before the beginning of each of the performances, Korean audience members were given handouts that informed them of the order of the episodes in the performance and provided explanations of the Greek gods and the characters mentioned in the production. This guide served to underline that anyone, regardless of any previous knowledge of Greek tragedy, was able to attend the performance; it was as if the flyers were a kind of invitation to the world to see what the Greek director had built on the Korean stage. One of the things that makes Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata unique is the way in which the audience was required to participate in the performance. Once the audience members had received the flyer indicating the production information mentioned above, they could not avoid participating in the performance, regardless of whether an audience member personally preferred such participation. Most Korean theater critics and audience members agreed that this production had an ‘innovative’ format, as the audience was forced into ‘an active role.’21 This is demonstrated in the fact that the whole playhouse was used during the performance. Indeed, it is quite significant to note how the spatial dimension of the playhouse was created and transformed. In Aga­ mem­non – The Ghost Sonata, audience members were asked to move from backstage into the auditorium and back as the show went on. The performance started in the lobby of the Seoul Arts Centre, which represented the scene in 19 20 21



Nam 2005: 66. Ibid. Song 2005: 101–109.

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which a watchman had been waiting ten years for news about the end of the Trojan War. Since the watchman stood on a fourth-story balcony, the audience had to raise their heads in order to look at him. The watchman, whose face the audience could hardly see and whose voice they could hardly hear due to the great distance between them, yelled his lines, looked over the audience, and threw snacks down in order to share his food with them. This opening section lasted for seven minutes, after which the audience members were required to move backstage, where a party celebrating Agamemnon’s return to Argos was held in the form of a jazz concert. Wine was sold and served by the chorus to any audience members who wished to drink it. Also, members of the audience were informed that if they wished, they could dance to the music. After experiencing this festive atmosphere, the audience members were then moved into the auditorium to be seated. Later, near the end of the performance, they were again asked to move, this time to an area backstage where an exhibition was held. The exhibition was staged by Clytemnestra, who had murdered Agamemnon and his mistress, Cassandra, and had their corpses displayed on the rotating circular stage. These means of involving the audience in the production are noteworthy. Some of the Korean audience members described the first scene on their blogs: ‘When I arrived at the Seoul Arts Centre, it was noisy because members of the audience were barred from entering the auditorium and thus had to wait in the lobby […]. When the watchman started to speak to us, most of the audience members were wondering what was going on and consulted the program for relevant information […]. That was the start of the performance.’22 Such curiosity and tension among the audience created a specific atmosphere for the performance, because no one could anticipate the next event in advance. In other words, from the moment the audience members heard the watchman’s remark, ‘I have been praying to God that I would be freed from this job for a long time,’23 they became involved in the performance, just as if they were one of the citizens of Argos for the duration of the performance. Aside from the way in which the audience members had to move to dif­ ferent venues during the performance, Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata demonstrates how the playhouse expanded both its horizontal and its vertical dimen­sions. Si-Joong Yun, the stage designer, said that the whole area of the playhouse – namely the main stage, backstage, the auditorium, the corridor connected to the stage, and the machinery and equipment placed behind the 22 23

The English translation is mine. See Travel Daily 2005: . Lee 2008: 56.



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stage – was fully utilized during the performance.24 Thus the playhouse itself served as an agora in which the actors and the audience members assembled during the performance. As such, by dividing and rearranging the sections of the playhouse into the open places of Argos, the playhouse became a sensible place. Jacques Rancière points out that, in such circumstances, where actors and audience members cooperate, they succeed in creating and forging ‘a sense of community.’25 Indeed, such a community shaped by both actors and audience members reveals that, as the performance goes on, the diverse degree to which disorder and relaxation develops contributes to establishing the playhouse as the sensible. Although the audience was required to move to different spaces, one could clearly observe varied reactions among the audience members: some remained ‘onlookers’ by merely standing and watching; others chatted with one another, discussing what was happening, and in doing so simultaneously created a number of small groups; still others drank the wine served by the actors and danced in front of their fellow audience members and the assembled actors to celebrate Agamemnon’s return. Moreover, given that the actors and the audience coexisted in the different spaces where the party and the exhibition were held, the creation of such a chaotic, lively atmosphere emphasized the fact that the audience members were transformed into actors and vice versa. Thus one could argue that the strategy of making the playhouse sensible originated in displaying a diversity of human beings and their human conditions in the name of community during the performance. This aspect of displaying a variety of human beings is best highlighted by the presence of the chorus, to which I now turn. 3

Becoming the Chorus, or Seoul’s Citizens and the Conditions of Everyday Life

The Greek director Michael Marmarinos is well known for his approach to modernizing the chorus in Greek drama, which he does by adapting and transforming the chorus in Greek tragedies into ordinary citizens engaged in daily life. For him, the chorus is a good way to reveal a certain society’s urban daily life. As Marmarinos strongly emphasizes, the main point in understanding the production is understanding the chorus in the context of the performance. By

24 25



Jae-Young Kim 2005. Rancière 2009: 16.

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defining the notion of the chorus as ‘a group that assembles in a certain place at the same time,’26 Marmarinos argues, the chorus becomes a chance sample of people, in a city: you could meet them in a subway, at a traffic-light, on a guided visit, in a square, beside a fountain, queuing in the post office, at a bus stop. These people – MEMBERS OF THE HIDDEN CHORUS OF A CERTAIN TRAGEDY – are bound together by a VICIOUS SILENCE, by the WAITING THAT PRECEDES THE ACTION. They are the chorus of an unknown Oresteia, set in the centres of the Great Cities, and they reflect – like sensitive instruments – the rhythm of the underground pain of the magnificent and ongoing destinies of our time. This ancient and – at the same time- very modern conception of the chorus is precisely one of the nodal points of the show.27 From this point of view, the chorus constitutes the ‘members of the hidden chorus of a certain tragedy,’ whose traits are embodied by ‘silence’ and the act of ‘waiting.’ For the Greek director, becoming part of the chorus is equivalent to the everyday role of the citizen in urban life. He found the characteristics of the chorus in ordinary Korean people as well. Giving an interview in the Korean press, Marmarinos expressed his impression of Seoul: It was very impressive, especially when I was at a local fish market. I think that the market is one of the best examples of a place where people build up their relationships with others in diverse ways, so that it resembles the characteristics of theater. I also noticed that the fish vendors, who were waiting for their customers in order to sell their fish, looked like the citizens of Argos, who have been awaiting the news about Agamemnon’s victory in the war.28 As this quotation shows, Marmarinos attributes a special meaning to a collective form of ordinary people who are present in the same place. This view is supported in the scene in which the chorus is silent while waiting for news of the Trojan War in Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata. Here, silence and waiting are regarded as the conditions of daily life in the Korean production. Given that ‘the true face of life, of the prose of life, is found only in the present

26 27 28

Marmarinos 2005: 18. Marmarinos 2005: 9 (emphasis is in original). Chosun Daily Newspaper 2004 (the English translation is mine).



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moment,’29 the chorus functions to ‘capture a reality of the present’30 in the ways in which they create a silent moment and react to one another’s silence as they wait for news of the war. This is why the very moment in which the chorus kills time on stage is linked to revealing their diverse individualities. As Rancière contends, [T]he collective power shared by spectators does not stem from the fact that they are members of a collective body or from some specific form of interactivity. It is the power each of them has to translate what she perceives in her own way, to link it to the unique intellectual adventure that makes her similar to all the rest in as much as this adventure is not like any other. This shared power of the equality of intelligence links individuals, makes them exchange their intellectual adventures, in so far as it keeps them separate from one another, equally capable of using the power everyone has to plot her own path.31 If we put the word ‘chorus’ into this quotation in place of the word ‘spectators,’ we can see that the chorus also offers the opportunity for each constituent part to display their power, shaping a sense of everydayness in the production. In other words, during the performance the chorus was not a collective; rather, they each showed their individual characteristics. Instead of wearing the tunics customary in Greek tragedy, they wore different casual clothes from their daily lives. Unlike the original text, in which the chorus is represented as senior citizens, these were mostly groups of young people in their thirties and forties. As the director maintains, each member of the chorus reflects the individuality of each of the actors who performed the roles: Korean actors engaging in the production have their own different lives and hobbies and contain their own diverse ranges of feelings, such as joy and disappointment and passion. So, through them, the audience could see and feel how they themselves would lead their life in a society.32 Thus, it is no wonder to discover that, in the text of the performance, each member of the chorus is named after the individual actor playing the role. The fact that the chorus is depicted as a collection of individuals explains why 29 30 31 32



Kundera 2007: 12. Marmarinos 2005: 18. Rancière 2009: 16–17. Marmarinos 2005: 18.

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there was no particular central character in the production. Indeed, the eponymous character Agamemnon is not a protagonist in the performance. Although he is compared to a rock star at the homecoming party as a means of suggesting his heroic status, the performance places much more emphasis on what the chorus is doing as the show proceeds. As well as delivering the backstories of the Trojan War and of Agamemnon, who sacrificed his daughter Iphigenia to the gods, they also express their feelings and discuss their thoughts about the war and the future of Argos. Indeed, they show different attitudes toward the political power represented by Agamemnon and Clytemnestra; some of the chorus flatter Agamemnon on his victory when he returns to Argos, while other chorus members condemn Clytemnestra’s murder of Agamemnon during her exhibition. From time to time, the chorus acts like an anonymous crowd and remains silent; at other times, they act like a violent group, creating an antagonistic sentiment and assaulting an outsider, Cassandra. Sometimes they reveal anxiety over their uncertain future, concomitant to the outcome of the war, and doubt whether they will be able to lead happy lives after the war. Then, as if nothing had happened, they feel boredom and play on their own or with others to kill time in a meaningless way. Such various responses from the chorus and its members remind us of the fact that common people’s everyday lives are inevitably affected and determined by external events, such as a war waged by the political authority. Moreover, such an ongoing external circumstance creates a tragic and somewhat lethargic sensibility, which forges and permeates the atmosphere of the performance in accordance with maintaining one’s daily life. For the chorus, there is nothing to do but wait endlessly for the end of the Trojan War. More importantly, the chorus plays a significant role in reconfiguring and transforming the Greek context of the play into a common, everyday situation during the production. To be specific, when the chorus walked on stage after Agamemnon’s celebratory party, each member brought with them colored plastic cups containing a small amount of water and put them in a row on the stage. That action transformed a ritual ceremony of prayer to the gods into an everyday gesture. Likewise, a few small plants presented onstage seemed to transform the act of placing flowers on the altar for the gods into the paraphernalia of everyday life. The ways in which daily moments are revealed by the chorus are visibly marked by periods of silence in the performance. As the director says,33 the difference between Korean actors and Western actors is the way in which each group accepts and manages silence. According to him, Korean actors accept a 33

Chosun Daily Newspaper 2004.



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silent moment more freely than Western actors, on the understanding that they seem to be familiar with silence, which seems to come from the Korean social convention in which being silent is viewed as polite conduct in daily life. Indeed, throughout the performance, silence captures the moment to be displayed. By means of keeping silent, the tension culminates, is suspended, or gradually builds up in the knowledge that all kinds of sentiments are conso­ lidated by silence. One of the best examples of the silent moment is when ­Cassandra is about to disappear from the stage. After foretelling her own death and that of Aga­memnon to the chorus, Cassandra creates a long period of silence. This silent moment, shared by her and the chorus, is quite powerful because it shapes a strong tension between them and reveals a tragic, sorrowful pause in terms of accepting Cassandra’s unavoidable destiny. In addition to this, other silent moments that frequently shape the performance are filled with the lyrics of Korean folk songs, the Korean national anthem, and the chorus humming, along with the musical pieces which the Greek composer created during the rehearsals. In particular, traditional, slowtempo Korean dance (known as a pansori rhythm) and the sounds of traditional Korean musical instruments (known as haegum) crystallize a rhythm between the dialogues and the silence throughout the performance. All of these theatrical devices epitomize how the cultural differences between the context of the ancient Greek tragedy and the contemporary Korean context converge in the urban daily life of Seoul, as depicted in the performance. 4

Daily Life and the Construction of the Insecure Order34

As a counterpart to the chorus, Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata focuses on the contrast between two female characters: namely, Clytemnestra and Cassandra. In the Korean production, each woman represents her own respective order on stage. Indeed, Cassandra is discordant in the play, knowing that she was Aga­ memnon’s slave as a result of the Trojan War and is thus an outsider in Argos. In other words, she belongs neither to Troy, nor to Argos. For this reason, at the beginning of the performance, when the party to celebrate Agamemnon’s return to Argos is held, Cassandra is depicted standing among the chorus as if she were totally isolated from this festive atmosphere. After the party, when the chorus moves to the stage and waits for news of the victory in the Trojan War, Cassandra remains offstage. 34



This section is based on my review of this production in Hwang 2005: 141–142.

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Each time Cassandra makes a prophecy to the chorus in terms of what will happen to Argos, she sings and dances onstage in a frenzied manner. Here, her movements are reflected in the mirror that stands on the stage. Given that the mirror alludes to the fact that Cassandra is a sort of divided self, split between her homeland and a foreign country, her barefoot, crazily dancing body communicates to the audience the sense of despair she feels. The ferocity of her dance is also related to the fact that no one believes what she prophesies. If we recognize that the production represents daily urban life in Seoul, Cassandra is the one character who cannot have that kind of everydayness. This is supported by the fact that the chorus shout at her and toss water at her in order to express their antagonistic feelings. Important here is that the Argives’ exclusion of Cassandra reinforces how confined life in the city is for foreigners. The fact that Cassandra is a stranger who comes from a different world is further coupled with the fact that she is the only one who wears a black fur coat and goes barefoot, as if she were ‘uncivilized’ in comparison to the others, who wear regular Argive outfits. While Cassandra is depicted as an outsider and an agent of the gods through her prophecies, Clytemnestra is the one who tries to establish her own order in Argos. During the performance, Clytemnestra is portrayed as an ambitious politician who makes an antiwar speech on her platform, rather than a woman who committed adultery with Aegisthus. This is supported by the fact that she wears a mask over her face, a white coat, and white makeup on her face. What is not overlooked here is that Clytemnestra is the one who arranges Agamemnon’s celebratory party and then murders him and his mistress later on. In essence, she signifies one who wants to build up her power in Argos as if she were a god. Since the members of the audience are requested to move to different venues throughout the performance, it turns out that the audience eventually complies with Clytemnestra’s demand, and all the audience witnesses during the performance is, in fact, the process of her killing her husband in revenge. For this reason, Clytemnestra kills Agamemnon and Cassandra in order to punish them because they destroyed her everyday life in Argos. This implication is best highlighted in the scene near the end of the performance in which the audience members are asked to move backstage again. There, they see Clytemnestra standing on the rotating stage, which looks like an exhibition at a museum. Here she displays Agamemnon and Cassandra, whom she has just murdered, lying with their backs to the audience, along with a few dead fish, and she makes a speech about the necessary justifications for her actions in Argos. With shock, anger, and despair, members of the chorus are weeping, excited, shouting in anger, and restlessly moving around the stage. This chaotic, distracting atmosphere visibly marks the naked horror of violence and war, 

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especially when one notices that the dead fish on the stage represent soldiers killed during the Trojan War. Although Clytemnestra’s role as a politician is not sufficiently emphasized due to the actress’s unclear diction, as she speaks in a husky voice throughout the entire performance, the outcome of the order she has established in the performance nevertheless seems quite insecure. This is demonstrated by the presence of two men dressed in orange, standing next to the exhibition, painting the wall. At this point in the performance, they have only painted part of the edge of the wall white, thus reminding the audience of the color of Clytemnestra’s costume. This last scene implies that, although the performance omits Orestes’ arrival in Argos at the end of the original play, the city’s insecure order – as represented by the partially painted wall – is to be continued. To put it another way, although Clytemnestra tried to protect her new order in Argos by enacting her revenge, it remains unsound. Nevertheless, given that the men continuously paint the wall, the audience understands that daily life will continue somehow. This is how the Korean production of Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata conveys a sense of tragedy to the audience through the performance. 5

Theater as an Exhibition of Daily Life

Michael Marmarinos’ Korean production of Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata could be placed in the context of contemporary Korean theater, in the sense that this performance is rooted in the presentation of urban daily life. At the time when this performance was produced at the Seoul Arts Centre in 2005, Korean theater had a tendency to emphasize the texture of urban daily life by means of both Korean plays and dramatic literature in translation. For example, the so-called ‘Silent Theater,’ originating from contemporary Japanese plays, was predominant in Korean theater at that time, featuring daily moments which the characters created rather than depicting a dramatic devel­opments in theater. In other words, blurring the boundaries between theatrical reality and daily life was the dominant theatrical mode in early twenty-first-century Korea. In essence, the theater was used as a salient medium to display everyday moments and to capture true aspects of our lives. Here, theater served to function as an exhibition, displaying our daily life as it is, rather than engaging in abstract dramatization which ignores everyday life. If we accept the fact that the spirit of Greek tragedy is universal and not bound by cultural difference, then the Korean production of Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata transformed this universal value into the particular context of urban daily life in Seoul, which appealed to Korean audience members. Using 

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theatrical devices ranging from diverse venues in the theater to the mixture of Korean folk music and traditional Korean dance, this production attempted to minimize the cultural differences between the Korean and Greek contexts to a great extent. Thus, this production is particularly significant in terms of the contemporary Korean reception of Greek tragedy.

References Cited

Chosun Daily Newspaper (2004), ‘Inganun grimjawa biguk jinigo daninda 인간은 그림 자와 비극 지니고 다닌다’ (Man carries his own shadow and tragedy), December 3. Chung, Eun-Joo 정은주 (2011), ‘Gris kojun, wonjyeonyeo myomirul gidaero junhakosipsupnida 그리스 고전, 원전의 묘미를 그대로 전하고 싶습니다’ (Byung-Hee Chun). Top Class (September): (accessed June 7, 2018). D.Voice (2009), ‘Piple: Byung-Hee Chun myoungyeo kyosu 피플: 천병희 명예교수’ (People: Byung-Hee Chun), June 2: (accessed June 7, 2018). Hwang, Yuh J. 황유정 (2005), ‘Choigun moodae yiye natanan yusung inmooldul 연극 속에 나타난 여성 인물들’ (Female figures on the contemporary Korean stage), Per­ forming Arts Journal: 145–152. Kang, Dae-Jin 강대진 (2008), ‘Gris biguk jyeonjip, wanganul appduda 그리스 비극 전 집, 완간을 앞두다’ (The collection of Greek tragedy is forthcoming). Postgraduate Newspaper of Chung-Ang University (November 12): (accessed June 1, 2018). Kim, Bang-Ock 김방옥 (2005), ‘Agamemnon-Ghost Sonata gongyeon boonsukeul ­tonghaebon chorusyei performancejuk byunyong 아가멤논-유령 소나타 공연분석 을 통해 본 코러스의 퍼포먼스적 변용’ (Performing Greek chorus: Marmarinos’ Aga­ memnon – The Ghost Sonata in Seoul), Journal of Korean Theatre Studies Asso­ciation 27: 31–70. Kim, Jae-Young 김재영 (2005), ‘Yun Si-Joong, moodae misulye sarowon gisu 윤시중-무 대미술의 새로운 기수’ (A new innovator in Korean stage design: The world of SiJoong Yun). Art Korea Webzine (July). Online access is currently unavailable. Kundera, Milan (2007), The Curtain: An Essay in Seven Parts, trans. Linda Asher. London: Faber and Faber. Kyunghyang Daily Newspaper (2013), ‘Hankuk sahuiebunun gris baram 한국사회에 부 는 그리스 바람’ (The fever of reading Greek Classics in Korean society), March 7: (accessed June 7, 2018).



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Lee, Gi-Yong 이기용(2008), ‘Godae greece bigukyei chorus and hyyundaejeok hwalyoung bananyei yeongu 고대 그리스 비극의 코러스와 그 현대적 활용에 관한 연구’ (A study of the Greek chorus and its contemporary use: Focusing on Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata), MA thesis, Hanyang University, Seoul. Lim, Im-Taek 임인택 (2005), ‘Godae gris biguk “agamemnon” gris younchulga son guchu moodaeye 고대그리스 비극 ‘아가멤논’ 그리스 연출가 손 거쳐 무대에’ (Greek tragedy Agamemnon), Hankyurae (April 12): (accessed June 7, 2018). Marmarinos, Michael (Director) (2005, April 23 - May 11), Agamemnon – The Ghost Sonata 아가멤논 (Agamemnon). Seoul, Korea: Seoul Arts Centre. Nam, Myoung-Ryul 남명렬 (2005), ‘Uriegen jae samyei yunyeoga itta 우리에겐 제3의 언어가 있다’ (We have a third language), Korean Theatre Journal 38: 59–68. Rancière, Jacques (2009), The Emancipated Spectator. London: Verso. Sisain (2011), ‘Sisain 시사 인’ (Sisain Live), October 8: (accessed June 7, 2018). Song, Min-Sook 송민숙(2005), ‘Wonjunyei haechewwa jaegusungel tonghae jigum, igokyei hangwi yaesulro byunmohan greecebiguk 원전의 해체와 재구성을 통해 지 금, 이곳의 행위예술로 변모한 그리스 비극’ (The Greek tragedy that transformed into performance by deconstructing and reconstructing the original text), Korean Theatre Journal 37: 101–109. Travel Daily (2005), (accessed June 7, 2018).



Chapter 16 

Politics, Culture, and Classical Architectural Elements in Taiwan Chia-Lin Hsu* Buildings with decorations derived from typical Greek and Roman architecture were fashionable in Taiwan between the late 1890s and the 1950s, and the style has been increasingly revived since about 2000. The first period mainly arose from a policy of the Japanese colonial government, and the second revival is linked to political and cultural changes. These changes led to greater openness in society, a reshaping of Taiwanese identity, wider availability of information on Classical architecture, and appreciation of it. Favored Classical architectural elements include Roman domes and arches, and components of the three Greek architectural styles – that is, the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian Orders.1 Reception of these in Taiwan has been affected by the original Greek and Roman uses, which Taiwanese have been able to see in the last few decades, and by the neoclassical architecture that emerged in the late eighteenth century in Europe.2 The latter contrasts with the Baroque and Rococo styles of the seventeenth and part of the eighteenth centuries,3 in which complex plans and exuberant, curvaceous forms aroused feelings of motion and sensuality. Neoclassicism arose in response to a desire to return to principles of nature and reason, and recalled the promotion of J.J. Winckelmann (1717–1768), who directed popular taste to Greek art and aesthetics.4 Meanwhile, neoclassicism was used politically to confirm approval of ancient Greek civilization, in particular the ideology of Athens, and along with this ­approval, to demonstrate a policy orientation toward powerful Western countries, where neoclassicism prevailed.5 Neoclassicism spread over Europe, the United States, and other parts of the world.

* The author would like to thank the reviewer, the editors, and the copy-editor Dr Louise Calder. 1 Adam 1991: 68–73, 82–87, 90–95. 2 Irwin 1997: 65–126. 3 Lemerle and Pauwels 2008; Blunt et al. 1988. 4 Winckelmann ca. 1987. 5 Bastea 2010: 36.

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Japan first discovered neoclassicism in the mid-nineteenth century and introduced it to the new colony, Taiwan. The style was widely used, and education on Classical architecture was initiated. As Goto Shinpei (1857–1929), the first director of the Civil Administration Bureau of colonial Taiwan, pointed out, this was to impress the colonized with grand new buildings, and so to facilitate governance. 6 This declined after World War II under a government led by Chiang Kai-Shek (1887–1975). Taiwan experienced severe political control, but cultural and educational movements occurred beginning in the 1960s, and from the 1980s Chiang’s son and successor, Chiang Ching-Kuo (1910–1988), began to lift restrictions. This allowed information to be acquired more freely, and also enabled a reexamination of Taiwanese history. Classical architectural elements attracted attention as a Western attribute and evidence of a Japanese colonial heritage.7 This cultivated their reappearance on buildings. Taiwanese architecture of the Japanese colonial period has been studied by a few scholars, including Li Cian-Lang, Guo Zhong-Duan, Huang Qiu-Yue, Huang Jun-Ming, Fu Chao-Ching, and their students.8 The last-named professor and his colleagues lead an Architectural History and Conservation Group in the Architecture Department at National Cheng Kung University. This chapter is indebted to their achievements, and seeks to add historical background and information on the more recent situation. 1

Japanese Colonization and the Introduction of Classical Architectural Elements

In 1895 the last imperial dynasty of China, the Qing Dynasty,9 lost the First S­ ino-Japanese War (1894–1895) and ceded Taiwan to Japan.10 As a colony won during the Meiji Restoration (1868–1912), Taiwan was then Westernized and modernized to be more like Japan.11 Western systems of education, in­ dustrialization, transportation, health, and sanitation were adopted. Likewise, ­European art and literature were promoted. Neoclassicism was a popular architectural style in the contemporary West, as both its aesthetics and its cultural symbols became attractive. As Eleni Bastea points out, neoclassicism was 6 7 8 9 10 11



Fu 2009: 9. Chiang 2012. Huang Jun-Ming 2004; Li Cian-Lang 2008; Fu 2009; Chiang 2012: 64–65. Spence 1999: 26–263. Jansen et al. 1979. Beasley 1973; Liao and Wang 2006.

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used in nineteenth-century Athenian buildings to enforce the place of Athens and its Classical roots in ancient Greek antiquity, at the center of Hellenism, and its policy orientation toward Western Europe, from which neoclassicism arose.12 For similar reasons, Adamantios Koraes (1748–1833) promoted a modern Greek language that revived classical Greek to unify modern Greece and strengthen national pride. Thomas Jefferson (1743–1826), the third president of the United States (1801–1809), who was contacted by Koraes for advice on the founding of a Greek state, thought that neoclassical architecture would allow American democracy to emulate the example of ancient Athens.13 Likewise, neoclassical buildings demonstrate the Westernization of Japanese colonials, who were ambitious to become global leaders and so adopted this international architectural style. Japan acquired Taiwan in 1895, and in 1904 the Russo-Japanese War broke out over a conflict of interests in northeastern China. Not long after, in 1910, Japan annexed Korea. Japanese expansionism was obvious and was closely related to the concurrent imperialism of European countries. Japan pursued equality with the West, and this chimed with the emperor’s charter oath of April 1868, on behalf of the government, to abolish traditional customs and to seek knowledge worldwide.14 Neoclassicism and other architectural styles from Europe, the Near East, Egypt, India and South America were imported to Japan, and then from Japan to Taiwan.15 Traditional Japanese architecture was also introduced to Taiwan, but only much later was it politically exploited to convey Japanese moral messages.16 Neoclassicism, sometimes combined with other styles, was often preferred for early Japanese colonial government and public buildings in Taiwan. Its attraction lay in the style’s characteristic grand scale – intended to inspire the Taiwanese to revere the colonial government. Goto Shinpei, the first director of the Civil Administration Bureau of colonial Taiwan between 1898 and 1906, said, Taiwanese are a people of materialism. They admire gold, ceremony, luxurious buildings and grand gardens. A poem of the Tang Dynasty says, ‘Without seeing the grandeur of the imperial residence, how can it be possible to know the esteem of the emperor?’ If we want to govern this

12 13 14 15 16

Bastea 2010: 36. Wikipedia 2015. Jansen and Notehelfer 2015 Fu 2009: 16–17. Li Cian-Lang 1996: 163. Fu 2009: 9–10, 41–44.



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kind of colonist more easily, constructing grand official buildings would help.17 Goto Shinpei believed architectural rhetoric had power over the stereotyped Taiwanese colonists. This goes some way toward explaining the popularity of neoclassical buildings in this period. Neoclassicism was presented to Japan in the nineteenth century. In 1877 a British architect, Josiah Conder (1852–1920), was invited to Japan as a government advisor and a professor in the Imperial College of Engineering, Tokyo.18 He had graduated from the University of London and worked for two years in the office of the Gothic architect William Burges (1827–1881).19 Conder combined different European architectural styles in his works and won a Soane Medal in 1876. A year later he was chosen by the Royal Institute of British Architects for the posts in Japan. Conder is called the ‘father of modern Japanese architecture.’ He designed a number of famous public buildings and taught British neoclassicism and architecture of the late Renaissance. Several of his students became distinguished, including Tatsuno Kingo (1854–1919).20 Like Conder, Tatsuno later attended the University of London and worked in the office of William Burges. Upon traveling to France and Italy, he learned the Queen Anne style,21 a red brick style later used extensively in his works. His resulting style, sometimes called the Tatsuno style, evolved from the historical eclecticism of contemporary Europe and was influential in Japan and its colonies.22 A few of Conder’s and Tatsuno’s students, including Hukuda Togo (1855– 1917), Nomura Ichirou (1868–1942), Moriyama Matsunosuke (1869–1949), and Ide Kaoru (1879–1944), went to Taiwan.23 They were enthusiastic in practicing neoclassicism. They adapted the decorations and proportions of the Greek architectural styles, such as the pediment and the Doric, Ionic and Corinthian capitals; they also adapted Roman arches and domes. Characteristics of other styles – for example, towers originating from Christian architecture24 – were used as well. 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24



Fu 2009: 9. Finn 1991. Crook 1981a, 1981b. Stewart 2002. Girouard 1984. Sewell 2000. Sewel 2004: 222. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 143–157. Heinle and Leonhardt 1989: 114–207. Fu 2009.

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These protégés of Conder and Tatsuno designed public and governmental buildings, serving as train stations, post offices, museums, markets, hospitals, courts, schools, and banks.25 The buildings were outstanding among Taiwanese houses and symbolized a new, modern lifestyle and an ideal aesthetic taste.26 These developments took place in parallel with the movement of the Taiwanese Cultural Association¸27 established in 1920 by the Taiwanese medical doctor Chiang Wei-Shui (1891–1931), who promoted social reforms and fashionable, worldly lifestyles.28 Many of the buildings are still in use today. Moriyama Matsunosuke designed the Taiwan Sutokufu, which is now the Presidential Office Building.29 The Taipei Guest House30 accommodates foreign guests of the government. It is generally Baroque, but with Roman arches and Greek elements. No record of the architects could be found, but they probably include Hukuda Togo and Nomura Ichirou.31 The latter also designed the National Taiwan Museum. This partially follows the model of the Pantheon and has a facade in a Greek Order and a Roman dome. Some elements of Classical architecture suit the Taiwanese climate.32 It is humid and rains often, and summer is particularly hot. Colonnades are useful for maintaining dry and cool spaces, and are functionally similar to the storey over the sidewalk, which is typical of local architecture in Taiwan and southern China. Building materials such as stone, brick, and concrete are durable in a humid climate and are more suitable than timber, from which traditional Japanese architecture is constructed. Ide Kaoru,33 the manager of the construction section of the Taiwan Sutokufu between 1919 and 1944, said that buildings should adapt to the climate, and that Japanese wooden architecture was not suitable in Taiwan because termites abound. This appears in the first issue of the Journal of Taiwanese Architecture Institute, 1929, advising other Japanese architects in Taiwan. Many of his works use colonnades in combination with Taiwanese architectural elements.34 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

Li Cian-Lang 2008: 146. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 146. Huang Song-Hao 2008. Huang Huang-Xiong 2006: 56–67. Huang Jun-Ming 2004. Fu 2009: 184–191. Fu 2009: 185. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 154–155. Lin Hui-Cheng 2005; Huang Jian-Jun 1995. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 205–208.



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The Decline of Classical Architectural Elements, 1945–1990s

The Japanese colonial period terminated in 1945, at the end of World War II. Most Japanese left, and in 1949 the Chinese Nationalist Party (Kuomintang, KMT) lost the Chinese Civil War and fled to Taiwan.35 This political change had a significant effect on Taiwanese culture. There was little high-quality building work between 1949 and the late 1950s.36 An exception is the tomb of Fu Ssu-Nien,37 the president of the National Taiwan University between 1949 and 1950. It is similar to a Greek temple in the Doric Order. The architect is unknown, but was probably a Taiwanese technician trained in Japan.38 In general, however, the architectural fashion changed, which was attributed to the political environment. For 38 years, from 1949 to 1987, Taiwan was under martial law, and those who had fled to the island after the Chinese Civil War had social and political prestige.39 There was hostility toward Japan and toward Taiwanese who had received a Japanese education. Architects’ backgrounds would very likely have affected whether they could be in charge of governmental projects. Taiwanese postwar architecture mainly followed the modernist style.40 This was encouraged by the KMT and the American governments. Beginning in 1950, the outbreak of the Korean War, the American government provided Taiwan with military force and financial aid. The US was Taiwan’s most important ally, and American culture prevailed. By the onset of the twentieth century, American architecture was increasingly dominated by modernism, which is essentially based on functional concerns and favors simple geometric shapes. Meanwhile, needing to economize, the KMT government implemented an economic policy on architecture, following Bauhaus principles. Chief architects in the 1960s41 included Ieoh Ming Pei (1917–),42 the 1983 Laureate of the Pritzker Architecture Prize, and Chen Qikuan (1921–2007);43 both were educated in the USA and designed the campus of the Tunghai University. Others with an American educational background include Chang 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43



Roy 2003: 55–75. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 203–204. Wang Fan-Sen and Wang Xio-Bing, 2013. Jeng-Horn Chen and Yu-Hua Tsai, personal communication 2013. Roy 2003. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 205–208. Curtis 1996. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 205–208. Huang Jian-Min 2002. Hu and Guo 2008.

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Figure 16.1

A building with dents and Ionic capitals, Chongqing N. Rd., Taipei, Taiwan. Photography by Chia-Lin Hsu.

Chao-Kang (1922–1992)44 and Chang Chang-Hwa (1908–).45 Japanese modernism also had an impact. A highly esteemed architect, Tange Kenzo (1913–2005),46 designed the buildings of the Sacred Heart High School for Girls, Taiwan, in 1964. He combines the Brutalism of Le Corbusier (1887–1965)47 and the Metabolism48 of contemporary Japanese architecture.49 A Taiwanese architect, Wu Ming-Shiou (1934–), once worked in his firm, the Urbanists and Architects Team.50 Modernism was questioned in the late 1960s. The US was unable to win the Vietnam War,51 and the value of modern societies and the cultures of the Third World were being reassessed. Some architects opposed the doctrine of mod44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

Lin Hui-Cheng 2005; Huang Jian-Jun 1995. Lin Pei-Xi 2001. Kuan and Lippit 2012.  Frampton 2001. Koolhaas and Obrist 2011. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 208. Architectural Institute of Taiwan 2013. Murray 2005.



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Figure 16.2 An entrance decorated with dents and Corinthian capitals, MRT Zhongxiao Xinsheng Station, Taipei, Taiwan. Photography by Chia-Lin Hsu.

ernism and believed that tradition was more admirable. A few Taiwanese architects, researchers working on folklore, and overseas Chinese promoted the preservation of historical monuments. But there were opponents. Lin An Tai Historical House,52 more than two hundred years old, was the first to arouse debate about its preservation. Finally, it was taken apart and rebuilt on another site.53 This promoted an increasing awareness of historical monuments, and in 1982 the Cultural Heritage Preservation Act was passed.54 Until the 1990s the KMT government rarely considered preserving buildings from the Japanese colonial period. They had been built within the last hundred years, and some regarded them as contemporary and not historical. Others viewed them as shameful reminders of the presence of a World War II enemy. 52 53 54



You 2011. Ma 2009. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 208–212; Lin Hui-Cheng 2009b.

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There were different opinions among the public, including that they were historical evidence, and that excellent buildings should be preserved even if they had been recently built. After heated debate, Taoyuan Shrine, built in 1938,55 was saved, but was not a protected monument until 1994. In the 1990s the Cultural Heritage Preservation Act was revised, and many buildings from the Japanese colonial period were protected.56 Chiang Min-Chin relates this to a few factors.57 The first is research on modern Taiwanese architecture, which drew attention to Japanese colonial buildings. This was initiated in 1976 by the Architectural Institute of Japan for a five-year project on modern buildings in Japan and Japanese colonies. In 1986, a broader survey on Asian modern architecture was conducted by Toshi Kenchiku and Muramuzsu Shin, in cooperation with local scholars. This resulted in the foundation of the ROC Research Association of Modern Architectural History in the late 1980s, and Taiwanese scholars Li Qing-Lang, Huang Qiu-Yue, Guo Zhong-Duan, and Huang Jun-Ming have participated in the preservation and conservation of Japanese colonial buildings. The second factor relates to a change in the legal framework for the designation of cultural heritage. Since 1997 the law has allowed local governments to designate and manage historic monuments, which are no longer solely controlled by the central government. The fact that the number of regional historic monuments increased after 1998 was compatible with localism, in which Japanese colonial buildings are often associated with regional pride and memory. In addition, hostility toward Japanese colonial architecture has decreased since the late 1990s. This, combined with the fact that local governments tend to habilitate Japanese colonial buildings, has allowed them a revival.58 The last factor is the catastrophic earthquake of September 21, 1999, and the subsequent demand for the conservation of historic buildings. Many were damaged and did not have the necessary legal status to receive financial support. In 2000 the Cultural Heritage Preservation Act was revised again, and a new category includes many more Japanese colonial buildings. These are not old enough under the old rules, but they are historically significant. The result was a dramatic increase in historic buildings, which reached a climax between 2002 and 2004.

55 56 57 58

Li Zhong-Yao 1992; Huang Shi-Juan 2009. Li Cian-Lang 2008: 213–214; Lin Hui-Cheng 2009a. Chiang 2012: 64–66. Fu 2009: 3.



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Table 16.1 Departments of European Languages in Taiwanese Universities.

University/College

Department

Year of ­establishment

Fu Jen Catholic University

German Language and Literature French Spanish Language and Culture Italian Language and Culture Spanish German French French German Language and Literature French German French Language and Literature

1963 1964 1964 1995 1962 1963 1964 1963 1963 1966 1966 1981

Tamkang University

Chinese Culture University Wenzao Ursuline College of Languages National Central University

to photographs or drawings of ancient examples or designs by contemporary Chinese artists. Taiwanese architects may choose from works available in the masonry companies, which may also design and make Classical elements specifically for a particular building. As the architect Juan Yun-Che said, the principles of selection include whether the work looks magnificent, luxurious, or worthy, and in general customers have preferred complex works.61 Classical elements made by modern Chinese often alter the forms and proportions of the ancient orders (see fig. 16.1). This is probably because the Chinese masons and designers did not receive any education in Classical architecture and have never seen ancient examples. As a result, they fail to recognize the subtle differences between the originals and their copies. It is also possible that such alterations, often simplifications of ancient examples, are intended to suit modern buildings. The revival of Classical architectural elements is in part attributed to increasing information on Europe and Taiwanese admiration of European culture. This awareness is closely related to social changes which opened up opportunities to interact with European culture. Improvements in education and overseas travel are the most important factors. 61

Juan Yun-Che, personal communication 2013.



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In 1979 the ban on overseas tourism was lifted.62 Outbound departures to Europe increased dramatically in the 1990s, and the number reached and remained at a high level, usually between two hundred thousand and three hundred thousand persons per year (see fig. 16.3). Travel literature has been popular in newspapers and is often published separately. Well-known authors in the 1970s and 1980s include In-Di,63 who was a writer and publisher, and Kuo Liang-Hui,64 who was a novelist and publisher. They, and other writers since then, often mention European buildings and historic monuments. Bao Yi-Rong expresses his admiration of such architecture, and Sun Shou-Ren regards it as representative of a highly developed civilization.65 Travel agents almost always advertise European architecture and describe Europe as romantic, elegant, and scenic.66 This reflects what generally interests Taiwanese about Europe. The revival is also related to education in European culture. In the 1960s a number of universities established departments or sub-faculties of European languages and literature (see table 16.1) to support the needs of business and cultural exchange.67 Between 1953 and 1977, Taiwan’s production rate grew rapidly – about 18.1 percent per year68 – and knowledge of foreign languages and culture facilitated trade. This interaction stimulated interest in European culture and helped Taiwanese society to become more open to diverse values. Around the same time, the number of Taiwanese studying abroad was increasing. Between 1950 and 1976, anyone who wanted to study overseas needed government permission.69 This control was ceded in 1989 and 1990.70 This new freedom, and a prosperous economy that forged a middle class, encouraged overseas study. The number of people studying abroad has increased over a hundredfold between 1950 and today.71 The majority have gone to the US, ­Europe, and Japan. On returning, their experiences of different cultures have influenced Taiwanese society, including in the areas of democracy and intellectual development.72 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72



Tourism Bureau, ROC, Taiwan 2013. In-Di 1976. Kuo 1980. Bao 1987: 2; Sun 2002: preface. E.g., Phoenix Tours 2013. German Department, CCU 2013; French Department, CCU 2013. Chen 2010: 161. Zhou 2012. In 1989 the Examination of Self-paid Overseas Study (自費留學生考試) was abolished, as were the Regulations on Overseas Study (國外留學規則) in 1990. Ministry of Education, ROC, Taiwan 2013a, 2013b; Lin Yu-Ti 2003: 288. Chen 2010: 161–162.

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The current revival of Classical architectural elements has arisen from political and economic success, particularly since the late 1980s. Though the Japanese colonial government had established agriculture, industry, transportation, and electricity supplies,73 these were damaged in World War II. Recovery started after the 1950s and was aided by Japan and the US. The economy was also helped by the KMT government fostering private companies and adopting land reform.74 Chiang Ching-Kuo, a son of Chiang Kai-Shek and the president of Taiwan between 1978 and 1988, adopted several important political policies. Martial law was abolished in 1987, and in that same year the ban on political parties was lifted. Restrictions on newspaper licensing were removed in 1988. Chiang Ching-Kuo’s successor, Lee Teng-Hui (1923–), the first president born in Taiwan, continued these political improvements. In 2000 the largest opposition party, the Democratic Progressive Party, won the presidential election. ­Society has become much more open, and Taiwanese can gain access to information on different cultures. The revival of Classical architectural elements is one example. 4

Conclusion

The use of Classical architectural elements in Taiwan has been associated with politics and culture. The style was introduced by Japanese colonizers as part of Westernizing and modernizing Taiwan, the national policy since the Meiji period. It symbolized Japan’s ambition as a global leader and demonstrated its acknowledgement of contemporary world style. Japan also used the rhetorical power of the style to impress the colonized and facilitate governance. After World War II and the termination of the Japanese colonial period, the Classical style was occasionally used, but the mainstream style was modernism. The US was the strongest supporter of this, and modernizing architects took charge of the most important projects. Awareness of the importance of conserving historical buildings since the 1960s has resulted in the Cultural Heritage Preservation Act, which was passed in 1982, and many buildings from the Japanese colonial period have been designated as historic since the 1990s. This is indicative of emerging localism, in which Japanese colonial buildings are often regarded as sources of local pride and memory. It is also related to the fact that local governments began to share the responsibility for designating cultural heritage in 1997, and that the enormous earthquake on September 21, 1999, 73 74

Chen 2010. Chen 2010: 150–161.



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urged the granting of legal status to historic buildings in order to support their conservation. Since about 2000, luxurious hotels and residential apartments have been built with Classical architectural elements. This was influenced by European education and travel, which was rather limited before the 1980s but became much more prevalent afterward, stimulating interest in Western historical monuments. Political restrictions have also largely been lifted since the 1980s, and information has been more freely available. Recent buildings with Classical elements are regarded as symbols of wealth and fine taste in art, and are a result of the openness of society as well as political and cultural improvements.

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Part 5 Sharing Traditions: Western Classics in Contemporary East Asia

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Chapter 17

Classical Studies in China Yang Huang In 1903, the young Lu Xun, who was to become perhaps the greatest writer in twentieth-century China, published a story in the Zhejiang Tide,1 a monthly journal created by the Chinese students of Zhejiang province studying in ­Japan. This was his first major publication. The story is entitled The Spartan Spirit and is a retelling of the Battle of Thermopylae. The young student saw in the story a belligerent spirit that to him, and to many of his contemporaries, was most urgently needed for the salvation of the Chinese nation, then seen as under threat by Western powers. In a previous issue, the journal chronicled the reaction of the Chinese students in Japan to the Russian claim to annex the northeastern provinces of China, implicated in a newspaper interview with the Russian ambassador to Tokyo. A proposal to organize a battalion of vol­ unteers was immediately passed, and as soon as the battalion was formed, it sent a telegraph to the Minister of the Northern Seas of the Qing imperial government in which the Battle of Thermopylae was cited as an example to be followed: In ancient times the Persian King Xerxes attempted to annex Greece with an army of hundreds of thousands of soldiers. Leonidas led a few hundred men of primary age in person for defense at a pass. When their line had been broken, all of them fought to the death. Till today, the Battle of Thermopylae is famous among the nations and is known to every child in the West. Even a peninsular Greece could produce such fighters who would not see their fatherland suffer subjugation. Could our imperial China of hundreds of millions of miles of land not have such fighters?2 The story was then well known to Chinese students studying in Japan. It was perhaps this chronicle that prompted Lu Xun to write the story. We are not sure exactly where Lu Xun learned of the episode, but it was apparently from some Japanese sources, as he later recollected. Lu Xun roughly followed the line of Herodotus’ narrative, but he dramatized a dialogue between Aristodemus, the 1 Lu Xun 1903. The story is published under the pen name Zishu 自樹. 2 Zhejiang chao 1903.

 Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_019 ©

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survivor who missed the battle because of an eye disease, and his wife, who refused to believe that her husband had come back alive when he knocked at her window in the night, saying that it must have been his ghost. Realizing that he had indeed returned alive and was greatly ashamed, she killed herself with his sword, which motivated Aristodemus’ heroic deed in the Battle of Plataea a year later. As far as I know, this dialogue and the death of the pregnant wife were not attested in any original Greek source. It must have been made up later, possibly by Lu Xun himself, in order to convey his message more powerfully.3 Lu Xun and his fellow students were no doubt also inspired by the scholar and political activist Liang Qichao, a towering figure in China at the turn of the twentieth century.4 A year earlier, in 1902, Liang Qichao created a journal en­titled Xinmin congbao 新民叢報, or New Citizen, in the Japanese city of ­Yokohama, of which he himself was the chief editor. In it he published a short history of Sparta, which nevertheless included all the essential points that we teach today, such as the origin of the Spartan state, the reforms of Lycurgus, the Spartan constitution, the three classes, the education system, Spartan women, and the events after the time of Lycurgus.5 In the introduction, he explains his motive for writing the history: Therefore the belligerent spirit should be the primary foundation for upholding a nation. This has been agreed upon by the prudent, and from now on the twentieth-century world will be permeated with this idea. For those who do not adopt militarism, their nations would certainly not stand firmly between heaven and earth. So it is most obvious that for the responsible citizen of the future, it will not be sufficient to learn from Athens alone for self-perfection, and it cannot do without also learning from Sparta…. Sparta is truly the best remedy for today’s China. For this reason I write this short history of Sparta.6 Liang Qichao and his contemporaries saw militarism as the immediate solution to the difficulties China faced because they were convinced by the evolutionary theory of the English biologist Thomas Henry Huxley, newly introduced by Yan Fu 嚴復, and firmly believed that only the fittest and strongest could survive in the modern world. But this was by no means the ultimate remedy 3 4 5 6

For a detailed analysis of Lu Xun’s possible sources, see Morioka Yuki 2011. See Chen Shuyu 1993. Liang Qichao 1902b. Preface to Liang Qichao 1902b.



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they envisaged for a China that was struggling toward modernity. In the first issue of his journal, he set out its purpose and reasoned that this magazine … holds that in order to reform our country, we must reform our people in the first place. The reason that China is weak is because her people lack public morality and their minds are not cultivated. Therefore this journal will especially aim at these illnesses and make prescriptions for them. Its purpose is to adopt and combine Chinese and Western moralities as guidance for moral education, and to introduce every kind of political constitution, scholarship and theory as the bases of intellectual education.7 It is in this light that, as soon as the New Citizen was published, Liang Qichao wrote for it a series of articles that first presented ancient Greek civilization to the Chinese reader. These included ‘A Short Inquiry into the History of ­Science,’ which introduced Greek scientific theories from the Milesian school down to the Alexandrian school and beyond; ‘A Short History of Economic Theories,’ which started from Plato, Xenophon, and Aristotle; an article on ancient Greek scholarship; a paper on ‘The Political Theory of Aristotle’; ‘A Short History of Sparta,’ quoted above; and ‘A Short History of Athens,’ all published in the same year.8 The writings of Liang Qichao, like that of Lu Xun, provide a striking example of how the Chinese came to be interested in and indeed appropriated Classical knowledge at the beginning of the twentieth century. This was, however, not the first time that Classical knowledge had been introduced in China. An earlier wave of Classical learning came with the Jesuit missionaries from the beginning of the seventeenth century onward. In 1606 Xu Guangqi, a native of present day Shanghai, began to study Euclid’s Elements in Latin with the Italian Jesuit missionary Matteo Ricci. Like many of his educated contemporaries, he was struck more by the scientific knowledge than the gospel of God which the Jesuits brought into the country and were keen to spread among the more educated members of society. In order to have more opportunities to learn Western science, he agreed to be baptized in 1603. In the following year, he also passed the imperial examination and henceforth became a high-ranking imperial mandarin. He was so impressed by Greek mathematics and its abstract rational thinking, as revealed in the Elements, that he persuaded Matteo Ricci to translate it into Chinese with him. In 1607 they published the first six books 7 Liang Qichao 1902a. 8 Liang Qichao 1902b, 1902c, 1902d, 1902e, 1902f, and 1902g. ‘A Short History of Athens’ ends abruptly with the reforms of Solon and is apparently not finished.



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of the Elements. Western mathematics was introduced to China for the first time. Xu Guangqi saw in the work not merely mathematical knowledge, but a new way of thinking that could be applied to various situations, a new way to true knowledge; as he says, ‘If one can master this book, there is nothing one cannot master. If one learns this book well, there is nothing one cannot learn.’9 He intended to complete a translation of the rest of the work, but for some unknown reason Matteo Ricci desisted. Even so, the Elements were instrumental for the study of Western mathematics in the subsequent centuries, and the whole range of terms they created for rendering Greek mathematic concepts is still in use today. In the 1620s Xu Guangqi and another imperial mandarin, Li Zhizao, along with the Jesuit missionaries François Sambiasi and Franciscus Furtado, translated a series of Christian textbooks on Aristotle’s works of De Anima, De Caelo, and Organon.10 For the Jesuit missionaries, the introduction of Western science was a means by which they tried to attract the Chinese literati to the gospel of God, and for that purpose they also introduced a wide range of Classical literature, as Professor Li Sher-shiueh has shown in his very learned book European Literature in Late-Ming China.11 The Chinese literati, however, seemed to see particularly the merit of Western science, as it opened a new way of thinking. Similarly, Chinese intellectuals in the early twentieth century looked for what was useful in the Classical tradition to reform their country. This is also partly true for Lu Xun’s younger brother, Zhou Zuoren, who was to become a famous essayist and scholar. He went to Japan in 1906 in order to study civil engineering, but ended up learning Classical Greek language and literature. Throughout his life he remained deeply interested in Greek myth. At one time in 1926, he said, ‘I cannot say what is my profession, although I now live by teaching. But I can say that my interest is Greek myth. Because it is the most beautiful myth in the world.’12 On another occasion in 1934, he listed his collection of Jane Harrison’s works, and it included the 1922 edition of Prolegomena to the Study of Greek Religion (1903), the 1927 edition of Themis: A Study of the Social Origins of Greek Religion (1912), a work entitled Mythology, written in 1924 for the book series Our Debt to Greece and Rome, Religion of Ancient Greece (1905), and, finally, Myths of Greece and Rome (1927). From 1925 onward he translated a series of articles on Greek myth, mostly by Jane Harrison, and then the Bibliotheke attributed to 9 10 11 12

Xu Guangqi 1963: 76. François Sambiasi and Xu Giangqi 1624; Franciscus Furtado and Li Zhizao 1628; Franciscus Furtado and Li Zhizao 1631–1636. Cf. Feng Jinrong 2009. Li Sher-shiueh 2010. Zhou Zuoren 1926a.



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Apollodorus (1938, 1951). In a lecture delivered in 1926, he concluded that myth reflected two features of Greek culture. One is the love of earthly life, and the other is the love of beauty.13 In his view, both were needed to reform the Chinese mind. In 1944 he further elaborated that the Greek spirit of beauty embodied in Greek myth has the power to reinvigorate the old even if it cannot revive the dead. This is evident in the history of European culture. For today’s China, where people’s minds are filled with ugliness and fear, and therefore become increasingly withered because of many years of despotic rule and civil examination, this revitalizing power like a fresh wind is essential as it is useful.14 But Zhou Zuoren’s greatest contribution to Classical studies lies in his translation of Greek literature. In his early career, apart from Apollodorus, he translated some of the poems of Herodas (or Herondas) and Theocritus, and published them under the title Greek Mimiamboi in 1933.15 After 1949, when the new government was established, he was banned from creative writing because of his collaboration with the invading Japanese army during the AntiJapanese War (1937–1945), but he was directed to the translation of Greek works, in spite of the fact that he was still prohibited from publishing under his real name. In 1950 the Director of the Bureau of the Presses, Ye Shengtao (葉聖陶), asked him to focus on the translation of Greek works, without specifying any work.16 Soon he started translating Aesop’s fables, first brought to China by the Jesuit missionary Nicolas Trigault (Jin Nige金尼阁) in 1625.17 In 1951 Chairman Mao personally approved a proposal to assign him the task of translating Classical literature.18 In the following years he translated Aristo­ phanes’ Plutus and thirteen of Euripides’ tragedies.19 His last endeavor of Greek

13 14 15 16 17

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Zhou Zuoren 1926b. Zhou Zuoren 1944. For Zhou Zuoren’s interest in Greek culture in general and Greek myth in particular, see Chen Yongchao 2002; Jiang Bao 2005; and Li Yangquan 2005. Zhou Zuoren 1933. Zhou Zuoren 2002: 688. Zhou Qiming (Zhou Zuoren) 1955. Trigault translated some twenty-two stories from ­Aesop’s fables and published them under the title kuangyi 況義 in 1625. See Li Sher-shiueh 2010: 37 and 38, note 1. Hu Qiaomu’s letter to Mao Zedong on February 24, 1951. See Hu Qiaomu 2002: 61–2. Luo Niansheng, Zhou Qiming, and Yang Xianyi 1954. Zhou Qiming and Luo Niansheng 1957–1958.

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translation was Lucian’s dialogues, completed in 1965, only to be published posthumously nearly thirty years later, in 1991.20 Zhou Zuoren’s sometime collaborator and younger contemporary, Luo Nian­sheng, also played a pivotal role in translating Greek literature. He studied English and Greek literature in the universities of Ohio, Columbia, and Cornell from 1929 to 1933. Then he moved to the American School of Classical Studies at Athens and stayed there for about a year before heading back to China. He devoted the rest of his life to translating Greek tragic and comic plays. As a result of his and Zhou Zuoren’s efforts, we now have Chinese translations of all the extant plays of Aeschylus and Sophocles, five of Euripides’ plays, and seven of Aristophanes’ comedies. In 1986 a Chinese version of the Oedipus Tyrannus was staged first in Beijing and then in Delphi, with him as the adviser. He was also involved in an experiment to convert Medea into a local opera. In his later years he turned to Homer in the hope of producing a verse translation, but he was only able to finish a large part of the Iliad before he died. His student and collaborator Wang Huansheng eventually completed the work.21 It should be pointed out that the translation of Classical texts is important for Classical studies in China, as most scholars and students have relied on translations in their studies. In the field of Classical philosophy, I should mention Chen Chung-Hwan (Chen Kang), who set the standard for translation and research for Chinese scholars. He studied at the University of London for a year in 1929 and moved to Friedrich Wilhelm University in Berlin the next year, where he studied Greek philosophy under Nicolai Hartmann and Werner Jaeger. In 1939 he received his doctorate with a thesis on Aristotle’s philosophy and returned to teach in China the next year.22 Although later he went to teach in Taiwan and then in the United States, his students have carried on the study of Greek philosophy in China. In 1944 he published, with detailed research notes, his seminal translation of Plato’s Parmenides, a work unsurpassed in quality. In the preface he stated his ambitions, which later gained fame: Today or in the future, if the product of this translation makes European and American scholars regret not knowing Chinese, or even want to learn Chinese, only then the capacity of us Chinese in scholarship can be really made known to the world.23

20 21 22 23

Zhou Zuoren 1991. Luo Niansheng and Wang Huansheng 1994; Wang Huansheng 1997. Chen Chung-Hwan 1940. Chen Kang 1982.



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Paradoxically, however, it was only after the Communists came to power in 1949 that the study of Classical literature, philosophy, and history had become part of the university curriculum and the translation of the Classics had been pursued in a more systematic way. As to the reasons for the Communist interests in Classical civilization, I offer two explanations. One is that all the fields of the humanities were seen as crucial ideological battlegrounds that could not afford to be abandoned to ‘bourgeois scholars,’ as we shall see later. The second is that many of the intellectuals active then, both within and without the Chinese Communist Party, had received Western education and had a genuine appreciation of the value of the Classical heritage. An indication of this is that as early as 1941, then still in the revolutionary period, Chairman Mao in a speech sharply criticized intellectuals and the educated within the Communist party for ‘quoting from the ancient Greeks in whatever points they make.’24 The program of translating the Classical texts covered the major areas of literature, history, and philosophy. As a result, we now have most of the more important Classical texts in Chinese. Herodotus was translated in 1959,25 Thucydides in 1960.26 Homer is the most popular of all, with the Iliad enjoying three translations and the Odyssey four. All of Plato’s and Aristotle’s works have also been translated. Among the Latin writers, however, there are notable omissions. Although Virgil’s Aeneid, Tacitus, Caesar, Sallust, and a large part of Cicero are translated, Livy has yet to be translated, as does Polybius who, although not a Latin writer, addresses essentially a Roman subject. I will come back to the reasons for these omissions later. I now turn to the study of ancient history, with which I am more familiar. When the study of the ancient world was formally introduced into the university curriculum, there was a serious shortage of qualified teachers. In 1955 some Soviet ancient historians were invited to train young teachers from various Chinese universities. The program was based at Northeast Normal University in the city of Changchun, and its coordinator was the late Professor Lin ­Zhichun (林志純), who was then already an authority on ancient Chinese history. He energetically took on the task, and for the rest of his life he was devoted to the promotion of the study of ancient civilizations and to the comparative study of ancient China and the Classical world, thus becoming the founding father of ancient history in China. One of his views is that the Greek type of city-states 24

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Mao Zedong 1969: 761. It should be noted that Mao’s criticism was not directed specifically at Greek learning, but against a tendency of doctrinism in the application of Marxism within the Communist party. Wang Yizhu 1959. Xie Defeng 1960.

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also existed in early China, a view that I do not share for the simple reason that the Chinese had never developed a system whereby a large proportion of the members of the community took part in the decision-making process. In line with Soviet training and with the political ideology of the time, the first generation of ancient historians studied the ancient world strictly ac­ cording to the Marxist theory of the evolution of human society, or, more precisely, according to the Stalinist version of Marxist theory, which saw human history as going through five stages – namely primitive society, slave-holding society, feudal society, capitalist society, and finally reaching socialist society. Hence, most of the effort was directed at validating the fact that the GrecoRoman world was a slave-holding society and that the proletariats of the time, the slaves, were constantly waging class wars against the oppressor, the exploiter – that is, the slave-owning class. Rather embarrassingly, there were not many cases of slave rebellion in the Classical world to be discussed. The whole thesis had to rely heavily on the slave revolt led by Spartacus, who was portrayed as a great revolutionary just as Lenin or Mao was. Nevertheless, the ­thesis was never doubted or questioned. Prior to the emergence of the slaveholding society, Greece was seen as a primitive tribal society with its characteristic social institutions of the clan and the tribe. This explanation was in fact based on Fried­rich Engels’ The Origins of the Family, Private Property, and the State (1884), which in turn relied heavily on the work of the American anthropologist Lewis Morgan on North American Indian tribal societies. Athenian democracy was seen as stemming from the equality of the primitive clan system. It was at most a democracy of the slave-owning class, a pseudo-democracy that was opposed to the only true democracy, the socialist democracy of the people. The struggle between the Plebeian and the Patrician Orders in the Roman Republican period had also been emphasized. This interpretation of the ancient world was the dominant view well into the Cultural Revolution and beyond. A notable exception was Gu Zhun, who was later seen as a liberal and an independent thinker amid intense political pressure. His notes and thoughts on Greek history were published under the title The Greek Polis System in 1983.27 This was probably also the first Chinese monograph on Classical history, and the author emphasized the role of constitutional government rather than slave struggle in the construction of Greek society. Concerns with the political reality are evident. Fortunately things would change quickly for the better as China began to open its doors to the world, especially to the Western world, at the end of the 1970s and beginning of the 1980s. Professor Lin Zhichun, who was already well 27

Gu Zhun 1982.



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into his seventies, and who was aware of developments in the various fields of ancient history, Mesopotamian studies, and Egyptology in the West, wanted to train a new generation of ancient historians. He succeeded with great effort in persuading the Ministry of Education to support his plan. In 1985 the Institute for the History of Ancient Civilizations, with Lin himself as its director, was inaugurated at Northeast Normal University. This time Professor Lin invited experts from North America and Western Europe to teach the students. Among the earliest foreign experts to teach there was Professor Fritz-Heiner Mutschler, who because of his engagement with China developed an interest in the comparative study of Greek, Roman, and Chinese historiography, and who continues to teach in China (now in Peking University) after retiring as professor of Classics at the Technical University of Dresden. The courses taught included Greek and Latin, Akkadian, and ancient Egyptian scripts, among other subjects. For the first time, students were introduced to the ancient languages in a systematic way in China. In the meantime, the interpretation of the ancient world came to a dramatic turn as people’s attention was diverted from political struggle to economic concerns. Ancient Greece was now seen as a civilization heavily based on industry and commerce, in contrast to ancient China, which remained an agricultural society for thousands of years. The argument was essentially that of the Berlin ancient historian Eduard Meyer in the Bücher-Meyer controversy at the end of the nineteenth century. In 1989 an immensely popular television documentary series entitled Sorrow of the Yellow River (Heshang 河殤) put this academic thesis before the eyes of the public in a more dramatic tone. It tried to explain the underdevelopment of China by tracing it back to ancient history, boldly stating that ancient Greece was an open, industrial, and commercial civilization open to the sea and thus to the outside world, whereas China was and remained a closed, agricultural civilization bound in the Yellow River valley. Hence the contemporary developed and advanced West had its ­foundations in the ancient world, whereas China still had to struggle with its historical ­burden. The series was met with an overwhelming reaction, especially among young students, and was blamed by the authorities as one of the causes that triggered the massive student movements that same year. Thus interpretation of the Classical world has indeed been closely linked to social concerns in ­China. An emphasis on the advantages of a predominantly commercial and industrial civilization, especially as far as Classical Athens is concerned, has continued to be influential among many Chinese researchers and students alike. When I proposed in an article published in 1996 that Greek society in the Classical period was fundamentally of an agrarian character, in that citizenship and the institutions of the polis were closely linked to agricultural concerns 

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and to the ownership of land, I was met with sharp criticism. I was, of course, influenced by the works of scholars like Moses I. Finley and was not really saying anything new. Nevertheless, it was among such debates that Classical studies became a lively field of study. Since the mid-1990s, research monographs have begun to appear in notable numbers, whereas before that most of the books produced were textbooks. Interests have also become more personal and increasingly independent of the dominant ideology. Yet Classical studies continues to provide relevance to Chinese society, as many of the papers in this volume show. In my rather impressionist survey, I have largely concentrated on the Greek half of the Classical world, and I believe that there are reasons for this. To the Chinese mind, ancient Greece is more fascinating than ancient Rome is. There are at least two reasons for this prejudice. One is that ancient Greece, not Rome, is seen by the Chinese as the cradle of the whole of Western civilization, and hence more important. The other is that the Greek way is so profoundly different from the Chinese, whether in the organization of the state, or in rational abstract thinking, so that for many educated Chinese, it represents a totally different approach to human civilization and even amounts to an alternative to the Chinese way. On the other hand, the early Roman state quickly developed into a great empire, not unlike China in many respects, at least superficially, with an autocratic emperor and all the high-ranking ministers, governors, and aristocrats, and hence corruption, inborn in the system. This is unfortunate, because a comparative perspective on the two great empires might produce some insight on the nature of both. All in all, since the 1990s Classical studies in China has progressed steadily as serious, independent enquiries began to multiply, and conditions for research, especially access to Western scholarship, have improved substantially since the turn of the century. Yet Classics as a discipline still needs to be fully established, and it is our task to work toward that goal.

References Cited

Chen Chung-Hwan (1940), Das Chorismos-Problem bei Aristoteles. Philosophische Untersuchungen 9. Berlin: Limbach. Chen Kang 陳康, ed. and trans., (1982), Bamannidesi pian 巴曼尼德斯篇 (Parmenides). Beijing: Shangwu yinshuguan. Chen Shuyu 陳漱渝 (1993), ‘Sibada zhi hun yu Liang Qichao 《斯巴達之魂》與梁啓超’ (The Spartan spirit and Liang Qichao), Lu Xun yanjiu 魯迅研究 (Lu Xun Studies), no. 10: 62.



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Chen Yongchao 陳泳超 (2002), ‘Zhou Zuoren, renleixue, Xila shenhua 周作人·人類學· 希臘神話’ (Zhou Zuoren, anthropology, and Greek myth), in Lu Xun yanjiu 魯迅研 究 (Lu Xun studies), no. 6: 55–58. Feng Jingrong 馮錦榮 (2009), ‘Ming mo zhishifenzi dui Yalishiduode ziran zhexue de yanjiu 明末知識份子對亞里士多德自然哲學的研究’ (The study of Late Ming scholars concerning Aristotle’s philosophy of nature), paper presented to the ‘World Conference on Sinology 2009: Sinology and Cross-Cultural Communication 世界漢 學大會2009：漢學與跨文化交流,’ October 30th–November 1st, 2009, People’s University of China, Beijing. Furtado, Franciscus 傅泛際, and Li Zhizao 李之藻 (1628), Huan you quan 寰有詮. Translated from Commentarii Collegii Conimbricensis Societatis Iesu, in quatuor libros de Caelo Aristotelis Stagiritae, 1593. Furtado, Franciscus 傅泛際, and Li Zhizao 李之藻 (1631–1636), Mingli tan 名理探. Translated from Sebastião do Couto, Commentarii Collegii Conimbricensis e Societate Iesu, in Universam Dialecticam Aristotelis Stagiritae, 1606. Gu Zhun 顧准 (1982), Xila chengbang zhidu 希臘城邦制度 (The Greek polis system). Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe. Hu Qiaomu 胡喬木 (2002), Hu Qiaomu shuxin ji 胡喬木書信集 (Selected letters of Hu Qiaomu). Beijing: Renmin chubanse. Jiang Bao 蔣保 (2005), ‘Zhou Zuoren zhi gu Xila wenhua guan 周作人之古希臘文化觀’ (Zhou Zuoren’s view of ancient Greek culture),’ Lishi jiaoxue wenti 歷史教學問題 (Issues in the teaching of history), no. 5: 69–73. ‘Ju e shijian 拒俄事件’ (The anti-Russian episode) (1903), Zhejiang chao 浙江潮, no. 4: 135. Li Sher-shiueh 李奭學 (2010), Zhongguo wan Ming yu Ouzhou wenxue 中國晚明與歐洲 文學 (European literature in Late Ming China). Beijing: Sanlian shudian. Li Yangquan 黎楊全 (2005), ‘Jiedu Zhou Zuoren de Xila shenhua qingjie 解讀周作人的 希臘神話情結 (Interpreting Zhou Zuoren’s Greek myth complex),’ Hainan daxue xuebao 海南大學學報 (Humanities and social sciences journal of Hainan University), vol. 23, no.4: 426–430. Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1902a), ‘Xinmin congbao zhangcheng 新民叢報章程’ (The charter for Xinmin congbao), Xinmin congbao 新民叢報, no. 1. Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1902b), ‘Sibada xiao zhi 斯巴達小志’ (A short history of Sparta), Xinmin congbao 新民叢報 (New citizen), nos. 12 and 13, in Yinbingshi heji (Collected works of Liang Qichao) by Liang Qichao 梁啟超, vol. 6. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989. Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1902c), ‘Gezhixue yange kaolue 格致學沿革考略’ (A short inquiry into the history of science), Xinmin congbao, nos. 10 and 14, in Yinbingshi heji (Collected works of Liang Qichao) by Liang Qichao 梁啟超, vol. 2. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989.



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Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1902d), ‘Shengjixue xueshuo yange xiaoshi 生計學學說沿革小史’ (A short history of economic theories), in Yinbingshi heji (Collected works of Liang Qichao) by in Liang Qichao 梁啟超, vol. 2. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989. Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1902e), ‘Lun xila gudai xueshu 論希臘古代學術’ (Essay on scholarship in ancient Greece), in Yinbingshi heji (Collected works of Liang Qichao) by Liang Qichao 梁啟超, vol. 2. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989. Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1902f), ‘Yalishiduode zhi zhengzhi xueshuo 亞里士多德之政治 學說’ (The political theory of Aristotle), in Yinbingshi heji (Collected works of Liang Qichao) by Liang Qichao 梁啟超, vol. 2. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989. Liang Qichao 梁啟超 (1902g), ‘Yadian xiaoshi 雅典小史’ (A short history of Athens), in Yinbingshi heji (Collected works of Liang Qichao) by Liang Qichao 梁啟超, vol. 6. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989. Lu Xun 魯迅 (1903), ‘Sibada zhi hun 斯巴達之魂’ (The Spartan spirit), Zhejiang Chao 浙 江潮 (Zhejiang tide), no. 5: 159–164; and no. 9: 123–127. Luo Niansheng 羅念生, and Wang Huansheng 王煥生, trans., (1994), Yiliyate 伊利亞特 (The Iliad). Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Luo Niansheng 羅念生, Zhou Qiming 周啓明, and Yang Xianyi 楊憲益, trans., (1954), Alisituofen xiju ji 阿里斯托芬喜劇集 (A selection of Aristophanes’ comedies). Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Mao Zedong 毛澤東 (1969), Mao Zedong xuanji 毛澤東選集 (Selected works of Mao Zedong), vol. 3. Beijing: Remin chubanshe. Morioka Yuki 森岡優紀 (2011), ‘Mingzhi zazhi yu Lu Xun de Sibada zhi hun 明治雜誌與 魯迅的《斯巴達之魂》’ (Magazines of the Meiji era and Lu Xun’s Spartan Spirit), in Ershi shiji de Zhongguo 二十世紀的中國 (Twentieth-century China), ed. Mori Shihiko 森時彥, 399–432. Beijing: Sheke wenxian chubanshe. Sambiasi, François 畢方濟, and Xu Giangqi 徐光啓 (1624), Lingyan lishao 靈言蠡勺. Translated from Commentarii Collegii Conimbricensis Societatis Iesu, in tres libros de Anima Aristotelis Stagiritae, 1598. Wang Huansheng 王煥生, trans., (1997), Aodesai 奧德賽 (Odyssey). Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe. Wang Yizhu 王以鑄, trans., (1959), Lishi 歷史 (The histories of Herodotus). Beijing: Shangwu yinshuguan. Xie Defeng 謝德風, trans., (1960), Boluobennisa zhanzhengshi 伯羅奔尼撒戰爭史 (History of the Peloponnesian War). Beijing: Shangwu yinshuguan. Xu Guangqi 徐光啓 (1963), ‘Jihe yuanben zayi 幾何原本雜議’ (On the elements), in Xu Guangqi ji徐光啟集 (Collected works of Xu Gaungqi), ed. Wang Zhongmin. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Zhou Qiming 周啓明, trans., (1955) Yisuo yuyan 伊索寓言 (Aesop’s fables). Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe.



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Zhou Qiming 周啓明 and Luo Niansheng 羅念生, trans., (1957–1958), Oulibidesi beiju ji 歐里彼得斯悲劇集 (A selection of Euripides’ tragedies), 3 vols. Beijing: Renmin ­wenxue chubanshe. Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1926a), Tan long ji: fa xu zhua xu 談龍集·發須爪序 (Preface to Tan Long Collected Works). Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1926b), ‘Xila xianhua 希臘閒話’ (Digressions on ancient Greece), Xin Sheng 新生 (New life), December 24. Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1933), Xila niqu 希臘擬曲 (Greek Mimiamboi). Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan. Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (1944), ‘Wode zaxue: 6 我的雜學六’ (My miscellaneous learning 6), in Ku kou gan kou 苦口甘口 (Bitter tastes, sweet tastes). Shanghai: Taiping shuju. Zhou Zuoren 周作人, trans., (1991), Lujianuosi duihua ji 路吉阿諾斯對話集 (The dialogues of Lucian), 2 vols. Beijing: Zhongguo duihua wanyi chuban gongsi. Zhou Zuoren 周作人 (2002), Zhitang huixiang lu 知堂回想錄 (Memoirs of Zhou Zuoren), revised by Zhi An 止庵. Shijiazhuang: Hebei jiaoyu chubanshe (first published in 1970 in Hong Kong by Sanyu tushu wenju gongsi).



Chapter 18

Retrospective and Prospects of Ancient Western History Studies in Korea: Awaiting the Sixtieth Anniversary of the Korean Society of Western History Deogsu Kim* 1

A Retrospective of the Study of Ancient Western History since the 1950s

First, I want to make it clear that the following is my personal opinion. There are certainly different views on this topic. Looking back on Korean studies of Western ancient history, we can attest to a great change. The first article in the Western History Review (Seoyangsaron) vol. 1 (1958) was ‘An Understanding of Herodotus’ by Eui-Sul Cho. And ten years later, Byung-Woo Yang, who majored in Greek history, said that he was concerned about the scarcity of articles on Roman history, which was due to of an imbalance in the numbers of Greek and Roman scholars.1 At first, the Greek circle of ancient Western studies in Korea contained more scholars than the Roman circle (the Greek circle comprising three persons, the Roman circle only one). However, after about fifty years, another review article (published in 2005) by Moon-Hyun Song, another Greek historian, on historical studies published in Korea between 2003 and 2004, said that the number of Greek articles had been very limited compared to those on Roman history.2 Ten years later, the number of scholars specializing in Greek and Roman history in Korea flipped, and were seventeen and forty-one respectively. * This article was presented at the Japan-Korea-China Symposium 2007 (Sep. 19, 2007, at Meiji University, Tokyo) and was published in 2010 in the Journal of Greco-Roman Studies, vol. 40, by the Korean Society of Greco-Roman Studies, Seoul, Korea. Because the article was first presented in 2007, and the editors asked me to avoid abundant use of Chinese/Japanese/ Korean characters, I have made some changes to this article, including its title, and have corrected some dates in the text. I have also updated the list of doctoral and master’s theses written by the members of the Korean Association for the Western Ancient History and Culture. 1 Yang 1968: 136. 2 Song 2005: 206–207.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_020



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These shifts in scholarly trends and subjects are particularly apparent in r­ ecent years. In the earlier stage, mainstream Classical studies was oriented toward the socioeconomic and political history of institutions. But in his review article, Prof. Song attests that in 2004–2005, when lots of articles concerning varieties of religions were presented, there were very few studies treating socio­­economic history.3 In this chapter, I will examine retrospectively how ancient Western historical studies have developed in Korea and present my opinion on the future of such studies. Currently, the Korean Association for the Western Ancient History and Culture (Hankukseo­yanggodae Yeoksamunhwahakhoe)4 comprises fifty-seven scholars as regular members. However, I will limit my considerations in this chapter to a review of certain books and articles written by representative scholars who have different views on the topics mentioned here. While the limited space granted here does not permit me to address all fiftyseven scholars and their work in this chapter, that in no way means that I regard the work not mentioned here as insignificant. In fact, I have included a list of all the members’ doctoral and/or master’s theses at the end of this chapter. Hence, readers can see the topics which have interested Korean scholars in recent years. 2

The Study of Greek History

2.1 Ancient Slave Society After liberation from Japanese colonial rule in 1945, the most important task for Korea was to establish a modern state and society on its own initiative. Even as the Korean government was established in 1948 and Article 1 of the Constitution declared, ‘The Republic of Korea shall be a democratic republic,’ the Korean people had to build ‘the republic’ brick by brick for themselves, and for this they needed to understand both Western civilization and their own historical experience. For the first generation of Western history scholars in Korea, the effort to understand Western civilization was not a matter of research for its own sake, but rather an urgent, practical task. However, at that time, there were only a few scholars who had studied Western history. In 1957, in the context of political disorder, the Korean Western Historical Association 3 Song 2005: 206–207. 4 This is the official English translation of the name of the Korean scholarly society. More information is available on their website: (accessed June 1, 2018).



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was founded.5 It is quite significant that the first chairman of the association was Eui-Sul Cho (1906–1978), who concentrated on Greek history, the essential source of Western civilization. At first, it was difficult for these trailblazing scholars to flesh out original ideas about certain topics. Hence, to begin with, they taught an overview of Western history at universities and introduced eminent foreign scholars’ studies and assertions into academic circles. Moreover, after its liberation from Japanese imperialism, Korea was soon tested by another unique situation: It was a country divided by ideologies, experiencing the misery of the Korean War (1950–1953). Thus, academic studies could not help but be influenced by political ideology. Cho’s primary scholarly focus was slavery in ancient society, and chiefly Marxist theory. In one of his articles, his intention was ‘to contrast the theories of M.I. Finley and S. Lauffer, which caused an immediate worldwide sensation, with those of E.M. Zhukov and H. Michell, in order to eliminate the misconceptions in the records of history made by the so-called free historians.’6 In another article, he argued the topic at length: ‘In the final analysis, it is one thing that in ancient society slaves were engaged in production; and it is quite another that a certain society represented the social character and the mode of production of a certain slave system. The two should by no means be confused. Consequently, the claim hitherto advanced, that ancient society was essentially characterized by the slave system, turns out to be irrelevant.’7 Byoung-Woo Yang (1923–2003), comprising the second generation of ancient Greek history scholarship in Korea, recognized Cho’s relevance to the critics of the dogmatic Marxist doctrine of ancient slave society. But Yang argued that in Sparta, only Helots (state-owned serfs) took charge of production, while Spartan citizens governed politics and military affairs. Additionally, in the age of Pericles in Athens, slaves were also hired on farms, and their owners received a certain amount of money from their employers. Therefore, although there were differences in the public and private ownership of slaves, most Greek citizens were ‘Rentner’ (to borrow Max Weber’s term) who lived on the income from slave production and could enjoy leisure and participate in the council of the Five Hundred (boule) and the Assembly (ecclesia). For it was a citizen’s ideal to live on the annuity from the slaves’ labor and to devote themselves to public military and political affairs. Following M.I. Finley’s assertion 5 In 1978, the Korean Western Historical Association changed its English name to The Korean Society of Western History; cf. The Western History Review 19 (1978): 100. 6 Cho 1961: 57–66, 213. 7 Cho 1967: 45–64, 188.



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that ‘one aspect of Greek history, in short, is the advance, hand in hand, of freedom and slavery,’ Yang asserted that the Greek poleis extended slavery for the sake of their citizens’ freedom.8 However, in his last article (1975), Cho again criticized the assertion that Greek democracy was considered a byproduct of slavery.9 First, he described the Greek view of labor. Originally, the Greeks did not view labor as a means, but they began to form such ideas later, probably after the fifth century bce. Homer did not use terms such as Hellenes and barbaroi, but after the Greeks came to Olympia from the Mediterranean world in the eighth century bce to perform a religious service for Zeus (i.e., the ancient Olympic Games), they developed a national pride and identity as ‘Hellenes,’ and they referred to other foreigners as barbaroi. The Greek victory in the Persian War in particular gave them a feeling of superiority – that is, the barbaroi were subjected to despotism, which meant they were enshackled in a form of slavery. That is to say, Hellenes were born as free men, barbaroi as slaves. But in the Hellenistic Age, cosmopolitanism spread into the Eastern Mediterranean world, and the Greeks began to disapprove of the differentiation between Hellenes and barbaroi. According to Cho, there were slaves in Athens who were generally foreigners, and free-born Athenians resisted being sold into slavery. They not only participated in political and military affairs as citizens, but also in production as farmers, in society as artisans – such as weavers, tanners, and carpenters – and in merchandising as shopkeepers. Although there were slaves in Greek society, it is nevertheless inaccurate to call Greek society a slave society and to assume that democracy should be considered a byproduct of slavery. In a 1987 article, however, Yang found ancient Greek society to be a slave society and again argued this point. Interestingly, Yang’s starting point also corresponds to M.I. Finley’s argument that ‘in Marxist language, the slave mode of production was the decisive invention of the Greco-Roman world.’10 In Athens in the Classical period, to say nothing of the rich, most farmers owned slaves and worked together with them. Furthermore, in the city, slaves worked in their owners’ workshops and stores. In Sparta, only helots were owned by the state and worked on farms, having a status corresponding to that of a medieval serf, while the Spartans, as citizens and warriors free from labor, participated in political and military life. To sum up, in ancient Greece, slaves supported citizens and enabled leisure and political freedom, whether wholly or in part.

8 9 10



Yang 1968: 140. Cho 1975: 223–242. Anderson 1974: 21, quoted in Finley 1992.

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In fact, Cho and Yang never argued against each other directly and presented their articles at different times. Each of them seemed to have different historical views, but both criticized Marxist dogmatism regarding ancient slave society. Yang also disapproved of the theory of class struggle and of the view of ancient Western society as a necessary stage of historical development. But Yang claimed that Greek society was a slave society, because slaves were the dominant mode of production at that time. Yet there remained one problem with this claim, which Yang also recognized: If Athenians worked together with slaves, how could we identify the society as a slave society? Athenian Democracy 2.2 Another more important topic of Greek studies in Korea was Athenian democracy. Byung-Woo Yang, Chung-Soo Kim, and Jin-Kyung Kim studied this topic according to various historical views and approaches. At first, Yang confessed that ‘after the April 19th (4.19) Revolution of 1960, I decided to study ancient Athenian democracy. For I, as a student of Western history, believed that the way to contribute to the development of democracy in Korea was to understand Western democracy, the home of democracy.’11 The etymology of democracy comes from demos (common people) and kratia (rule) in ancient Greek. Yang approached the formation of Athenian democracy as a bottom-up process. He paid attention to Cleisthenes’ reforms – that is, the reform of the tribal system and the foundation of the Council of the Five Hundred. Before the reform, Athenians were divided into four tribes, but Cleisthenes introduced a division of all citizens into ten tribes, which bore no relation to the four traditional tribes. Consequently, the hegemony of the noble clans, which had been based on geographical blocs, was decisively broken. Moreover, the basis of citizenship shifted from phratria to demes or village units. Even when a citizen moved, he was still a member of the same demos, as were his descendants. Yang approached the role of demes in order to evaluate Cleisthenes’ reforms. According to Yang, Cleisthenes was not originally a democrat; he became one later, when Isagoras defeated him in a political struggle. After that, he joined the Athenian demes and promised democratic reform as their champion. If that was true, how could he be a people’s champion and a democratic reformer? Yang found the answer to this question in Aristotle’s Athenaion Politeia 20.1: ‘As Cleisthenes was getting the worst of the party struggle, he attracted a following, by proposing to give political power to the masses’: 11

Yang 1976: 207.



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The proposal that he would give political power to the demos was accomplished by reform and democratization – he proposed a new democratic policy and earned popular support. (Democratic) reform bartered for (popular) support, so to speak. If this was the democratic change achieved with the active participation of the demos, could we not rather call that revolution? If so, it was a unique democratic revolution in ancient times, since only in Athens had the demos itself established democracy.12 In a word, what is known as Cleisthenes’ reform was not ‘his’ reform, but rather a ‘democratic revolution.’ In other words, Cleisthenes’ reform was a result of the victory of the demos who participated in political power in Athens. Another Greek historian, Chung-Soo Kim (1926–), also devoted his life’s work to the study of Athenian democracy in terms of socioeconomic elements. He emphasized their importance, but he judged the meaning of democracy differently than Yang. Especially regarding Cleisthenes’ reform, the evaluations of the two scholars differed greatly. Yang considered it a bona fide ‘democratic revolution’ at the grassroots level, from the bottom up, and made much of it, while Kim objected, believing that Yang had overestimated its significance. ‘In fact, Cleisthenes’ reform was not advanced, as compared to Solon’s reform. Therefore, after a half century, a conservative who opposed Pericles’ democratic reform referred to Cleisthenes’ aristocracy.’13 Moreover, Yang considered the age of Pericles as the democratic imperialistic period in which the will of the thetes, who comprised a majority of the Athenian citizenry, was reflected, while for Kim, the age of Pericles was, ‘as Thucydides said, nominally democracy, actually a principate.’14 In sum, Kim’s view of Athenian democracy, to use Thucydides’ words, was a top-down revolution led by aristocrats. Thus, the titles of his articles contained the names of Athenian aristocratic politicians or oligarchs. Another Greek scholar of the second generation was Jin-Kyung Kim (1931– 2005), who differed in both his choice of subject and his scholarly tendencies, as compared to the three previous scholars. He was also concerned with topics related to Athenian democracy, but he concentrated primarily on the Greek tragedians Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. According to Kim, ‘They were artists, teachers in life and politics, leaders of public thought. So what did they think about Athenian politics and democracy, and how did they influence poli­ tics or politicians? If we want to analyze their works, would it help us to 12 13 14



Yang 1976: 11, 13–14. Kim Chung-Soo 1971: 110. Kim Chung-Soo 1984: 97.

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understand Athenian democracy?’15 Their works mostly addressed universal human nature as ensconced in Greek myth, but they were also a mirror of their time. Especially in the fifth century bce, when they were actively performed, Greeks experienced the Persian War and the Peloponnesian War on the one hand, and on the other they developed democracy and the Athenian Empire. There­fore, in the light of these conflicts and transformations, individuals and society also could not help but change. Kim argued that these changes and political events were reflected in the tragedies, but we tend to have fixed images of a certain society or certain people’s thought. In Greek culture, for example, there were two main currents of thought, the rational and the irrational, and this division could also apply to tragedians. However, there was also a onesided assessment of political leaders and leading poets. Kim wanted to correct certain mistakes regarding the poets. The starting point for Kim’s study was Euripides. In one of his articles,16 Euripides, as a poet, was regarded as a typical rationalist because he was against the ideal of the traditional gods, whose features were created by Homer and Hesiod. Throughout most of his works, he criticized the vice, wickedness, and personification of the gods. Yet he was not a fixed thinker. After emigrating to Macedon, his rationalistic approach dramatically shifted from enthusiastic ­applause to the worship of Dionysus in one of his later works, the Bacchae. Considering the factors that may have prompted Euripides to make such a transi­tion in his thinking, Kim referred to various reasons, one of which was his distress over mob democracy in Athens. This upset intellectual and municipal life, culture, and ultimately rationality itself. In any case, Euripides was a quintessentially resistant thinker. He opposed the traditional gods when they prevailed in Athens, and he defied the rational when it became predominant.17 Aeschylus, in his turn, was generally known as a patriotic poet. In fact, he participated in the Battle of Marathon with his elder brother, Cynegeiros; in the Battle of Salamis with his youngest brother, Ameinias; and in the Battle of Plataea, as well. In particular, his participation in the great Battle of Salamis, which altered the course of history, inspired his patriotic feelings, and influenced him to write the Persai eight years after that battle, as a tribute to the Greek defeat of the Persians, which definitively ended the Asian quest to conquer Greece and Europe. In the Persai, Aeschylus emphasized the Persian War as a struggle for freedom and depicted Athenian bravery and excellence.

15 16 17

Kim Chung-Soo 1971: 110. Kim Chung-Soo 1971: 110. Kim Jin-Kyung 1964: 99–114.



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Jin-Kyung Kim pointed out that while Aeschylus must have been an ardent patriot, he was not a narrow-minded chauvinist. In this tragedy, the Persians appear onstage, but Aeschylus does not describe their brutality and cowardice. The topic of this tragedy is the law of human society, human hubris – as represented by Xerxes – and the gods’ retribution, represented by Nemesis. Furthermore, he criticized war itself and described its cruelty. Such being the case, Kim claimed that Aeschylus is more at home among anti-war writers than eithe­r Euripides or Aristophanes. The importance of Jin-Kyung Kim’s Greek studies was his argument that the tragedies contained the reality of the Athenian experience. That is to say, tragedians took their subject matter from Greek myth, but these were not merely stories for their own sake, but a representation of history as it was understood by writers who participated in politics and wars. 3

The Study of Roman History

The Reforms of the Gracchi 3.1 Having studied Greek history with four Korean scholars (first Eui-Sul Cho, then Byoung-Woo Yang, Chung-Soo Kim, and Jin-Kyung Kim), Dong-Shik Chi inaugurated Roman studies in Korea. In order to encourage Roman studies, he introduced various Western scholars’ studies and theories to the Korean academic world and published Korean versions of ancient Western history as well as a monograph.18 He trained many students in ancient history at Korea University. Beginning in 1985, Chi organized the Korea-Japan Symposium in Korea,19 and so promoted academic exchange among scholars and activated the discussion of ancient Western studies between the two countries. In 1993, he took the lead in the foundation of the Korean Institute for the Promotion of Classical Studies (Hankuk godaesayeongu jinheunghoe) and published the first edition of the Journal for the Promotion of Classical Studies (Seoyanggodaesayeongu). 18 19



Chi 1975; Chi 1976; Chi 1977; Chi 1980. The first symposium was held at Korea University (October 17–19, 1985) and the second at Tokyo University (October 14–15, 1988), on the topic of Freedom and Subordination in Antiquity. The third symposium, again at Korea University (October 18–20, 1991), was on Demo­cracy in the Ancient History of Europe; the fourth, held at Senshu University in Japan (October 21–23, 1994), on Outsiders in the Ancient World; the fifth, at Kangwon University (October 16–18, 1997); the sixth, at Waseda Univeristy in Japan (October 11–14, 2000), on Societies and People in the Ancient World; and the seventh, at Busan University (October 15–18, 2003), on Politics and Religion in the Ancient States.

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Chi contributed to the development and promotion of Roman studies in Korea, both in quantity and in quality. Seung-Il Hoe, who began his study of Roman history in the early 1960s, concentrated on the reforms of the Gracchi brothers and published several articles and a monograph on this topic. Later, he confessed that the rice crisis in Korea after the May 16th (5.16) military coup influenced him to study this subject.20 Hoe also said that he was influenced by H.C. Boren’s claim that the urgent crisis in the Gracchi period was not agrarian, but urban.21 Thus he criticized the traditional theory that the motive which led Tiberius to seek reform was the return of the small independent farmers to their land, which was then being tilled by slaves.22 According to Fritz M. Heichelheim, particularly during the 140s and 130s bce, the rise in the price of corn due to shortages was serious.23 For that reason, Tiberius needed to present an urgent corn supply policy, but he ignored this need and instead tried to overcome the socioeconomic crisis with agrarian law. Hoe pointed out that this approach was an indication of Tiberius’ narrow-mindedness. But the Scipionic circle was also responsible for the failure of the reforms and the outbreak of what we call the Roman revolution, for they considered Tiberius a demagogue, and this resulted in his murder. According to Hoe, if the circle had resolved these political and economic issues by compromise and concession, the Roman Republic might not have run into the political disorder of the Roman revolution.24 Hoe also studied Gaius Gracchus’ lex frumentaria, or grain law, and criticized the traditional view that he was a demagogue who sought political power by providing ‘bread.’ Cicero divided populares into good populares who acted for the people’s welfare and bad populares who provoked the people to contend for their private interests. Hoe adopted Cicero’s division and argued that Gaius was a good popularis. In addition, his corn supply and distribution policies were responses to the protracted economic recession, the spread of unemployment, periodic fluctuations in food prices, and a food shortage. In sum, his successive reforms, such as lex frumentaria and lex viaria, reinvigorated public works, provided emergency relief supplies to hungry proletarians, and were of great help in alleviating unemployment. Thus farming and grain reforms even resulted in the growth of employment.25 20 21 22 23 24 25

Hoe 1995: preface, vi. Hoe 1995; Hoe 1970: 45–57. Hoe 1995: 46–47. Heichelheim 1956, quoted in Hoe 1995: 49. Hoe 1967: 105–109. Hoe 1995: 228–255.



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Later, in another study of Tiberius’ agrarian law, Hoe reiterated these points. When Tiberius confiscated the large, illegal estates near Rome, which were occupied by rich citizens, he distributed the lands to small peasants, settled them on the land, and encouraged them to cultivate grain. His primary object was to solve the problem of supplying corn to the city of Rome. His plans were successful, and his agrarian law was not repealed even after he was killed by the conservatives.26 Moreover, Hoe also researched various topics related to Polybius’ mixed constitution, Cicero’s works, and the historical background of the Augustan Prin­cipate.27 Thus he contributed much to the understanding of the Roman Republic and the formation of the Augustan Principate. He also trained students in Roman studies at Seoul National University and promoted ancient Western history education in Korea. Christianity in the Roman Empire 3.2 The Romans conquered the Mediterranean world and governed it under the so-called Pax Romana. But in the fourth century ce, the Romans accepted Christianity from the Orient and made it the de jure state religion. On these grounds, the Roman Empire and Christianity are important topics in facilitating the understanding of later Roman history and Western civilization more broadly. Inhyong Cho (1939–), who was a student of Dong-Shik Chi, devoted his life to the study of early Christianity. His first article on this topic was ‘On Saint Augustine’s De Civitate Dei: From the Historical Viewpoint’ (1982).28 In this article, Inhyong Cho discusses the historical background against which Augustine wrote his books, as well as the meaning of the rubric of the historical philosophy and methods according to which his texts were written. Cho criticized Augustine’s explanation of the meaning of history as beyond this world and involving superhuman beings. But Cho also highly valued the fact that Augustine argued for the agency of Providence over against ancient ­fatalism and substituted the idea of linear progress for the concept of cyclical history. Cho continued to study the works of Eusebius, the so-called ‘father of church history.’ He claimed that Eusebius valued divine history and underestimated secular history, and thus his historical writing seems to have lost objectivity and balance. He pointed out that Eusebius was silent regarding certain suspicious and negative facts in Church history and evaluated individuals and 26 27 28



Hoe 1995: 58–112. See in particular his study on Sparta, Hoe 1998. Cho In-hyong 1982: 43–62.

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events according to his biases.29 For example, he avoided commenting on the apostasy, schisms, and antagonism of the clergy during the great persecution and instead dealt with those events that, in his judgment, happened according to divine will, as confirmed by his words: ‘We shall introduce into this history in general only those events which may be useful first to ourselves and afterwards to posterity.’30 However, if we define objective historical writing wie es eigentlich gewesen, to borrow Ranke’s words, we could say that Eusebius went beyond the limits of the duty of the historian. Particularly in his Vita Constantini, Eusebius admired Constantine’s achievements, such as proclaiming the Edict of Milan and officially granting Christians freedom of religion. Eusebius considered Constantine an emperor selected by God and highly esteemed the fact that pagans could enter the church under his rule. He believed that human history proceeded through Abraham, Christ, and Constantine. But Cho criticized Eusebius, who might well have known the historical facts in the fourth century bce, for his silence regarding Constantine’s political ambitions and his domestic tragedies, such as the execution of his son, Crispus, and his wife, Fausta. Therefore, Cho argued, Eusebius as a historian is to be blamed for covering up these things.31 In sum, Cho studied Eusebius’ subjective historical writing and contributed much to the understanding of Church history. 4

The Black Athena Controversy and the Prospect of the Study of Ancient Western History in Korea

So far, I have outlined the study of ancient Western history in Korea over the last fifty years, focusing on particular topics. Around 1990, there were many changes in the circle of ancient historians in Korea. By this time, the first and second generations of scholars who had studied ancient Western history in Korea had died or retired, and new scholars were beginning to make an impact. In particular, students of Roman studies and female scholars had both significantly increased in number.32 Moreover, the meeting on October 13, 2001, when twenty-five scholars of ancient Western history came together at Chungnam University and founded the Korean Association for the Western 29 30 31 32

Cho 2002: 438–440. Eusebius, The Ecclesiastical History, 7.2. Cho 1989: 146, 149. In the early days of the association, there were no female members. Today, out of fiftyseven members of the Korean Association for the Western Ancient History and Culture, seventeen (30 percent) are female.



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Ancient History and Culture, was a milestone. These scholars selected Seung-Il Hoe as the first chairman of the association, decided to meet four times a year, and began the biannual publication of the Journal of Classical Studies. Over the last sixty years, the number of scholars and articles has increased. However, there still needs to be more research devoted to Spartan history and to comparative studies of Greek and Roman history. Additionally, due to the shortage of ancient Western historians up to the present day, active academic discussions have not been easy. Recently, how­ ever, Martin Bernal’s Black Athena initiated a wide-ranging discussion among scholars of ancient Western history in Korea. Black Athena was published in the United States in 1985,33 and the first response to the book was a critical evaluation by Bong-Chloe Kim, who had specialized in Athenian history.34 He acknowledged Bernal’s achievement in his efforts to challenge Eurocentrism and ethnic prejudices against Asians and Africans, but he argued that Bernal himself was absorbed in Afrocentrism. Bernal subtitled his book The Afro-Asiatic Roots of Classical Civilization, but in fact, while he argued for the acknowledgement of the international interchange in the Eastern Mediter­ ranean Sea, he only emphasized the importance of the role of ancient Egypt and tended to ignore Pheonician contributions. Kyong-Hyun Kim also criticized Bernal’s theses.35 Kim pointed out that Bernal’s point of reference was completely different and noted that he applied sociology of knowledge methods only to the ‘Arian Model’ and not to the ‘Ancient Model.’ Thus Bernal made a sweeping denunciation of many modern Western scholars as racists and anti-Semites, while blindly accepting and believing in the Greek myths and traditions on which his ‘Ancient Model’ depended. Kim also criticized Bernal’s ‘Arian Model.’ First of all, it is problematic to stretch the meanings of books written by scholars in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and denounce them as the accomplices of racists. Thus he claimed that Bernal’s generalizations demonstrated his dishonesty. The most important problem with the ‘Ancient Model’ was the Hyksos hypothesis. Why was Hyksos’ conquest of Greece not included in the Greek and Oriental records? And why do we not find the names of Hyksos’ rulers in Egypt and other countries? Nevertheless, there were some scholars who supported Bernal’s thesis. Among them was Hung-Shik Oh,36 who wrote several articles which tended to 33 34 35 36



Bernal 1987; 1991a; 1991b; 2007. Kim Bong-Cheol 1999: 363–390. Kim Kyung-Hyun 2003: 248–264. Oh 2006.

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approve of Bernal’s work. In an article titled ‘The Hyksos and the Origin of Two Spartan Royal Families,’ he based his argument on Herodotus (6.53.2): ‘If the king’s (=Perseus’) ancestors in each generation, from Danae daughter of Acrisius onward, be reckoned, then the leaders of the Dorians will be shown to be true-born Egyptians.’ According to the ancient Greek writers, Heracles was the ancestor of the leaders of the Dorians in the so-called Dorian Invasion, and Danas, the ancestor of Heracles, came from Egypt to Greece and founded his dynasty in Argos. By showing that Danaus was related to Hyksos, he suggested that the Spartan royal families also had their origins in Hyksos.37 Hae-Young Choi did not explicitly support Bernal’s thesis, but in an article titled ‘Hekate, Dark Daughter of the East,’ he implicitly demonstrated support for it.38 Though Hekate never appeared in the works of Homer, she was a power­ful goddess in Hesiod’s Theogony and played an important role in the Eleusinian Mysteries. But after the Persian War, she became increasingly associated with the imagery of black magic and again attained prominence in the Chaldean Oracles of the later Roman Imperial Age. Despite her importance, her origins have long been shrouded in mystery. Some argue for a Greek origin, others for an Egyptian one, while still others suggest an origin in Karia of Asia Minor. But Choi set forth the argument that Hekate’s homeland was neither Greece nor Asia Minor, but rather the land of Mesopotamian goddesses, such as Ereshkigal, Inanna, and Ishtar. The constant vicissitudes of her imagery are directly linked with these Eastern origins. At any rate, among ancient Western historians, Bernal’s Black Athena caused arguments over various aspects and approaches and provided an opportunity to rethink the origins of ancient Greek civilization. In the future, I hope there will be more active discussions on other topics as well. Over the last sixty years, the Korean academic circle of ancient Western history has experienced great development qualitatively as well as quantitatively. Recently, however, young Korean graduates have tended to avoid the study of Western history because of the difficulty of finding a job in a university, which seems a common phenomenon in various countries. Nevertheless, I hope that a small minority of graduates will, now and forever, continue to study and teach ancient Western history in the university, and so contribute to the development of both Korean and international academic circles.

37 38

Oh 2005: 45–68, esp. 67. Choi 2005: 69–90, esp. 89. 

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Appendix: List of Doctoral and Master’s Theses of the Members of The Korean Association for the Western Ancient History and Culture (57)

1

Greek Studies (17)

2 2.1

Roman Studies (41) Roman Republic (17)

Byun, Jungsim (2002), ‘The Working of the Athenian Assembly in 403–322 bc,’ PhD diss., Kyungpook National University. Che, Jayoung (1991), ‘The Areopagos in Ancient Athens,’ PhD diss., University of Ioannina (Greece). Cho, Eui-Sul (1962), Honorary doctoral degree from Younsei University. Kim, Bong-Cheol (1992), ‘The Political Thought of Isokrates,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Kim, Jin-Kyung (1961), ‘A Study on Aristophanes’ Pacifism,’ Master’s thesis, Seoul National University. Kim, Jung-Su (1958), ‘A Study on Solon’s Reforms,’ Master’s thesis, Yonsei National University. Lee, Hyoung-Eui (1993), ‘A Study on the Greeks’ View of the Orient in the Classical Period,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Lyu, Yun-Seung (2005), ‘The Purpose of Kleisthenes’ Phyle Reform,’ Master’s thesis, Seoul National University. Moon, Hyekyung (1998), ‘A Study of the Status of Women in Athens in the Classic Age,’ PhD diss., Kyung Hee University. Oh, Hung-Shik (1994), ‘Thucydides’ View of Tyche,’ PhD diss., Sungkyunkwan University. Paek, Kyong-Ok (1990), ‘Hesiod’s Attitude towards Labor,’ PhD diss., Keimyung University. Park, Jae-Wook (2014), ‘A Study on the Public Education of Classical Sparta,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Shin, Seonhee (2004), ‘A Study on Demosthenes and Athenian Foreign Policy,’ PhD diss., Dankuk University. Song, Moon-Hyun (1990), ‘Society and Economy in the Homeric World: A Study on the Late Greek Dark Age,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Sung, Young-Gon (1994), ‘Greek Physicians and the Hippocratic Tradition,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Yang, Byoung-Woo (1973), ‘The History of Athenian Democracy,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University Yoon, Jin (2000), ‘A Study on the “Spartan Revolution” in the Hellenistic Age,’ PhD diss., Korea University.

Cha, Jeonhwan (1992), ‘A Study of Italian Agricultural Economy in the Late Roman Republic,’ PhD diss., Sungkyunkwan University. 

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Chi, Dong-Sik (1976), ‘A Study on the Crisis of the Roman Republic,’ PhD diss., Dankuk University. Choi, Ju-Yeon (2011), ‘Grain and the Politics of the City of Rome during the First Century bc: Focused on Lex Clodia Frumentaria,’ MEd thesis, Seoul National University. Han, Hoeseuk (2004), ‘The Political Character of “Rogatio Servilia,” 63 bc,’ MEd thesis, Seoul National University. Hoe, Seung-Il (1984), ‘A Study on the Roman Army and the Roman Senate’s Policy – From Caesar’s Assassination to Octavius’ Taking Office as Consul,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Kang, Sunggil (2002), ‘The Voting Procedure of the Comitia Tributa,’ PhD diss., Kyung­ pook National University. Kim, Changsung (1993), ‘A Study on the Policy of Taxation in the Roman Republic,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Kim, Jeong-Gyeom (1997), ‘The XII Tables – A Protecting Step for Patricians’ Privilege.’ MEd thesis, Seoul National University. Kim, Kihoon (2011), ‘Historiography as a Semi-Political Activity in the Preface of Sallust’s Bellum Catilinae,’ MA thesis, Seoul National University. Kim, Kyung-Hyun (1987), ‘A Study on the Background of Tiberius Garcchu’s Agrarian Reform,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Kim, Kyunghyu, (2004), ‘Tribuni Plebis and Res Publica in the Middle Ages,’ University of London. Kim, Yaungsoo (1995), ‘The Powers of the Paterfamilias in the Late Republic and the Early Empire: Within a Simple Nuclear Family Relationship,’ MEd thesis, Seoul National University. Kim, Young-Chae (2010), ‘The Cause of the Social War: The Problems of Ager Publicus and Citizenship,’ MEd thesis, Seoul National University. Kim, Young-Jin (2001), ‘A Reillumination of Catiline’s “Conspiracy” in 63 BC: Concerning the Esti­mation between Cicero and Sallust,’ MEd thesis, Seoul National University. Kim, Young-Mok (1992), ‘A Study of Roman Nobles in the Roman Republic,’ PhD diss., Chonnam University. Ro, Jinkyoung (2005), ‘A Reexamination of the Origin of Harrington’s Mixed Constitution Thought,’ MEd thesis, Seoul National University. Shin, Mee-Sook (1994), ‘A Study on Roman Imperialism in the Second Century bc,’ PhD diss., Korea University.

2.2

Roman Empire (24)

An, Heedon (1999), ‘A Study on the Causes of Emperor Nero’s Fall,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Bae, Eunsook (2000), ‘The Establishment of the Augustan Principate and the Change of the Character of the Senate,’ PhD diss., Kyungpook National University.



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Cha, Young-Gil (1993), ‘A Study on the Role of Peculium in Roman Slavery and Economy,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Choe, Hwasun (2005), ‘Ad Loca Sancta: Pilgrimage and Sacred Places in Late Christian Antiquity,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Choi, Hae-Young (1998), ‘The Political and Philosophical Conception of King Helios of Julian, the Apostate,’ PhD diss., the University of Ioannina (Greece). Cho, Hyun-Mi (1998), ‘A Study on the Establishment of the Roman Imperial Cult,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Cho, Inhyong (1990), ‘A Study on Eusebius’ Historical Writings on the Early Christianity,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Cho, Youngsik (2005), ‘The Roman Emperor and the Roman Army in the Principate,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Chung, Ki-hwang (1983), ‘Kirchliche und politische Verhaeltnisse zur Zeit Cyprians,’ PhD diss., Universität Basel. Jung, Gimoon (1999), ‘A Study of the Economic Policy of Diocletianus,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Kim, Chil-Sung (2012), ‘A Study on the Policy of Roman Water Supply at the Begin­ning of the Principate,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Kim, Deogsu (1996), ‘A Study on the Evolution of Augustus’ Principatus,’ PhD diss., Seoul National University. Kim, Sang-Yup (2004), ‘Roman Political and Grain Problems from the Later Roman Republic to the Early Roman Empire,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Ko, Kyung-Joo (2010), ‘Opposition to the Principate in Political and Literary Activities during the Early Principate,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Lee, Gun-Hyuk (2013), ‘The Economic Background of Egypt and the Persecution of Christians during Diocretians’s Reign,’ MEd thesis, Seoul National University. Lee, Ji-Eun (2006), ‘The Dynamics of Civic Euergetism in Spain, Gaul, and Africa from Augustus to the Severans,’ PhD diss., University of Oxford. Lee, Suk-Woo (1980), ‘A Study on the Character of Two Cities in Augustine’s Historical View,’ PhD diss., KyungHee University. Nam, Sunghyun (2004), ‘Les cenobitismes primitifs de Pachome et de Basile de Cesaree,’ PhD diss., Universite de Marc Bloch de Strasbourg. Oh, Man-Kyu (1989), ‘A Study on Military Views in Early Christianity,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Shin, Sang-Hwa (1989), ‘The Army Reform of Septimius Severus,’ Master’s thesis, Seoul National University. So, Dong-Jin (1993), ‘A Study on Social Conflict in the Jesus Movement,’ PhD diss., Korea University. Tscho, Nam-Zin (1987), ‘A Study on Stoicism and Slave Liberation in Early Christianity,’ PhD diss., Korea University.



392

Kim

Yeum, Changseon (2003), ‘Die Synode von Alexandrien 362: Die dogmengeschichtliche und kirchenpolitische Bedeutung fuer die Kirche im 4. Jh.,’ PhD diss., PhilippsUniversitaet Marburg. Yim, Woong (1997), ‘A Study on Colonatus in the Roman Imperial Age,’ PhD diss., Korea University.



References Cited

Anderson, Perry (1974), Passages from Antiquity to Feudalism. London: Verso. Bernal, Martin (1987), Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization. Vol. 1, The Fabrication of Ancient Greece 1785–1985. Rutgers, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Bernal, Martin (1991a), Black Athena II: The Archaelogical and Documentary Evidence. Rutgers, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Bernal, Martin (1991b), Cadmean Letters: The Westward Diffusion of the Semitic Alphabet before 1400 bc. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Bernal, Martin (2007), Black Athena III: The Linguistic Argument. Rutgers, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Chi Dong-Shik 池東植 (1975), Romagonghwajeongui wigi 羅馬共和政的危機 (The crisis of the Roman Republic). Seoul: Beopmunsa. Chi Dong-Shik 池東植, ed. and trans. (1976), Huiram yeonguui jemunje 希臘硏究의諸問 題 (Problems in Greek studies). Seoul: Goryeodaehakgyo chulpanbu. Chi Dong-Shik 池東植, ed. and trans. (1977), Romasayeonguui jemunje 羅馬史研究的問 題 (Problems in Roman studies). Seoul: Goryeodaehakgyo chulpanbu. Chi Dong-Shik 池東植 (1980), Romajegukgwa gidokgyo 羅馬帝國和基督教 (The Roman Empire and Christianity). Seoul: Hanguksinhakyeonguso. Cho Eui-Sul 趙義卨 (1961), ‘Godaesayeonguui jemunje 古史研究的問題’ (Problems in the study of ancient history. Inmun Kwahak 人文科學 6: 57–67. Cho Eui-Sul 趙義卨 (1967), ‘Godae huirabui noyeje 古希臘的奴隸制度’ (The slave system of ancient Greece). Inmun Kwahak 人文科學 18: 45–66. Cho Eui-Sul 趙義卨 (1975), ‘Noyejewa godae geuriseuui minjujeong 奴隸和古希臘的民 主’ (Slaves and democracy in ancient Greece). Daehanminkuk Haksulwonronmunjip 大韓民國 學術院論文集 14 (October): 223–242. Cho In-hyong 趙仁衡 (1982), ‘Seong auguseutinuseuui singungnon yeongu 在聖奧古斯 丁的 上帝之城 研究’ (A study on Saint Augustine’s De Civitate Dei). Dangukdae sahakji 檀國大史學志 16: 43–62. Cho In-hyong 趙仁衡 (1989), ‘A Study on Eusebius and Constantinus the Great.’ Kwang­ wonsahak 江原史學 5: 119–187. Cho In-hyong 趙仁衡 (2002), ‘Eusebius’s View of History.’ Kangwonsahak 江原史學 17, no. 18 合本: 391–443.



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Choi, Hae-Young 崔惠英 (2005), ‘Hekate yeosinui torienteujeokt giwon, Hekate 東深 女兒 (Hekate, dark daughter of the east).’ Seoyanggodaesayeongu 西洋古代史硏究 16 (June): 69–90. Eusebius, The Ecclesiastical History. Finley, M.I. (1992), Slavery and Modern Ideology. New York: Penguin. Heichelheim, Fritz M. (1956), ‘Römische Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte.’ Historia Mundi 4. Bern. Hoe Seong-Il 許勝一 (1967), ‘Tiberiuseu geurakuseuui nongminjeongchaek 提比略節 雪城農民政策’ (Agrarian policy of Tiberius Gracchus). Seoyangsaron 西洋史論 7: 105–109. Hoe Seong-Il 許勝一 (1970), ‘Geurakuseu sidaeui gongmurwigi 雪城節時代糧食危機’ (The corn supply crisis in the age of the Gracchi). Seouldae Gyoyanggwajeongbu nonmunjim inmunsahoegwahakpyeon 首爾國立大敎養課程部論文集人文社會科 學編 2 (April): 417–426. Hoe Seong-Il 許勝一 (1972), ‘Gaiuseu geurakuseuui gongmulbaegeupjeongchaeng 猶節 雪城糧食流通政策’ (The corn supply policy of Gaius Gracchus). Yoksa Hakbo 歷史 學報 56 (December): 65–95. Hoe Seong-Il 許勝一 (1995), Jeungboromagonghwajeongyeongu 增補路馬共和政硏究 (A study on the Roman Republic: An enlarged edition). Seoul: Seouldaehakgyo chulpanbu. Hoe Seong-Il 許勝一 (1998), Seupareuta gyoyukgwa siminsaenghwal 斯巴達教育和公民 生活 (Spartan education and the life of its citizens). Seoul: Samyoungsa. Kim Bong-Cheol 金奉哲 (1999), ‘Matin beonaerui sujeonggodae model yeongu 分枝伯 納爾的修訂古模型研究’ (A study of M. Bernal’s revised ancient model). Seoyanggo­ jeonhakyeongu 西洋古典學硏究 13 (December): 363–390. Kim Chung-Soo金正洙 (1971), ‘Keulleiseuteneseuui sipbujokje 第10條土科技教育內斯 缺乏’ (On the ten tribes of Cleisthenes). Inmun Kwahak 人文科學 24: 95–112. Kim Chung-Soo金正洙 (1984), ‘Perikeulleseuwa geuui jeongchijeong gyeongnyeok 伯 里克利和他的政治生涯’ (Pericles and his political career). Inmun Kwahak 人文科學 51: 95–117. Kim Jin-Kyung 金鎭京 (1964), ‘Euripides Sasangui iwonseong 歐裡庇德斯 思想 二原性’ (Rational and irrational thought in Euripides). Gyeongbukdaehakgyo nonmunjip 慶北大學校 論文集 8: 99–114. Kim Kyung-Hyun 金炅賢 (2003), ‘Geomeun atena yeosin 黑色雅典娜’ (Black Athena: Today’s USA and ancient Greece). Changjakgwa bipyeong 創作 批評 31 (June): 248–264. Oh Hung-Shik 吳興植 (2005) ‘Seupareuta wanggaui hiksoseujeong giwon 斯巴達王室 希克索斯起源’ (The Hyksos and the origin of two Spartan royal families). Seoyanggo­ daesayeongu 西洋古代史硏究 16 (June): 45–68.



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Oh Hung-Shik 吳興植, trans. (2006), Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization, vol. 1, The Fabrication of Ancient Greece 1785–1985. Sonamu. Song Moon-Hyun 宋文顯 (2005), ‘Godae gukgaui jeongchiwa jonggyo: Tonghapgwa jibaeui wolli 古代國家의 政治와 宗敎: 統合과 支配의 原理’ (Politics and religion in the ancient state: The principle of integration and rule). Yoksa Hakbo 歷史學報 187 (September): 191–207. Yang Byoung-Woo 梁秉祐 (1968), ‘回顧 展望 Hoegowa jeonmang’ (Retrospective and prospects). Yoksa Hakbo 歷史學報 39 (October): 136–148. Yang Byoung-Woo 梁秉祐 (1976), Ateneminjujeongchisa 雅典民主政治史 (A history of Athenian democracy). Seoul: Seouldaehakgyo chulpanbu. Yang Byoung-Woo 梁秉祐 (1987), ‘Kodaenoyejesahoe: 1. Gojeongi geuriseu 古代奴隸制 社會: 1. 古典期希臘’ (Ancient slave society, 1. Classical Greece). Seoyanggo­jeon­ hangnyeongu 西洋古典學硏究 1 (December), 67–109.



Chapter 19

A Brief Report on Classical Scholarship in Korea, Focusing on Literature Jaewon Ahn In the following essay, I limit my discussion of Korean reception studies to literature. This is because there are already two prior studies on this topic. Prof. Nam-Duh Kim (Daegu Gyeongbuk Institute of Science & Technology) has already written a paper concerning the history of research on ancient Western philosophy in Korea.1 It offers a general history of The Korean Society of GrecoRoman Studies, analyzing the features of research papers written by Korean Classical scholars. It also introduces Prof. Hong-Gyu Park (1919–1994), a true pioneer of Classical scholarship in Korea. There is also another paper, in the field of history, written by Prof. Deogsu Kim (Seoul National University), which relates to the history of research on ancient Western history in Korea.2 With these two papers in mind, I focus on reporting the history of research on literature. Indeed, I wonder whether I can call this chapter a ‘history,’ as reception studies are only recent and quite meager. In Korea, there is no faculty for Classical studies that offers undergraduate degree programs. In this chapter, I explore two topics in detail: one is the teaching of Western Classics, and the other is the general state of research in Western Classical studies. 1

Literature and Language Education: Classical Studies in Korea

Lecture courses on Classical studies are provided by academic institutions. Seoul National University offers an interdisciplinary program for Western Classical studies, organized in 1991 through the joint efforts of Prof. Tae-Soo Lee (Greek philosophy and Classical philology), Prof. Nam-Duh Kim (Greek philosophy), Prof. Jong-Sook Lee (English literature), and Prof. Sung-Won Lee (English literature). This program offers lectures for MA and PhD courses. Two or three students are admitted to the MA program annually, and one or two to the PhD program. The program offers seminars, such as ‘Introduction to Classical 1 Kim 2009: 79–91. 2 Kim 2010: 113–133.

 Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_021 ©

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Philology,’ ‘Greek Style Exercise,’ ‘Latin Style Exercise,’ ‘Greek Epic Reading,’ ‘Latin Epic Reading,’ ‘Greek Tragedy Reading,’ ‘Latin Satire Reading,’ ‘Greek and Roman Comedy Reading,’ ‘Greek Prose Reading,’ ‘Latin Prose Reading,’ ‘History of Classical Scholarship,’ and ‘Study of Literary Theory and Criticism.’ It also provides lecture courses for undergraduate studies, including an elementary course on the Latin language, elementary and intensive courses on the Greek language, Greek tragedy, the history of Greek and Roman literature, and the mythology of the Greek and Roman world. In addition to the general information given above, I will also address language education in Korea in detail. Latin is taught at more than ten universities in Korea. If we include theological seminaries, the number increases. As for the classes themselves, they vary according to the lecture conditions at individual institutions. For instance, Seoul National University offers three classes in elementary Latin. The main texts are Oxford Latin Course and Wheelock’s Latin. Each class comprises more than thirty students. Therefore, about four hundred students learn Latin over four semesters annually, including both the summer and the winter semesters. An intensive course is offered during the autumn semester and has more than twenty students per class. In contrast, Greek is taught at only three universities, as far as I know. The class size is usually less than twenty. A New Introduction to Greek by A.H. Chase and H. Philipps, Jr., or Athenaze: An Introduction to Ancient Greek by M. Balme and G. Lawall, are usually the main texts. An intensive course in Greek is offered annually, but only during the autumn semester, and is taken by a few more than ten students. Students want to learn Latin and Greek for two main reasons. On the one hand, they wish to expand their ‘general erudition’ or ‘cultural elegance.’ On the other hand, some want to learn Latin, or particularly Greek, as a basis for studying theology, history, philosophy, and Classics. Literary education in Korea comprises Classical education as well. ‘Mythology of the Greek and Roman Worlds’ is taught by Prof. Heon Kim. This lecture course is quite popular among students, as evidenced by the number of students in the class, where more than one hundred usually attend. I teach ‘History of Greek and Roman Literature,’ a lecture course taught in the style of the German Vorlesung. It aims to promote the reading of Classical literature from Homer to Marcus Aurelius. More than thirty students attend the class, and the coursework requirement is a fifteen-page essay. ‘Greek Tragedy’ is taught by Dr. Kee-Young Kim, who concentrates on analyzing texts as dramatic perfor­mances. In addition, the program will offer two or more lectures for undergraduate students next year. One of them will be ‘Introduction to Classical Philology,’ which is designed not only for candidates in Western Classical scholarship, but also for students studying Eastern Classics, including Korean 

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studies. This is because concepts such as editio critica, stemma codicum, and apparatus criticus are unfamiliar terms not only for students, but also for many academics in Korea. I expect these lectures to make a small contribution to scholars specializing in Korean studies and Eastern Classics. For instance, terms such as collatio are common among scholars in Korea. The other lecture will be ‘Ancient Western Rhetoric,’ which aims to provide opportunities for understanding democracy through rhetorical exercises. As regards Classical education in MA and PhD programs, only two German professors taught Classical texts in the initial stage; this was owing to the lack of properly trained Korean philologists. Prof. Irmgard Yu-Gundert took charge of Greek literature. She wrote Beobachtungen zum Aufbau der Theogenie ­Hesiods as the topic of her dissertation at Heidelberg University. She visited Göttingen University Library to lead seminars and also copied commentaries, essays, and monographs for students during every summer and winter vacation. A small seminar room used as a mini-library still preserves those copies. Indeed, students have benefited a great deal from these in writing essays, reports, and dissertations. Latin literature was taught by Prof. Nikolaus Gross. He was a neo-Latinist who majored in Classical studies at Saarland University. Thus, he insisted on teaching Latin texts per linguam latinam. It was a memorable experience, but also quite hard work. He translated several Korean novels into Latin. As for education and research in Classical philology in Korea, Prof. Tae-Soo Lee is a remarkable teacher. He studied Classical philology at Göttingen University and has written many essays on Classical texts in Korean. His papers serve as models not only for the next generation of Classical scholars, but also for students. He has shown them valuable approaches to reading Classical texts as well as writing essays in Korean. Under his instruction, more than fifteen students have written their Master’s theses, and two have written their PhD dissertations in Korean: Dr. Dae-Jin Kang wrote ‘The Battle Scene and Its Narrative Structure in the Iliad’ in 2001, and Dr. Soon-Hyong Lee received a PhD degree with the thesis ‘Studies in Lucian’s Philosophic Satires’ in 2009. All in all, I consider Prof. Tae-Soo Lee, without reservation, to be the founder of Classical philology in Korea. His lectures and papers are invaluable to the next generations in terms of intellectual argument and assumption, methodological approach, and attention to provocative issues. Lacking textual materials and properly trained scholars, however, many students have had to go abroad and are still leaving for the purpose of writing dissertations; most have matriculated to Germany, France, the UK, and the US. Four such students have received PhD degrees in Classical philology. Dr. Heon Kim wrote ‘Logoi devant la foule: La Rhétorique et la poétique selong Aristote’ for his doctoral thesis at Strasburg University. Dr. Kee-Young Kim submitted ‘Studien zu den 

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Diptychondramen des Sophokles’ for his thesis at the Freie Universität Berlin. Dr. Yun-Rak Sohn wrote ‘Hylê au seuil de l’ontologie: Une recherche sur l’être et la matière chez Aristote’ for his doctoral thesis at the Sorbonne University. Finally, I myself produced a critical edition of Alexandri de figuris sententiarum et verborum for my PhD dissertation at Göttingen University. Today, those who were trained in Europe are doing their share of the teaching in the Classical studies program at Seoul National University. In addition to this, I would like to introduce a program that is designed to promote the reading of Classical literature among middle- and high-school students. It is titled ‘People and Story.’ The general motto of this program is ‘not understanding but expressing,’ because the former is implied in the latter. It aims ‘not at heavy meaning, but at light enjoyment.’ As is well known, Korean students of high school age have to go through a grueling process because of the pressure the University Entrance Examination puts on them. In short, they have little free time; their nights and weekends are not their own. To alleviate this dismal situation, and to give them some time to relax through reading, the filmmaker Kyung–Jin Heo, the film director Heung-Sik Park (who won the FIPRESCI award at the Torino Film Festival for his film The Railroad), Prof. Heon Kim, and I met to set up a reading program for high school students in 2011. The program is divided into two parts. One is a ‘reading program,’ while the other is an ‘expressive program,’ emphasizing filmmaking or drama. Students read Korean translations of Classical texts, such as the Odyssey, as well as Hamlet, Don Quixote, and Crime and Punishment. They are given a month to read each text and are encouraged to read and analyze under the guidance of their teachers. After they finish reading, the students summarize the texts and then create their own stories, based on the original texts. Unlike college lectures, the program is unrestricted, because it is designed to promote a lifelong habit of reading. After four months of reading, students are asked to create a film or a play over two months, with the help of filmmakers. Since 2011, the program has produced one play and eight films, all performed and screened at local auditoriums. The title of the play is ‘A Korean Prince Went to the Women’s Land,’ which was influenced by the story of the Amazons in Greek mythology. Funded by local governments, the program usually accepts thirty students. The development process is slow and may not effect noticeable results immediately, but the program nevertheless offers an invaluable opportunity to youngsters. To be sure, ‘One cannot be satisfied with a single spoonful,’ as the Korean proverb says.



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Aspects of Research in Classical Studies

The research history of Classical studies in Korea may be viewed from two perspectives. Firstly, at the institutional level, the Institute of Classical Studies at Seoul National University is noteworthy. This institute was founded by Prof. Nam-Duh Kim in 2009. It holds four to five colloquiums annually, including an international conference, to which one or two distinguished scholars or authors who have published significant critical editions, commentaries, or monographs are invited. Cooperating with the Korean Society of Greco-Roman Studies, the institute offers Latin and Greek language courses for the general public during the winter vacation. Last year, for example, over a hundred people registered for the elementary course on the Latin language. Unfortunately, due to lack of funding, the institute is not able to produce a scholarly journal. It has, however, recently started to publish a research series on Classical studies in Korean. The first book in this series was published in 2013, the title of which is Western Ancient Philosophy 1: From Homer to Plato. The second one, published in 2015, is entitled Western Ancient Philosophy 2: From Aristotle to Boethius. Upcoming books in the series include Ancient Western Tragedy (2018), The Western Epic Tradition (2020), and Ancient Western Rhetoric – From Homer to Augustine (2022). Prof. Sang-Jin Kang and I are responsible for the publication of this series. On this topic, there is a research group funded by the Korean government that is also worth mentioning. This group was organized to promote the study of ‘Paideia and Humanitas: The Formation of Greek and Roman Education and European Humanism.’ Scholars who participate in this group include Prof. Tae-Soo Lee (Homer and Greek tragedy), Prof. Nam-Duh Kim (Plato), Prof. Chang-Uh Lee (Hellenistic philosophy), Prof. Heon Kim (Isocrates), Prof. Yun-Rak Sohn (Aristotle), Prof. Sung-Won Lee (Cicero), Prof. Deug-Su Kim (Virgil), Prof. Kyong-Hyun Kim (the Second Sophistic Age), and Jaewon Ahn (Quintilian). The group aims to provide an answer, or answers, to the question of what one can draw from Classical studies into Korean education in general, and how to promote Classical studies at Korean universities in particular. The members meet together monthly and usually prepare two papers for discussion. Countless valuable papers have been produced, refined, and polished through these dis­cussions. The final fruits of this research group will be published in 2019. Secondly, on the individual scholarly level, I must mention two points. One concerns the Korean translation of Classical texts, while the other addresses research traits. In terms of translation, Emeritus Prof. Byung-Hee Cheon is a preeminent translator among Korean scholars. The list of his translated works comprises Homer, Hesiod, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes, Me­ nander, Aesop, Thucydides, Herodotus, Xenophon, Caesar, Cicero, Virgil, Ovid, Seneca the younger, and Marcus Aurelius. 

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It is astonishing that Prof. Cheon has translated almost all the major, significant Classical texts into Korean over forty years. Apart from his talent for creating accurate and readable translations, he deserves to be greatly praised, because there is no Korean Classical scholar or student who is not indebted to him for their writing or teaching. His translations are praiseworthy in three aspects: firstly, they are translated in the spirit of verbum pro verbo. Thus, if properly trained, one can imagine the original text only through the translation. I think this is a very important point, because his translations can be used as basic references for improvement and as supplements for future translations in the generations to come. Secondly, it is remarkable that his translations are made not from Japanese or English versions, but directly from the original texts. Thus he has created quite a few new words in the Korean language. This should be duly recognized as well in terms of the history of the Korean language. Thirdly, his translations are used in writing speeches or articles not only by scholars, but also by general readers, such as journalists, filmmakers, high school teachers, and students. His translations may not always be totally accurate, but they have aroused public interest in Classical texts. His translations should be regarded as the single greatest achievement in Classical studies in Korea. Some say that his translation style is old-fashioned, but there is no doubt that his work is the greatest contribution ever made to the study of Classical studies in Korea to date and will be remembered for generations. Along with Byung-Hee Cheon, Dr. Dae-Jin Kang is also a scholar of note. He translated Lucretius’ De rerum natura, Apollonius’ Argonautica, and Cicero’s De natura deorum into Korean. His scholarship may be characterized more as that of an author than that of a translator. He has written various monographs for a general audience, two of which are worth mentioning here. One is The Cruel Reading of Books. In this book, Kang harshly criticizes the misunderstandings and mistranslations of Classical texts on the part of ­Korean scholars and authors who do not have a Classical background. This book is still used by many researchers as a reference in discussions about translation. One of his contributions to the general public is his alterations of terminology. For instance, before he raised these issues, Korean people pronounced the English name ‘Homer’ as ‘Homeo.’ Today, the Greek name ‘Homeros’ is predominantly used, at least among scholars. Another example is the name of the muse, which we used to pronounce as Muz. Now it is widely known as Musa. Kang’s other book is Rewriting the Odyssey, which expanded the general public’s understanding of the original texts. The book has many virtues. The writing style is simple and modest, and the narrative skill is very attractive, provoking interest in Classical texts among university students.



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Another important translator, Dr. Jin-Sik Kim, has translated not only Classical texts, but also major modern monographs into Korean. Among them, ­Römische Geschichte by Theodor Mommsen (Leipzig, 1853–1856), Dichtung und Philosophie des frühen Griechentums by Hermann Fränkel (New York, 1951), and Kleine griechische Literaturgeschichte: Von Homer bis zum Ende der Antike (München, 1999) by Martin Hose are valuable contributions to Korean Classical studies. Focusing on another topic, Dr. Kee-Young Kim concentrates on the translation of Greek tragedy. He has published the Sophoclean trilogy, a meaningful endeavor in the understanding of Greek drama. Additionally, Prof. Heon Kim has published selected speeches of Isocrates. Though his translation of Aristotle’s Poetics is not yet published, it will be a landmark text in the commentary history of Korean Classical scholarship. In this book, Kim aims to offer a text comparable to the Korean version of Commentaria in Aristolem Graeca, which is to be published next year. I myself authored a critical edition consisting of a translation of and commentary on Cicero’s Partitiones Oratoriae (2006), which is the first critical edition in Korean Classical philology. I also published another critical edition, of Suetonius’ De grammaticis (2013). I have two motivations for publishing critical editions in Korea. First, I would like to give Korean readers the opportunity to experience the original texts, so that they may become interested in learning Latin. The second reason may be a bit provocative. Indeed, I had hoped (and still hope) that my critical editions will stimulate those of my Korean colleagues who tend to think that translated versions are sufficient in Korean scholarship. As a matter of fact, only a few researchers take seriously the issue of how important critical editions are for the foundation of scholarship. I learned the hard way that one needs to be very careful in raising philological questions with researchers in the field of Korean studies. 3

Some Noticeable Peculiarities in Classical Studies in Korea

 In medias res, there are two points that need to be mentioned. The first peculiarity observed in the Korean academic circle is that Korean scholars are faced with ‘a big mountain,’ as the Korean proverb says, in translating Classical texts. This huge obstacle is the problem of how to overcome the terminology already created by Japanese and Chinese scholars. These often create biases in finding correct and proper Korean terms. The important point is that the semantic structure of the Korean language is different from the Chinese and Japanese



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languages. Thus, terms borrowed from Chinese texts are not quite true to their original meanings. One such example can be found in the first article of the first chapter of the Korean constitution. ‘The Republic of Korea shall be a democratic republic.’ The term republic is translated into the Chinese word Kong-Hwa (共和). However, the basic idea of Kong-Hwa has its own history. It is found in the Sa-Ki (史 記) of Sa Ma Cheon (司馬遷). Its original meaning is a period when a king is alive but in exile (帝王不在). Thus, the idea of res publica and the concept of Kong-Hwa do not correspond in their etymology. However, we Koreans have been using the term Kong-Hwa in the sense of republic. To be sure, the idea of Kong-Hwa is now regarded as a principle in Korean politics – not only theoretically, but also practically.3 In relation to this, I would point out that there have already been some fundamental changes in the nature of Korean society in the period of modernization by way of Westernization, the latter having originated in Greece and Rome. What is interesting is that, along with those social changes, the semantic system and structure of the Korean language have also changed dramatically. On this front, Korean Classical scholars are confronted with two difficulties. One is to check whether the borrowed or given terms are suitable for Korean semantics. The other is how to come up with a new term, or whether to fish for a suitable word in the pool of the Korean language. An interesting example of this is the translation of the term humanitas. The term is usually translated as In-Mun (人文). Like Kong-Hwa, it has its own history. There has been a hot debate over the question of whether to use the term In-Mun, which was originally borrowed from Chinese, or to use humanitas, the original term, written in the Korean alphabet, Han-Geul. One piece of evidence for this is a newspaper article written by a prominent journalist named Un-Chan Cho.    Why Humanitas? A month ago, an institute named Humanitas was opened. I was ap­­pointed as the director. People asked me what the Humanitas institute does. A professor asked, ‘Is it somehow related to the Humanitas college of Kyonghee University?’ A friend also asked whether we are planning some kind of cooperation with a publishing company called Humanitas. These questions clearly show that the term Humanitas is still foreign, used only as a brand name for some strange institute or publishing company.4 3 Ahn and Gwak 2014: 176–179. 4 Cho 2014.



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In the above passage, we see that there are some institutes that use the term humanitas rather than In-Mun as their name. In my view, the fundamental reason for this may be explained as follows: The meaning of humanitas is not identical with that of In-Mun; people who have decided to use humanitas instead of In-Mun have realized that the conceptual values of humanitas are not found in the semantic field of In-Mun. This is evident in what the same journalist goes on to write: It is precisely after the financial crisis that swept Asian countries in the late 1990s that the term humanitas began to be used in earnest in Korean society. Against the children of new liberal capitalism, fetishism, unlimited competition, utility value, and the neglect of human values, the term humanitas is a counter-notion among the people. In addition to this, a boom in the humanities outside the university also indicates that the value of the study of the humanities is accepted by the citizens. The Latin term humanitas is translated into Korean with various meanings: human nature, humanistic studies, the science of the human, humanism, liberal education, etc. The semantic scope of this term is so wide that it is difficult to find a corresponding word for it. For this reason, some people simply transliterate humanitas into ‘humanitas’ and use it. I am ready to accept criticisms of language flunkyism, but I take the position that it is not right to limit a word that can be translated and interpreted in various ways to just one meaning.5 These examples clearly show that translating the term is not a simple business, precisely because it involves a change in the Korean language. In short, the current state of Korean may be compared to the developmental stage of eighteenth-century German. This working condition, constrained by language structure, makes Korean scholars look to comparative studies. There is another­ stimulating example of this, namely a debate on how to translate rhetoric into Korean. Some young scholars translate it as Yeon-Seol-Sul (rhetoric), while other, more conservative people insist on the traditional term Su-Sa (修辭, eloquence). Some noteworthy papers have come out of this debate: Jaewon Ahn, ‘Comparative Research on Cicero’s Orator perfectus and Confucius’ Rex perfectus.’6

5 Cho 2014. 6 Ahn 2011.



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Woo-Bong Cheong, ‘On Debates around Su-Sa (修辭) in the History of Korean Rhetoric.’7 Heon Kim, ‘Is Rhetorice Really Su-Sa-Hak (修辭學)?’8 Weol-Hoi Kim, ‘Polishing Words and Expressing Senses.’9 Seung-Hoon Lee, ‘The Etymology of Su-Sa (修辭) and the Change of Its Meaning.’10 The scholars Weol-Hoi Kim and Seung-Hoon Lee have taken on an important role in Korean Sinology. Woo-Bong Cheong is a leading figure in Korean literature, and Heon Kim and I specialize in Western Classics. We have had backand-forth discussions between Eastern and Western scholarship over the past ten years. No doubt, this is a rare phenomenon, one which can hardly be found in European scholarship. This may be a distinctive feature from which the history of Korean Classical studies can be written, as differentiated from a European perspective. As for the second peculiarity, I would like to point out that the history of the reception of Western culture in Asia (including Korea) is not a simple one either­. As mentioned above, it is different from the European context, in that there are many curious phenomena which can be observed from the horizon of the encounters between different civilizations. There were tensions, conflicts, accommodations, and acculturations. To back up this theory, I refer to some translations made by Jesuit missionaries from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries. For example, as is well known, Aesop’s Fables; Aristotle’s Ca­ te­gories, De caelo, and some parts of his Nicomachean Ethics; parts of ­Cicero’s De amicitia; parts of Seneca’s De amicitia; some of Marc Aurelius’ letters; and Euclid’s Geometry were all translated into Chinese during that time. Aesop’s Fables was first translated into Japanese in 1593 under the title Esopo monogatari (伊僧保物語). The Walloon Jesuit Nicolas Trigault (金尼閣, 1577–1628) translated Aesop’s Fables into Chinese under the title Huang-I (況義). One quite easily realizes that the translated texts have many interesting but still unexplained aspects in terms of the transmission of stories and narrative styles. For this reason alone, a critical edition is urgently required. Aristotle’s De caelo was translated by the Portuguese Jesuit Francisco Furtado (簿泛際, 1589–1653) in 1628 under the ­title Hoan Yeou Ts’iuen (寰有銓), which is based on Commentarii Collegii Conimbricensis, Societatis Jesu: In quatuor libros de 7 8 9 10

Cheong 2006. Kim 2004. Kim 2005. Lee 2005.



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Caelo, … Lugduni, apud Ioannem Pillehotte, 1608. Furtado also translated Aristotle’s Categories in 1631, under the title Minlitam (名理探). The foreword of this translation is Commentarii Collegii Conimbricensis e Societate Jesv: In Universam Dialecticam Aristotelis Stagiritae, nunc (sic e) primum in Germania in lucem editi; Coloniae Agrippinae, apud Bernardum Gualterium, 1611. According to my close reading, the Minlitam translation is a very important text, because it contains remarkable passages which show how Western scholarship was introduced to Chinese literati. The following passage may be enough to make the point clear. (partial Chinese translation) 藝之別有三. 一, 依所論而別. 二, 依所向而別. 三, 依所居而別. 凡藝所論, 或是言語, 或是事物. 言語之倫, 有三. 一曰, 談藝, 西云額勒瑪第加. 二曰, 文藝, 西云勒讀理加. 三曰辨藝, 西云絡日伽. 而又有史, 西云伊斯多利亞. 又有詩, 西云博厄第加. 詩史, 屬文藝中之一類. 綠此三者, 皆有所文焉, 以歆動人心故. 其他諸藝, 皆事物之屬也. (Latin Original) Tres à Dialecticis praecipuè celebrantur. Enim verò trifariam artes, sive scientiae distingui possunt, videlicet ratione rerum, in quibus versantur; ratione finis, quem spectant; ratione gradus, seu dignitatis, quam inter se obtineant. Prima igitur divisio haec est. Artium aliae agunt de sermone, sive externo, quo cum aliis loquimur, et animi sensa communicamus: sive interno, quo mens ipsa secum ratiocinator. Aliae de rebus, prout haec à sermone different: alioqui etiam sermo ipse res est, ut constat. Priores, sermocinales vulgò dicuntur: posteriors, reales, quarum divisio latissimè funditur, ut progressu patebit. Sermocinalis Grammaticam, Rhetoricam, et Dialecticam comprehendit. Grammatica tradit praecepta emendate loquendi. Rhetorica dicendi oranatè, et apposite ad movendos affectus. Unde et eloquentia flexanima dici consuevit. Dialectica verò rationem disserendi, id est, ignotum ex iis, quae nota sunt, declarandi. Ad Rhetoricam revocari debet, tum Historia, tum Poetica, quia utraque affectus movet; Historia quidem rerum gestarum exemplis; Poetica rerum, seu verarum, seu verisimilium pigmentis. Unde poetica pictura loquens, pictura tacens poetica dicitur. For a better understanding, I will provide an English translation of the Chinese translation:



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The art (藝) is to be distinguished in three aspects. The first is of thing (所 論). The second is of aim (所向). The last is of place (所居). The thing in general is either object or language. The language has three [arts]. The first is Tam-Ye (談藝), corresponding to Ye-Neuk-Ma-Je-Ka (額勒瑪第加, Grammatica) in Europe. The second is Mun-Ye (文藝), corresponding to Reu-Tok-Ri-Ka (勒讀理加, Rhetorica) in Europe. The third is Byun-Ye (辨藝), corresponding to Ro-Ji-Ka (絡日伽, Logica) in Europe. History is Sa (史), corresponding to Yi-Sa-Da-Ri-A (伊斯多利亞, Historia) in Europe. Poetics is Si (詩), corresponding to Pak-Yaek-Je-Ka (博厄第加, Poetica) in Europe. These arts belong to Mun-Ye, because these three arts aim to move minds. Other arts belong to objects.11 I will not analyze the original Latin passages here, but will limit my analysis to the characteristics of the Chinese translation. First of all, the translation was done following the principle of verbum pro verbo, even though there are some minor changes and omissions. However, what is interesting is that the translator, Trigault, tried to match those terms that were (and still are) used as technical terms in China and even in Korea. Mun-Ye (文藝), for example, is a significant term in Korea. It does not mean ‘rhetoric,’ but rather ‘literature’ and ‘art’ in Korean. One can raise many questions concerning this. One question is why the translator chose to translate the term rhetoric into Mun-Ye.12 One answer could be that literature is preferred over spoken language in China. At any rate, we should pay close attention to the fact that grammar, rhetoric, and logic were introduced systematically into Chinese. One may still ask whether the term Ye (藝) is the right term for the Latin ars, or what Tam-Ye (談藝) means exactly. In my opinion, the Chinese translation itself is rather curious. In spite of these difficulties, the reception of Western scholarship in Asia, including Classical works, is unquestionably not a simple story. It must be dated back to the sixteenth century. A translated text should be considered as a kind of hybrid, one which requires comparative studies and readings from various perspectives. To this end, we require commentaries based on comparative studies. In this regard, I would add that the Jesuit missionaries wrote circa 1207 texts, according to Pfister Louis, S.J.13 (1833–1891), and Joseph Dehergne14 (1903–1990). Additionally, circa 437 texts were translated from Latin into Chinese or composed based on Latin texts. To be sure, 57 percent of these were related to reli11 12 13 14

This is my translation from Minlitam 名理探, vol. 1. See Yum 2011: 63–93. Cf. Pfister 1932. Cf. Dehergne 1973.



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gion, 30 percent to natural science, and 13 percent to language, literature, philosophy, and education. Yet we should be cautious, because even though a book seems to have been written to address religious problems, one cannot read it without reference to secular Classics. We find one such example in Young-Eon-Ye-Jak (靈言蠡勺) by Francesco Sambiasi (畢方濟, 1582–1649). This book was certainly based on Aristotle’s De anima.15 It is interesting that YoungEon-Ye-Jak was vehemently criticized by a Korean literatus, named Hu-Dam Shin (愼後聃, 1702–1761): ‘Now, if someone seeks to find a way to heaven via scholarship, he certainly goes wrong, because he intends to get in solely for his personal benefit.’16 Additionally, the Korean literati have tried to criticize Aristotle’s idea of mind. The title of the relevant book is Seo-Hak-Byun (西學變), which poses another problem. It literally means ‘Discussion on Western learning.’ This may suggest that the Korean reception history of Classical scholarship is also a complicated story, perhaps all the more intricate because Koreans need to consider not only the Chinese translation, but also its Korean reception at the same time. However, there is another example that addresses the question of why this history of reception is more complicated in Korea. Let us take Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos. Recently, along with one of my students, I discovered that some passages of Ptolemy’s texts were passed down in a Korean text (星要) in the eighteenth century via Chinese translations from Arabic texts.17 This text was written by a Korean scholar, Pyong-Chol Nam (南秉哲, 1817–1863), who transmitted the Chinese version of Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos, Ming yi tian wen shu (明譯 天文書). The Ming yi tian wen shu is a Chinese translation of the Arabic text al-Madkhal fī ṣināʿat aḥkām al-nujūm, which is a kind of commentary on Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos, written by Kūšyār Ibn Labbān at the end of the tenth century. As is well known, the Ming (明) Dynasty of China and the Chosun (朝鮮) Dynasty of Korea were already acquainted with the Arabic versions of Ptolemy’s astronomical and astrological texts and some related materials by the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, particularly the Almagest and the Tetrabiblos. The Chinese version, based on the Arabic version of Ptolemy’s Almagest, is the Huihui lifa (회회역법), and its Korean version is the Ch’ilchôngsan oeap’yôn (七 政算外篇). In short, these translated texts urgently require a new edition and translation, which is necessary for further research into the history of how Ptolemy was understood, not only in the Islamic and European worlds, but also 15 16 17



Corsi 2012: 79–96. This is my translation from Seo-Hak-Byun (西學辯): 今者, 欲求飛天之福, 而爲格物之 學, 則此其爲學之意, 全出於利, 而其爲不誠大矣. See Ahn and Gwak 2014: 1–17.

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in East Asia. I am aware that it will be an enormous undertaking, as this could only be done successfully through the combined efforts of a group of researchers who can carry out a comparative study of multilingual texts in Greek, Latin, Arabic, Chinese, and even Korean. This may be another point from which the history of Korean Classical studies must be written in its own way, different not only from that of Europe, but also from those of Japan and China. 4

Conclusion

It is now time to consider creating a tradition of ‘Sino-Greco-Latinology’ in the Eastern world which could parallel that of Sinology in the Western world. This is truly terra incognita. For this purpose, I would like to introduce a document which will show how important the Latin language is to Korean history. This document addresses two instances of the oppression of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Korean Christianity, and it was found in the Vatican Secret Archive by Prof. I Deug-Su (1938–2004) in 1999. Written partly in Latin and partly in French, it recorded testimony of what happened at the time of the persecutions. It is noteworthy that there are numerous testimonies from lower-class people, including embroiderers, cobblers, garland makers, cooks (makers of the pea pastry called Tou-Pou), shrimp traders, spinners, tailors, cane-basket weavers, hatters, brandy vendors, bow manufacturers, small moneylenders, and on one occasion, a scribe.18 They were rarely mentioned and not recorded in the government’s official documents. In the rare instances in which they appeared in the papers of the noble class, they were usually mentioned in a negative way. So, I ask, if it were not for the Latin text, where could we find and read such stories? This example makes a strong case for how important Latin could be for scholarship on Korean history and Korean studies. I believe that Latin is not just a decorative language to be learned as part of a ‘liberal education,’ but a crucial one necessary to retrieve the unknown or forgotten (and thus lost) stories of the Korean people as well as the early modern history of Korea – indisputably, in Classical studies as well.

18

On this topic, see Jaewon Ahn et al. 2012.



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References Cited

Ahn, Jaewon 안재원 (2011), ‘A Comparative Study on Cicero’s Orator perfectus and Confucius’ Rex perfectus.’ In Papers on Rhetoric 10, ed. Lucia Calboli Montefusco, 1–22. Rome: Herder. Ahn, Jaewon 안재원 (2014), ‘JASCA, for What?’ Japan Studies in Classical Antiquity 2: 176–179. Ahn, Jaewon, et al., eds. 안재원 외 (2012), Hagiographica Coreana II. Pisa: Pacini editore. Ahn, Jaewon, and Moon Seok Gwak 안재원과 곽문석 (2014), ‘Ptolemaeus Sinicus et Coreanus, parallel to Ptolemaeus Arabus et Latinus.’ Horizons 5 no. 1: 1–17. Cheong Woo-Bong 정우봉 (2006), ‘Hankuk susahaksa e isseo “susa” damrongwa geu maekrak 한국 수사학사에 있어 ‘修辭’ 담론과 그 맥락’ (The conceptual meanings of rhetoric in Korean rhetoric). Minzokmunhwa 민족문화 45: 109–132. Cho Un-Chan 조운찬 (2014), ‘Wai humanitasinga? 왜 후마니타스인가?’ (Why humanitas?). Kyunghyangsinmun 경향신문 7 no. 11: (accessed June 1, 2018). Corsi, Elisabetta (2012), ‘Our Little Daily Death: Francesco Sambiasi’s Treatise on Sleep and Images in Chinese.’ In Europe – China: Intercultural Encounters (16th–18th Centuries), ed. Luís Filipe Barreto, 79–96. Lisbon: Centro cientifico e cultural de Macao. Dehergne, Joseph (1973), Répertoire des jésuites de Chine de 1552 à 1800. Rome: Institutum Historicum S. I. Kim, Deogsu 김덕수 (2010), ‘Retrospect and Prospect of the Western Ancient History Studies in Korea in Year 2010: On the Occasion of the 50th Anniversary of The Korean Society of Western History.’ The Journal of Greco-Roman Studies 40: 113–133. Kim Heon 김헌 (2004), ‘Rhetorikêneun susahakinga? 레토리케는 수사학인가?’ (Is rhetorikê susahak?). Cheolhakgwa hyunsil 철학과 현실 61: 153–168. Kim, Nam-Duh 김남두 (2009), ‘Education and Research of Western Classical Studies in Korea.’ The Journal of Greco-Roman Studies 38: 79–91. Kim Weol-Hoi 김월회 (2005), ‘Maldakgiwa ttutseugi: godaejungeukineu susdamrongwa geu jeobyun 말 닦기와 뜻 세우기: 고대 중국인의 수사담론과 그 저변’ (Polishing words and expressing senses: Debates on rhetoric in ancient China and its historical background). Dongamunhwa 동아문화 43: 123–140. Lee Seung-Hoon 이승훈 (2005), ‘“Susa” eu eowongwa eumieu byuncheongwajeoung ‘수사’의 어원과 의미의 변천과정’ (The etymology of susa and the change in its meaning). Chungkukmunhak 중국문학 (The Journal of Chinese Literature): 37–51. Pfister, Louis, S.J. (1932), Notices biographiques et bibliographiques sur les jésuites de l’ancienne mission de Chine (1552–1773). Shanghai: Imprimerie de la Mission Catholique.



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Yum Jung Sam 염정삼 (2011), ‘Eomunhakbu (語文學部): Myongdae malgi Chungguk (中國) eu Seoyangsuyon: Seohakbeum (西學凡) gwa Myonglitam (名理探) eu sogaeleul chungsimeuro 어문학부(語文學部): 명대말기 중국(中國)의 서양수용: 서학범 (西學凡)과 명리탐(名理探)의 소개를 중심으로’ (Linguistics and literature. The introduction of Western studies in China in the 17th century: The case of Xixuefan and Minglitan). Chungkukhakbo 63: 63–93.



Chapter 20

The Influence of Roman Law in Korea Byoung Jo Choe Astonishingly enough, and also disappointingly, Koreans, including legal experts, are in general nearly unaware of the influence of Roman law on the Korean legal system. Korean law is, however, to such an extent clearly a descendant of modern Western law, itself the true successor of Roman law, from which it is obviously easier to discern remnants of other origins than Roman elements. To ascertain the lingering influence of Roman law in Korea, one must trace the changes which Roman law and legal culture have brought to traditional Korean law and legal culture. I first sketch Korean history very briefly to clarify the period of its contact with Roman law (1), and then describe some typical characteristics of Roman law and legal culture as a starting point for comparison with traditional Korean law (2), so as to examine the influence of Roman law on modern Korean law in the history of Korea (3 and 4).1 1

Traditional Korean Law: Historical Background

It is inevitable to consult the historical development of Korean law to see the influence of Roman law on Korean legal culture. Korea has a long history: Even today, Koreans celebrate October 3rd every year as national foundation day, which is called ‘the Day of the Heaven’s Opening’ (Gae-cheon-jeol) (Art. 2 ­subparagraph 4 of the Act on National Holidays). Go-Joseon (Ancient Joseon) was allegedly founded on October 3rd, 2333 bce by Dan-gun, son of the god ­Hwanung. Korea has survived vehement rivalry with its neighboring countries, especially China,2 but has also been strongly influenced by Chinese culture. 1 A note on terminology and translation: C. = Codex Iustinianus (the Code of Justinian); D. = Digesta Iustiniani (the Digest of Justinian); Inst. = Institutiones Iustiniani (the Institutes of Justinian); Gai Inst. = Institutiones Gaii (the Institutes of Gaius). Korean personal names are Romanized according to the official rule of the public notification no. 2000–8 of the Ministry of Culture and Tourism (July 7, 2000), unless the original one used by the person is well known. Other Korean expressions are also Romanized according to the same official rule. English titles of Korean books, journals, or articles are my own translations, unless original translations are available. 2 See, e.g., Han 2010.

 Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_022 ©

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The fundamental structures of the Chinese and Korean kingdoms had many elements in common, such as law. China and Korea developed their legal systems on the basis of agricultural economies and statecraft systems, which were structured in a very similar way. Their legal systems have much in common, both ideologically and technically.3 The culture of the Joseon Dynasty (1392– 1897) is the most noteworthy, as it faced abrupt change in the course of modernization, and it is somehow still affecting Korean culture today. The most obvious example of the close connection with China is the official use of the Great Ming Code (Da Ming lü; Korean: Dae Myeong Ryul) as the basic criminal code of Joseon Korea.4 In the traditional societies of China and Korea, law functioned as a part of the system of social control, which reflected prevailing moral values. Law was derived from the hierarchical order of society, at the top of which the king reigned over the country, rather than from the free individual citizen with legal personhood. Monarchy was the only polity known in China and Korea. Literati officials assumed the role of administering law. Legal codes (administrative law, financial law, ritual law, military law, criminal law, and public affairs law) regulated legal issues according to the needs of the state, with few exceptions. The everyday life of citizens (civil law in this sense) was rarely regulated by state legislation. Civil life, however, was controlled to a great extent by the state authorities, who had wide discretionary power over the people. Specialists in law or legal experts did not play a crucial role in the whole picture, as they were deemed to be subordinate to literati officials. Such a notion hindered the development of jurisprudence as a decisive factor in managing society, especially in solving conflicts and controversies among citizens and between the state and citizens. In criminal law, the principle of nullum crimen, nulla poena sine lege was not fully accepted as a leading principle for the freedom of the people. In short, Korean traditional society had all the same characteristics as any traditional society that had not experienced the modern system of law that we know of today. Roman law in its modernized form, as taken up in the modern codifications of Europe, has thus been one of the most meaningful driving factors in the course of modernization in Korea.

3 See Shaw 1980: 302–326. 4 See Cho 2007.



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The Characteristics of Roman Law and Roman Legal Culture

General Characteristics of Roman Culture 2.1 According to Rudolf von Jhering’s famous formulation, ancient Romans introduced the peoples of the world to ‘unity’ three times: first to the unity of the state, second to the unity of the church, and third to the unity of the law.5 The last unity was achieved through the reception of Roman law. Roman legal culture was a reflection of Roman culture in general, which can be characterized as follows: (1) Roman culture developed on a verbal basis. As oral discussions prevailed in Rome, literacy played a relatively minor role as compared to traditional Far Eastern culture. Legal institutions and procedures were established and developed on a verbal basis. Rhetoric as ars bene dicendi in Greece and Rome, one of the most distinct cultural achievements of that part of the world, had no counterpart in the Far East, where writing played an unprecedentedly decisive role in everyday life from ancient times.6 Korea adopted Chinese characters as its official writing system, and the use of Chinese characters persisted even after the invention of the Korean alphabet Hangeul in the mid-fifteenth century. Such a writing system supported the superiority of writing over oral discussions in China and Korea. Latin, in contrast, developed in the opposite direction. Such an oral culture necessitated articulations of a strictly formal nature, when important transactions in private or public law were to be performed. Law and legal formalities developed hand in hand. A writing system which enables documentation of every performance, such as Chinese, orients people toward the content; it needs no additional strict formalization of the act concerned.7 (2) The second trait is the tendency to emphasize cultural behavior in society, which takes into consideration human relations and interpersonal communications. When viewed from the ideal-typical perspective of a cultural morphology,8 Romans can be qualified and classified as ‘homo loquens’ (‘speakers’).9 The fact that some of the most significant Roman social virtues were fides10 and auctoritas is a good example of this. The very importance of fides, which Cicero defined as ‘keeping one’s word’ (Cicero, De Officiis 1.23: quia 5 6 7 8 9 10



See Jhering 1968: 1. See Cheng 1997: 188. For the cultural implications of speech and writing, see Shlain 1998: 40–44. For more details, see Choe 2009: 71–86. See Choe 2009: 79–81. See Schulz 1956: 223–238.

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fiat, quod dictum est, appellatam fidem), was incomparably reflected, especially in law. The fundamental idea of a contract based on mutual consensus played an essential role in both the public and the private lives of Roman people, which requires no concrete proofs here. No tendency to focus on natural phenomena, as the Greeks did (‘homo videns,’ one who has highly developed visual perception),11 is found among the Romans. Chinese and Koreans, on the other hand, can be qualified and classified as ‘homo legens’ (‘readers,’ ‘interpreters’).12 Thus legal cultures seem to correspond to the general characteristics of the specific cultures to which they belong. (3) The third trait is the secular character of Roman culture. Roman civil religion was a kind of national ceremony,13 which also demonstrates the Romans’ high sensitivity to forms and formalities – a sensitivity which serves to fortify the sense of law. Roman attitudes even allowed for rational manipulation in divination (Cicero, Cato Maior de Senectute 11). (4) One of the most decisive cultural factors in Rome was its traditionalism.14 This modus vivendi certainly promoted the stable, gradual development of the law. The long duration of the unwritten constitution of the Republic seems to be a typical example. The astonishing paucity of statutes (leges and plebiscita), despite such a long history, is another example.15 Such traditionalism made it possible for Justinian to enact a corpus of law that absorbed the very old laws of the Classical period, even after some hundred years.16 The Characteristics of Roman Legal Culture 2.2 Considering the aforementioned traits, I enumerate some remarkable factors that formed Roman law as it was. These factors, in contrast to the aforementioned rather essential or natural factors, are more or less accidental – that is, historically determined – and are basically the results of conscious movements that historical actors set in motion.17 (1) First of all, Romans had a strong sense of right.18 In the legendary story of the brothers Romulus and Remus, the injured party enforced his legitimate rights by resorting to force to defend himself against the breaking of the law. In 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

See Choe 2009: 72–77. See Choe 2009: 81–85. See Choe 1986: 171; 2006: 125–211, esp. 158–201. See Schulz 1956: 83–108. See Choe 1986: 175–186. See Wolff 1951: 171–172. For the exemplary literary expressions of Roman legal culture, see also Albrecht 1998: 13–30. See Jhering 1968: 107–167.



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contrast, law was not deemed important in traditional Chinese and Korean societies, although it played a decisive role in reality. The widespread vision of the polity, which was too idealistic, envisioned the realization of an ideal so­ ciety without law.19 (2) The second trait is closely related to the first: Romans fought for their right (Kampf ums Recht) from the outset. The famous ‘Twelve Tables’ and the introduction of tribuni plebis are good examples of this. (3) The history of Rome shows that the leadership class did their job very successfully. The minimum age for Roman magistrates was legally regulated (lex Villia annalis, 180 bce). This ensured the qualifications of leaders with various experience in state affairs, especially military experience. China and Korea had an excellent system of state examination for the selection of high officials, who were all very learned and well-versed in the humanities (literati). These generalists managed state affairs very well, but in most cases, they did not have experience in military affairs, which Guanzi (725–645 bce), perhaps the most pragmatic and most successful statesman in the early history of China, emphasized as highly fundamental to statecraft.20 But Joseon Korea forgot his wisdom once Neo-Confucianism held a dominant position as the official ideology of the state.21 (4) As Rome developed, Romans learned and adopted advanced cultures, especially that of the Greeks. Roman law was one of the great legacies of such learning. The Romans incorporated Greek philosophical ideas and thoughts into their law and developed a new science of law, which was destined to dominate the world. (5) The Roman Empire was a historic phenomenon. Such a great empire has only been realized in Europe once. It embraced various peoples and cultures and civilized the entire world under its control, but it also exercised tolerance with the people it incorporated. Such a situation strengthened the need for law. In comparison, China had, in principle, a uniform legal system of monarchy throughout its history, even before its first unification into an empire under Shi-huangdi, the first emperor of Qin (259–210 BCE). Korea also had the same system. There was no variety in the legal culture; no legal pluralism existed, outwardly or inwardly. It is quite remarkable that Roman law was drawn from pluralistic sources. In law itself, pluralism prevailed, which engendered

19 20 21



See Li 1983: 420–421; see also MacCormack 1986: 235–251. Rickett, trans., 2001: 138 [Guanzi, Ban Fa Jie (Explanation of the reform of law) 66]. See Han 2010, 2: 91–93.

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competition and cooperation between both the legal sources and every agent concerned with the goal of good rule of law.22 (6) However, the existence of a binding legal doctrine (D.1.2.2.12; Gai Inst. 1.2–7; Inst.1.1.3–8) was the unique characteristic of Roman law. No other society in world history parallels ancient Rome in this regard. The Sociological Characteristics of Roman Jurisprudence 2.3 We now turn to the most essential factor that was unique to Roman law: the very existence of a hitherto unprecedented jurisprudence.23 First, its sociological traits are to be illustrated. (1) Roman jurisprudence ostensibly began with the promulgation of the Twelve Tables, which made up the lucid textual basis of legal practice in private law as well as public law. But Roman jurisprudence did not develop until Gnaeus Flavius (aedilis curulis, 304 bce) disclosed to the public the legal information kept in the archive of the pontiffs.24 Then everyone could study and practice law as he wanted. Thus, law could further develop under the collective cooperation of the intellectuals. China and Korea had no such experience. There was no extension of the administrators of law in that sense. Legal experts were even banned by the state.25 (2) Furthermore, Roman jurists were members of the leading class and had social authority. They were well equipped with special knowledge of the law and had balanced expertise in other fields as well. Their legal science was not deemed subordinate to the technicality of a leguleius (lawyer), but was highly esteemed as Honoratiorenjurisprudenz.26 This was helpful in securing the effective enforcement of law in Roman society. (3) The fact that Roman jurists were called honoratiores means not only that they were highly ranked socially, but also that they were learned experts who could develop their positions into a science, in the proper sense of the word. As a result, Roman law was not case law in the sense of laws made by judges, as for example in Common Law.27 Legal doctrines, which were elaborated upon theoretically, were working under the surface, meaning that the law was not so flexible or casuistic. Such doctrines prevented judges from ruling on a case22 23 24 25 26 27

See Choe 2006. See Zimmermann 2012: 61–64. For China (and Korea), compare Nemoto 1978: 356–360. See Schulz 1953: 9; Wolff 1951: 94. See Park 2012: 164–166. See Schulz 1953: passim; Kunkel 2001. This opinion goes against the common opinion represented by the late Max Kaser (1906– 1997). There is also a mediating opinion which does not consider the issue as of practical importance. See Knütel 2008: 236–240.



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by-case basis, as the particular circumstances of the case in question require in the eyes of the judge. It is revealing that non-European countries such as Japan and Korea quickly adopted the Continental codifications – for example, the French or German civic codes, which incorporated much of Roman law – instead of English Common Law.28 (4) It is noteworthy that these jurists were versed in both military affairs, as officers, and civil affairs, as politicians. Human beings live in an environment which consists of natural surroundings on the one hand and social environments on the other. The former is the world in which the laws of nature impose necessary demands, while the latter is the milieu in which ample room for expediency and flexibility exists. As a sphere of legal norms, law likewise has two characteristics: law as a rule and law as a principle. Every legal order has to balance both aspects of law reasonably in order to establish an optimal legal order. It cannot function properly if it neglects either of these aspects. The personal careers of Roman jurists made them very aware of the nature of law in this respect. The literati of traditional Chinese and Korean societies, however, had by nature shown a one-sided tendency toward principle orientation over rule orientation; as such, a balanced consideration of both aspects was neglected. (5) Roman jurisprudence was fundamentally centered upon the city of Rome.29 The jurists in Rome had no interest in other sources of law, such as local customary law. In China and Korea as well, the law of the king as the sovereign ruler of the land prevailed.30 Such tendencies did not allow civil society to develop its own customs and customary law apart from the state. The reasons for the predominance of centralized state law were different, but the results seem very similar. The Characteristics of Roman Jurisprudence as a Legal Science 2.4 If we now turn our attention to Roman jurisprudence itself, we find several distinct characteristics here as well. These traits are of crucial importance, as modern legal science shares them. This is, of course, the result of a historical learning process, which began mainly in the eleventh century, with the glossators in Bologna.31

28 29 30 31



The character of the Continental ius commune as the descendant of Roman law has already been justly recognized by Koschaker 1966. See Choe 2007: 1–34. See Park 2012: 109. See, above all, Wieacker 1967: esp. 45–70.

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(1) Roman jurisprudence was very strongly practice-oriented, precisely corresponding to Roman realism. At the same time, Romans developed a very theoretical legal science, departing from the philosophical anthropology of human beings and society. The legal doctrines they elaborated are still valid in modern law to a large extent. However, such speculative fields as legal philosophy and comparative law were not deemed to be the proper sphere of jurists. The typical Roman motto philosophari se velle, sed paucis32 was also valid for Roman jurists without much ado. (2) The Romans established a clear-cut division between public law and private law, which corresponded to the basic socio-anthropological notion of the state and society. The goals and the logic of these separate spheres of law were different: public law was intended to establish the Roman commonwealth, while private law protected individual interests (D.1.1.1.2). This view has persisted since ancient times. It concerns, among other things, the fundamental understanding of the relationship between society and the individual. In China and Korea, quite a different idea prevailed: a society of any type and size was only an extended sphere of human action and reaction in which, in principle, the same moral principles should be applied to both individuals and mediating social groups of varying sizes. Even the state and the empire were considered to be a society and were structured accordingly. In Rome, on the contrary, the structural principles of society were distinct from and not covered by the moral principles pertaining to individuals. Such an idea has prevailed at least since Aristotle’s Ethica Nicomachea (Nicomachean Ethics), V.II.11, 1130b 28–29 / V.VI.9, 1134b 16–17.33 (3) Roman jurists were mainly interested in the field of private law (ius privatum). This means that they considered the private lives of Roman citizens as the most valuable part of the law. They acknowledged this privateness (Kor.: sa; Chin.: si) as a natural condicio humana, with the pursuit of private interest (utilitas privatorum) as the legitimate activity of a person who was taken to be the proper subject of a legal world (D.1.1.1.2 cit.). Such an affirmation of privateness from the outset is a salient point, one which distinguishes Rome from China and Korea. In the Far Eastern world, privateness etymologically stood for egoistic appropriation of the goods of the outer world, which led to conflicts among the members of society and thus had a pejorative connotation.34 32 33 34

Cicero, De re publica 1.30, Tusculanae disputationes 2.1, De oratore 2.156; Aulus Gellius, Noctes Atticae 5.15.9; Apuleius, Apologia 13. See Choe 2011b: 42. See Schott 1844: 49 [s.v. see (no. 115/5)]: ‘particulare. secretum. injustum. amor sui inordinatus.’



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(4) As mentioned above, Roman jurisprudence was basically a jurist-made law; Roman jurists were legal professionals, similar to modern law professors. They were legal professionals who produced doctrinal law as a result of ­disputatio fori (D.1.2.2.5), a rational collective process of opinion-building (communis opinio) over hundreds of years. The legal expertise and authority a jurist enjoyed among his peers were deemed decisive in this process.35 The scientific character of Roman jurisprudence can also be traced in the process of founding the schools (sectae), which was also promoted by the state (D.1.2.2.52–53).36 (5) As mentioned above, Roman jurisprudence balanced both aspects of the legal norm: that of principle and that of rule. This was reflected in the ­formulation of Celsus (active between 100 and 130 CE): ius est ars boni et aequi (D.1.1.1.pr). The legal science for which Justinian used the term scientia legitima37 is a science which consists of two elements: the scientific technique (ars) and the principles of bonum et aequum that qualify this technique. It is noteworthy that in this formulation of Classical jurisprudence, the main aspect was ars – a rule-oriented, practical reasoning led by the principle of material justice (iustitia).38 In contrast to this vision, China and Korea viewed law as instrumental for statecraft, thus stressing criminal law as the sanctions of the ruler. (6) Roman jurisprudence particularly emphasized on the formal aspects of law. In the traditional legal spheres of China and Korea, no great attention was ever paid to legal formalities. What China and Korea endeavored to achieve was to resolve the distress of the parties to a conflict (dolorem tollere iniuriae) with little regard for the legal formalities. This notion of justice was buttressed by the age-old political ideal of the sage-king39 and was flexible enough to satisfy the people’s sentiments regarding justice. In this regard, the idea of res ­iudicata in Roman law (D.50.17.207), which consistently led to effective execution (as early as in the Twelve Tables III.1), seems to be quite ingenious. This is all the more understandable when we consider that the ruling class more frequently referred to morality, mainly to Neo-Confucian morality, in ­Joseon Korea (1392–1897). This tendency did not change until the end of the dynasty, in the late nineteenth century. According to Roman jurists, law does not function to make people good: 35 36 37 38 39



See Kunkel 2001: 272–289, 318–345. See Stolfi 2008: 9–29, esp. 22–27. See also Schulz 1953: 119–123. C. Imperatoriam § 4; C. Omnem pr, § 2, § 5; C. Tanta § 9 = C.1.17.2.9 (a.533). See Choe 1990: 167–181. See Butler 1997: 169–182.

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D.1.3.7 Modestinus 2 regularum: The force of a law is this: to command, to prohibit, to permit, or to punish.40 Such a notion perfectly coincides with the fact that Roman statutes (leges) had no prooemium, in contrast to those of other Mediterranean laws.41 On the contrary, Roman jurists were rather inclined to limit the domain of legal regulations according to morality: D.50.17.144.pr Paulus 62 ad edictum: Not everything which is lawful is honorable. (7) Another trait of Roman jurisprudence is its integration of intellectualism and voluntarism. Law is a social norm enforced by legitimate authority, but law’s addressees respect it not only because it is authoritative, but also (and more importantly) because it is reasonable. Law is formally a product of a willed decision (voluntas, auctoritas), but it is also substantially rational (ratio), which entitles it to be respected. The traditional laws of China and Korea lack conscious elaboration in this respect, although the practice clearly showed a mixture of both elements. The end effect in reality was that the voluntaristic element predominated, since the intellectual side was not deemed to be a reliable guide in the administration of law. (8) As mentioned above, Romans were traditionalists, but they were also successful in balancing tradition and innovation in law. The age-old ius civile was preserved with care, but this made up only part of their law, because another part, known as ius honorarium, functioned smoothly as a reforming element of law. The magistrates, especially the praetors, were quite concerned with this aspect of law, so they supported, supplemented, and amended ius ­civile according to their legal policies (D.1.1.7.1; D.1.1.8). The coexistence of these two bodies of law seems very peculiar, considering how it divided the work among different legal staff. It adjusted the functions of law and policy, which had previously caused tension, in an exemplary way – one which no other society had experienced. China and Korea had no cor­ responding counterpart.

40 41

From this point on, English translations are taken from Watson 1998. See, above all, Ries 1983: esp. 127–211.



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2.5 The History of Roman Jurisprudence It has often been pointed out that the most conspicuous virtue of Roman law is its jurisprudence. Roman jurisprudence had developed since the secularization of the pontifical jurisprudence based on the Twelve Tables and had made great progress since the Romans encountered Greek high culture, as Rome became the master of the Mediterranean world after its victory over Carthage. Roman jurisprudence absorbed philosophical ideas, especially those of the Stoics and the Skeptics and their school, and processed them into Roman law. Thus Roman jurisprudence developed two grand streams of legal science in the time of Cicero.42 The decisive global influence of Roman law was secured by Justinian’s famous Corpus Iuris Civilis, which functioned as the textual basis for future developments of law in the Byzantine Empire and in Europe, above all, since the High Middle Ages. The Far East – including Japan, Korea, and China – also adopted elements of Roman law to a great extent in their pro­ cesses of modernization. With this historical background in mind, the next section sketches the footprints of Roman law in Korea. 3

Korea’s Contact with Roman Law in the Twentieth Century

Korea did not have a chance to encounter Roman law until the beginning of the twentieth century. The literary evidence, which shows that Korean intellectuals knew Roman law in one way or another, first appeared in 1909, right before the Japanese annexation of the land in 1910. A scholar called Jeong-Yu Hong wrote an article titled ‘The Task of Legal Science’ in a journal which was intended to enlighten the public.43 It was basically a sketch of European legal history, from Classical antiquity (Greece and Rome) to Japanese and Korean reception of European laws. Another key publication was an article which Beom-Seong Lee published in the same journal in the same year.44 The title is revealing: ‘Freemen of Roman Law.’ It was, as far as I know, the first article in Korea that addressed Roman law directly. With this article, he established the

42

43 44



Here, I agree with and follow Okko Behrends (born in 1939), who has devoted his life’s work to this issue (see the bibliography in Behrends 2014: 559–577). For methodology, see Behrends 1996: 1–69; for the (generally dissociative) reactions, see Kaser and Knütel 2014: 4–5. Hong 1909: 13–16. Lee 1909: 32–34.

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Korean tradition of stressing the value of liberty. Aside from these articles, we cannot find any further trace of Roman law at that time. Japan forcefully occupied Korea in 1910. Japanese colonial rule, which continued for thirty-five years and ended with the defeat of Japan in World War II (1945), for all its defects and distortions, has brought a completely different legal system to Korea. The legal system under Japanese colonial rule was virtually modern, but it was strongly distorted when the colonial authorities thought necessary, especially when it concerned Koreans. It introduced new forms of court organization and procedures, as well as new material law and new systems of legal education. However, its measures were often stained with negative effects, leading to the exploitation of the Korean people. 4

Roman Law in the Republic of Korea

Restoration of the Rule of Law 4.1 After Korean liberation from Japanese rule in 1945, the urgent task was to build a new nation and to restore the genuine rule of law. This process was indeed very difficult and troublesome due to the conflicting policies of the surrounding powers, especially the USSR and the USA, the victorious partners of World War II. In the end, the land was divided into two parts: North Korea and South Korea. In the North, where the People’s Democratic Republic of Korea (Joseon) came to power, an entirely different legal system of communism or pseudocommunism gained ground. Since then, North Korea has thoroughly alienated itself from the tradition of Roman law. In the South, the Republic of Korea was founded in 1948, with the official approval of the UN, as the only legitimate state on the Korean peninsula. Its 1948 Constitution proclaims that ‘the Republic of Korea shall be a democratic republic,’ and that ‘the sovereignty of the Republic of Korea shall reside in the people, and all state authority shall emanate from the people’ (Art. 1). It also declares the rights and duties of citizens and structures state organizations, keeping the principle of the separation of powers and of checks and balances among them. The Korean legal system was completed during the 1960s, despite the setbacks caused by the Korean War (1950–1953), which was illegally ini­tiated by North Korea. The most important legal codes came into existence during this period: the Code of Criminal Procedure (1954), the Criminal Code (1958), the Civil Code (1958), the Code of Civil Procedure (1960), and the Commercial Code (1962). One of the most significant events in the legal sector was the introduction of the Constitutional Court in 1988. Since then, the fundamental rights of citizens have been effectively protected. The idea of fundamental 

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law and of judicial review conducted by a constitutional court may be traced back to Cicero (De legibus 1.42, 2.13).45 Elements of Roman Law in Korean Law Law as the Structural Basis of the Nation and the Constituting Body of Norms for Civil Society Law evidently functions as the structural basis of the nation, on the one hand, and the constituting norms for civil society on the other. The most valuable factor upholding the Republic of Korea lies not only in details, but predominantly and more essentially in fundamental programs. The very polity of the republic is unthinkable without Roman res publica. In nearly all of these aspects of law – the basic ideas of constitutional law, the rule of law, and the general spirit of law valid in the legal order of Korea – there are undeniable in­ ­fluences of Roman law, which we do not need to point out one by one. It must be noted, however, that the freedom and equality of all citizens,46 two pivotal axes of the Korean legal order, belong to the most valuable heritage of Roman law. It should also be noted that private law, functioning in the spirit of Roman law,47 is one of the most fundamental guarantees of the basic rights of the citizen in the constitutional order.48 Such private law is the most significant constituent in Korea’s legal order. 4.2 4.2.1

Legal Principles, Legal Rules, and Legal Reasoning Adopted from Roman Law As for the other fields of law outside constitutional law, Roman legal tradition has formed this culture as well. In 2014, Korea celebrated the 120th anniversary of modern legal science, which dates to the Gabo Year (1894). To trace the imprint of Roman law on Korean law in detail would be superfluous. Roman law, in the form of modernized Western law, has permeated Korean law in all its aspects – in legal institutions, legal norms, legal theories, legal reasoning, and legal education, among others.

4.2.2

45 46 47 48



See Choe 2006: 144–145. On freedom, see D.1.1.4; Cicero, Pro Cluentio 146; on equality before the law, see the Twelve Tables 9.1 (Cicero, De legibus 3.11); D.1.3.8. See Choe 2006: 196–201. See Behrends 1991: 195–208.

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(a) Every Korean law student reads in their law books that the legal system itself comes from Roman law, refined by the generations of jurists through history and lucidly reshaped, particularly by the German Pandectists.49 (b) The Korean Civil Code (KCC) has adopted Roman law in many of its concrete provisions. For clear examples, we can conveniently refer to Rolf ­Knütel.50 Such examples unequivocally demonstrate the close relationship ­between Korean law and Roman law. The most famous of these are Art. 2 KCC, proclaiming the basic legal principle of trust and good faith (bona fides), and Art. 103 KCC, incorporating good morals (boni mores), both of which are typical Roman concepts.51 (c) One of the most significant changes Korea has experienced since its modernization is a change in the methodology of legal reasoning. The traditional method of legal reasoning is characterized by abduction or retroduction, rather than the deduction or induction practiced by Roman jurists. The difference is apparent in criminal law, which proceeds not from the input side of the criminal act (Tatbestand) to the ensuing legal liability and punishability (Strafbarkeit) and consequence (Rechtsfolge), but rather from a desired output or outcome (a legal effect in view of the Strafwürdigkeit).52 Once this has been established, the norm which best matches the situation is sought. Argumentation is disguised as deductive logic. The norm that seems to correspond best to the present situation might be found in the reservoir of authoritative legal texts of the past and applied as such, modified for the present case, or, if necessary, eventually worked out in one way or another.53 Anaology is understandably one popular method of adjustment.54 The attitude of Roman law was indeed different. Modern Korean law shares its legal reasoning methodology with Roman law. Some New Instances of Roman Law in Action 4.2.3 Recent developments show, however, that Korean law has incessantly incorporated such legislative measures as Roman law once practiced, even though the similarity is perceived by almost no one in the process of legislating. Indeed, it may be explained as an accidental concurrence, because it can be said to be 49 50 51 52 53 54

What Rolf Knütel said about contemporary German law with regard to concepts and structures (Knütel 2008: 322–323) is on the whole also valid for Korean law. Knütel 2008: 322–337. See Behrends 1978: 15–50; Choe 1999: 360–362. For both concepts, see Schmidhäuser 1970: 17–20. For further details, see Cho 2007: 104–124. See Choe 2011b: 42–43.



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part of ‘ewige Wiederkehr von Rechtsfiguren’ – that is, the perpetual recurrence of legislative measures, as the Austrian Roman law scholar Theo MayerMaly (1931–2007) once ascertained with respect to the recurrence of Roman legislative concepts in history.55 Here are some obvious examples: (a) The best instance is the introduction of the legal reservation of inheritance for the inheritors against the testamentary dispositions of the deceased on December 31, 1977, (Art.1112ff. KCC). This corresponds in its spirit and rulings to the Roman quarta legis Falcidiae (40 bc; D.35.2; C.6.50; Inst.2.22). (b) Another instance is the introduction of the preparation for pleading (Art. 272ff. Korean Civil Procedure Act) in 2008. Except for some formal requirements, it reminds one in its function of Roman litis contestatio in the formulary process. The oral statement has been emphasized in this regard. (c) Another instance also testifies that Korean law is a true successor of Roman law. The case concerns the acquisitive prescription of immovable property by possession, as regulated by Article 245 s. 1 KCC. The Supreme Court of Korea continued to interpret this provision, deviating from Roman law, in such a way that the possessor did not need to produce a just title (titulus iustus or iusta causa). The result was a flood of cases in which possessors rather easily acquired the immovable property of others, and this process was accelerated by the standing decisions of the same court, which took for granted the presumption of the animus domini on the part of the possessor, with respect to Art. 197 s. 1 KCC. On my suggestion, which was based on Roman law,56 the Great Senate of the Supreme Court changed its ruling in 1997 (Great Senate of the Supreme Court, 95Da28625, August 21, 1997), requiring a just title on the part of the possessor. Since then, the acquisition of ownership of immovable property by way of a prescription has naturally been restrained. These practical cases demonstrate that Roman law, especially Roman private law, is still something which has a doctrinal authority in Korea and becomes operative when necessary, as Goethe once metaphorically depicted: Roman law is like a floating duck – it dives deep but never sinks down to the bottom, and it incessantly re-emerges on the surface.57

55 56 57



See Mayer-Maly 1971: 1–3; Knütel 2008: 358–359. See Choe 1996: 101–141. See Stein 1999: 116; Wieacker 1967: 126.

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Conclusion

I have aimed to trace the footprints of Roman law in Korea in both general and particular terms. The modernity of Korean law is, as a whole, the result of the adoption of Roman law incorporated into Western European law, which was transmitted through and transplanted by Japanese colonial rule in the first part of the twentieth century. The substantial contents of Korean law as well as its mode of thinking, with its basic anthropology and basic legal concepts, are all unthinkable without the lingering influence of Roman law. As time goes on, Korean law is developing into a peculiar body of law which, building on this basis and incorporating as well as amending traditional elements of law, especially in family law, now becomes a new modern law sui generis. But the fundamental Roman ideas of law and of justice embodied in law remain firmly rooted in Korean law, waiting for their concrete implementations day after day. Roman law is present and valid in modern Korean legal culture.

References Cited

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Chapter 21

Western Classics at Chinese Universities – and Beyond: Some Subjective Observations Fritz-Heiner Mutschler I begin with the disclaimer that I am not an expert on the reception of Western Classics in China. Instead my scholarly interest, as far as China is concerned, lies rather in the field of the comparative study of Western and Chinese antiquity. On the other hand, as a quarter of a century ago I taught Western Classics for four years in China’s northeast, and right now am enjoying a similar longterm appointment at Peking University, I am probably in a position to say something about certain developments concerning our fields of study in the People’s Republic. Thus I felt that I should not refuse Professor Renger’s request to contribute some personal observations to this conference and the ensuing volume. 1

The Early Years: Around 1900

Academia 1.1 Perhaps it is best to start with the year 1988 when I first came to China.1 I had applied for the position of foreign expert in Western Classics at IHAC, the Institute for the History of Ancient Civilizations, at Northeast Normal University in Changchun, the capital of Jilin province in China’s northeast. The institute had been founded three years before, mainly thanks to the initiative of Lin Zhi­ chun or Ri Zhi (pen name), at that time one of the grand old – and influential – men in historical studies in China.2 Prof. Lin had been able to convince the government that in order to bring the study of the Western (from the Chinese point of view) ancient civilizations up to world level, an institution was need1 The following text keeps closely to the paper delivered at the Berlin conference. This is to say that its perspective is that of 2013. Since then the development of Western Classics in China, as that of most other things has continued with new twists and turns. They could not be taken into account here any more and will have to be the object of a follow-up on another occasion. For linguistic support I thank my friends Gerard O’Daly and Helen Wallimann. 2 For a more detailed description of the situation in these years, see Mutschler 1995. Concerning Lin Zhichun’s academic achievements, see Wang Dunshu 1999, 1–11.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_023



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ed where Egyptology, Sumerology, Assyriology, Hittitology, and Western Classics, as well as the respective languages would be taught, for the time being, by ‘foreign experts.’ I was hired for a year as the school’s expert in Western Classics, but in the end I stayed in Changchun for four years. First of all, I tried to familiarize myself with the general situation of Western Classics at Chinese universities. It turned out that students majoring in history and philosophy, and also some of those majoring in English or other European languages, did get a certain amount of instruction on ancient Greece and Rome. Every student in a history department had to take courses in Ancient World History (meaning, ancient history outside China), and one of those courses would be devoted either entirely or for the most part to the history of Greece and Rome. Thus a Chinese history student would have a certain idea of the Greek city-states, the Hellenistic kingdoms, and the Roman Empire, would have heard of Pericles and Alexander the Great, of Caesar and Augustus. Similarly, philosophy students also had to take courses providing an introduction to Western ancient philosophy, in particular Greek philosophy, in which they would learn about Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, etc., and their teachings. Finally, in some foreign language departments one could find courses on ‘The Western Tradition’ or the like, in which Greek and Roman antiquity played an appropriate role. Compared with this general curriculum, the program offered at IHAC was more ambitious. Every year the institute in Changchun would recruit students from history, philosophy, or foreign language departments all over the country for the third and fourth years of their BA studies. For this period the students were to choose (more or less freely) one of the subjects taught at the institute3 as their major. They had to take lecture classes on political and cultural history in their own and neighboring fields, attend introductory seminars in their chosen field, and study one or two of its ancient languages; for example, students of Western Classics were required to learn both Greek and Latin. If students wanted to continue after completing their BA program, they had to enroll in more specialized seminars and language classes for another two years. In the third year they would write their MA thesis. At the same time, doctoral candidates were accepted and supervised by the foreign experts. In order to promote scholarship, the institute’s leadership had also begun to put together a library which, in the institute’s areas of research, was soon to become one of the best in the country. Moreover, the Journal of Ancient Civilizations had been founded, and in the course of the next years the institute started a series of bilingual edi3 See p. 430.



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tions of (mostly) Greek and Roman texts. All of this was quite impressive and made me proud to be part of the endeavor. On the other hand, in time it became clear to me that already long before the foundation of IHAC there had been cases in which, because of outstanding individuals, at certain institutions the study of Western Classics had been particularly furthered, and that this was still true at present. Thus I learned about people like Zhou Zuoren,4 Zhu Guangqian,5 Luo Nian­ sheng,6 and others who in the first decades of the twentieth century had ­studied in Japan or in the West and, after their return to China, as teachers, translators, and interpreters, had become important transmitters of Western (mostly Greek) Classical literature and thought. I was also fortunate enough to personally become acquainted with some men who, being several years younger than the aforementioned, had not had the opportunity to study in Japan, the US, or Western Europe but nevertheless became engaged in the study of Western Classical antiquity and were in different ways very successful. Here are three examples. 4 The academic teacher, essayist, and translator Zhou Zuoren (1885–1967), the younger brother of Lu Xun, the main representative of modern Chinese literature, is one of the most prominent and most disputed figures in the history of the encounter between China and Western Classical antiquity. In 1906 Zhou went to Tokyo to study architecture, but, like his brother who had come to Japan to study medicine, he soon turned away from his original intention and focused on his literary interests, which included ancient Greek language and literature. After his return he was active both as an academic and as a writer. From 1917 on he held a professorship at Peking University, where he taught, among other things, Greek language and literature. He gained a reputation as a collaborator when he served as Dean of Letters at Peking University under the control of the Japanese occupiers and in 1941 even became Commissioner of Education in Manchukuo, the Japanese satellite state in Manchuria. After the liberation he was sent to prison for three years but was later pardoned and allowed to return to Beijing, where he worked as an essayist and translator until he met his death during the Cultural Revolution. He translated Euripides and Aristophanes, Herondas and Theocritus, and above all his favorite author, Lucian. 5 Zhu Guangqian (1897–1986) studied literature, philosophy, art history, and psychology in Edinburgh, London, Paris, and Strasbourg from 1925 to 1933. In 1933 he returned to China and worked in the Foreign Language Department at Peking University. During the Japanese occupation he left Beijing and taught at Sichuan University and Wuhan University. After the liberation he returned to Peking University. He was well known for his ‘World Literature’ course, which included Homer, Greek tragedy, Plato, Virgil, and other Greek and Roman writers. His particular research interest was in aesthetics and the psychology of the arts, and his main publications are still widely read today. In this thematic context he translated, in the 1940s and 1950s, relevant sections of Plato’s dialogues. 6 See below p. 433.



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In August 1988 I had started my stay in China with a four-week Chinese class at the People’s University in Beijing. Little did I know that in the Philosophy Department of this university there was a professor who was an expert in Greek philosophy who had started translating Aristotle into Chinese. The name of that man was Miao Litian (1917–2000).7 A few years later I had the opportunity to meet him, and he was so kind as to give me a copy of his translation of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. For years Miao Litian taught Greek to quite a number of interested students. Some of them became professors of philosophy themselves and joined their teacher in the Aristotle Project, which finally came to its conclusion in 1997, providing the first translation of the complete works of the Greek philosopher into Chinese. A rather different but just as impressive figure is Wang Dunshu (1934–) from Nankai University in Tianjin.8 Wang Dunshu did not have the opportunity to study abroad either. One reason was that he came from a distinguished family of civil servants and his father had been in the diplomatic corps in pre-communist times. But this background was also the reason why Wang Dunshu received an excellent education as a child, both in the Chinese Classics and in English language and literature. Later he became a professor of Ancient World History at Nankai University, specializing in Greek history. His competence in English, rare among scholars of his generation, made it possible for him to gain a much clearer impression of Western scholarship than the large majority of his colleagues, and it enabled him, in the 1980s when this became politically feasible, to establish contact with a number of the foremost Western scholars and to invite some of them – such as, for example, Oswyn Murray and Elisabeth Rawson – to come to Tianjin for lectures. I myself got to know Wang Dunshu at an ominous time in June 1989, when he came to Changchun to attend two PhD defenses at IHAC. Three years later he invited my wife to teach ancient Near Eastern history and me to teach Greek and Latin for a term at Nankai, where he himself over the years supervised quite a few PhD students, who are now serving as professors in universities all over the country. In the fall of 1993 Wang organized the ‘First International Conference for Ancient World History,’ which was well attended, led to many new contacts between Chinese and Western scholars, and had a series of follow-ups, the latest of which took place in 2012, once again at Nankai University with Wang Dunshu as its honorary president. Finally I would like to introduce briefly another Chinese Western Classicist of outstanding merit with yet another background and another kind of academic career. Wang Huansheng (1939–) studied Russian at the Beijing Foreign 7 On Miao Litian as an Aristotle scholar, see Wang Zisong 2001. 8 For an autobiographical sketch, see Wang Dunshu 2003, 1–9.



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Language Institute (currently known as Beijing Foreign Studies University), and then went on to Russia, where he studied Greek and Latin at the Department of Languages and Literatures at Moscow University. After graduation he returned to China and worked until his retirement for the second important academic institution in China besides the universities, the Chinese Academy of Sciences (respectively, after its outsourcing, the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences) as an expert for Greek and Roman literature. When I met him at the beginning of the 1990s he had already made himself a name as one of the foremost translators of Greek and Roman literature, with translations of Homer’s Iliad, Virgil’s Aeneid, Greek and Roman dramas, etc., and was just finishing his History of Roman Literature. In the following years he continued in this style and found both national and international recognition for his outstanding achievements. The Performing and Other Arts 1.2 The presence of Western Classics was, however, not limited to the academic sphere. During my first weeks in China, Yang Zhi, daughter of the famous translator couple Yang Xianyi9 and Gladys Yang and my future superior at IHAC, invited me to a staging of Sophocles’ Antigone at the National Theatre in Beijing. As I learned, the production was not without connection to the academic sphere: The director, Luo Jinlin (1937–), was the son of Luo Niansheng (1904–1990), one of the scholars who, like the above-mentioned Zhu Guangqian, his senior by only a few years, had studied in the West – in his case both in the USA and in Greece. After his return home in 1934 he taught as a lecturer at Peking and Qinghua Universities before joining the Institute for Foreign Literature at the Academy of Sciences.10 By the end of the 1980s he had translated, among other texts much of Greek tragedy and took an active part in his son’s productions. Apart from Sophocles’ Antigone, these included Oedipus Rex by 9

10

It is worth mentioning that Yang Xianyi studied Classics in Oxford in the 1930s and after his return to China in 1940 had an arrangement to teach Greek and Latin language and literature at Southwest United University, the temporary union of Peking University, ­Qinghua University (both Beijing), and Nankai University (Tianjin) located in Kunming. Because of the complicated situation at the time, things did not work out as planned. So, after having taught at several other institutions, Yang and his wife, Gladys, following the foundation of the People’s Republic, were hired by the Foreign Language Press in Beijing, where the two of them translated a large number of classical and modern Chinese works into English. In between, Yang Xianyi still found time to write small articles on Greek and Roman antiquity and to translate Homer’s Odyssey and some Roman comedies into Chinese. For the whole story of this most interesting life, see Yang 2002. Short informative articles on Luo Niansheng, both in English and in German, can be found on Wikipedia.



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the same poet and Euripides’ Medea. As Luo Jinlin told me in an interview I had with him in 1990, these productions did not aim at a historicist reconstruction of Greek tragedy, but at the fruitful amalgamation of an ancient Greek art form with comparable Chinese traditions. On the whole, they were well received by the Chinese public, and Oedipus Rex was even broadcasted by the state TV network. Apart from literature, there was also art and architecture. On the one hand, the large bank building in the city center of Changchun turned out to be a perfect example of Classicistic colonial architecture: a mixture of a Doric temple and a modern concrete block, built in the 1930s when Changchun was the capital of the Japanese satellite state of Manchukuo. As one of numerous relics of Northeast China’s semi-colonial past, the building could not count as an example of voluntary adoption. But I felt justified in taking it as an indication of such adoption when, not long after my arrival, on my way to the university, I ran into a young man who was carrying the head of Augustus of Primaporta under his arm – or, to be precise, a plaster reproduction of the head. Owing to my nonexistent Chinese I did not even try to ask the young man whence, whither, why, and for what purpose he was carrying this head. A few weeks later I found a second head – a plaster cast of the so-called Pseudo-Seneca from the Villa dei Papiri in Herculaneum – in a small junk shop, not at the end of the world maybe, but certainly far beyond the end of the Roman world. There was no hesitating: I went in and bought it for next to nothing. And then it was me who was carrying a Roman plaster head through the streets of Changchun. It seemed probable that the two heads had something to do with each other. After some time, this supposition turned out to be correct. First I found out that Chinese art colleges and even some specialized secondary schools possessed larger or smaller collections of plaster casts of renowned Western art pieces. They were used as visual aids not only in courses on art history, but also for drawing and painting lessons. The biggest of these collections was that of the Central Academy of Fine Arts in Beijing which, as it turned out, reproduced and sold its casts in large quantities all over the country. I was told by a professor of the academy that the collection had been the first of its kind in China and that it owed its existence to the most famous Chinese painter of the twentieth century, Xu Beihong. Xu Beihong (1895–1953) had gone to Paris in the 1920s and stayed there for quite a number of years. During those years and later, after his return to China, on several trips to Europe, he assembled (among other things) a collection of plaster casts, which he donated to the Central Academy of Fine Arts after he became its president in 1949. Thus it seemed that many of the reproductions used in the following decades at Chinese art institutions, and among them possibly also the heads 

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of Augustus of Primaporta and of Pseudo-Seneca in Changchun, stemmed directly or indirectly from the Central Academy’s plaster cast collection, which had been initiated by Xu Beihong. I had no chance to verify my informant’s story, but I thought and still think: ‘Se non è vero è ben trovato.’ 1.3 The Church A third sphere in which Western Classics played a role in China is that of religion. This is not the place to elaborate on the history of the Christian mission in China, but one thing is worth mentioning. The true Archegetes for teaching Classics in China was not the famous Matteo Ricci, but a man who had come to the Far East three hundred years before his compatriot. In 1289, on behalf of the Pope, the Franciscan friar Giovanni di Montecorvino (1247–1328) started on a journey to the court of the principal Tartarian Khan.11 In 1294 he was the first European missionary to arrive at the destination of Khanbalik (= Beijing), China’s capital under the Mongolian Yuan Dynasty. There he stayed and pursued his missionary work until his death in 1328, having been consecrated archbishop of Khanbalik by Pope Clement V in 1308. However, another point is of particular interest in our context. In the first of three letters from Beijing to the Vatican,12 Giovanni reports inter alia: ‘I have also bought forty boys, sons of heathens, aged between seven and eleven one after the other [...] and I baptized them and taught them Latin and our rites.’ A little later he writes with self-irony: ‘And I say the mass with toddlers and infants gathering.’13 These passages from Montecorvino’s letter are the earliest evidence of Latin lessons in China. And although the subject was not Classical – that is, pagan – but Christian Latin, and above all the Christian rite in its medieval form, it was nevertheless the first instruction in one of the two Classical European languages on Chinese soil. The main reason I mention this is that when I came to China in the late 1980s, a comparable kind of instruction in Latin still – or rather once again – existed here. In the early 1980s, some of the Catholic seminaries – which had 11 12 13

For a concise survey of Giovanni’s missionary achievements, see Cameron 1970, 90–106. Wyngaert 1929, 335–355. Ibidem 347f. The complete quotation runs: ‘Item emi successive XL pueros, filios paganorum etatis infra VII et XI annorum, qui nullam adhuc cognoscebant legem, et battizavi eos, et informavi eos licteris [sic!] latinis et ritu nostro, et scripsi pro eis psalteria cum ymnariis XXX et duo breviaria, ex quibus XI pueri iam sciunt officium nostrum. Et tenent chorum et ebdomadas sicut in conventu, sive sim praesens sive non. Et plures ex eis scribunt psalteria et alia opportuna. Et dominus Imperator delectatur multum in cantu eorum. Campanas ad omnes horas pulso et cum conventu infantium et lactentium divinum officium facio.’



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been founded in the nineteenth century and, after surviving the first years of the Communist period, had been closed down during the Cultural Revolution – were allowed to reopen. Understandably enough, the demands made on the students were enormously reduced compared to those of earlier times. In 1990 I had the opportunity to talk to Tu Shihua, then the head of the Chinese Catholic Institute of Theology and Philosophy in Beijing, and learned that the training of priests at this institution comprised six years of instruction altogether, including two years of Latin. These Latin lessons were supposed to provide the students with elementary grammar and vocabulary knowledge, mainly to enable them to say the Latin mass. The students were not introduced to pagan Latinity. On the whole, my impression was that Catholic seminaries still had some importance for China’s encounter with ‘Western Classics,’ but that this importance was very limited and heading toward further decline. 2

Nowadays

As I indicated at the outset, I have been so lucky as to have the opportunity to teach Western Classics in China once again, this time at the newly founded Centre for Western Classics at Beijing University. As many have said, the China of nowadays, in the mid-2010s, is barely recognizable as representing the same country as the China of a quarter-century prior. In many areas the changes that can be observed are breathtaking. In the field of Western Classics there are changes too, of course. But they are less spectacular. Academia 2.1 Thus, as far as the academic world is concerned, one can start by pointing to a number of continuities. Just as in the 1980s and 1990s, the academic world comprises the Chinese Academy or Academies of Sciences and the universities, and both here and there a certain number of people occupy themselves with Greco-Roman antiquity. Secondly, the instruction many students receive about ancient Greece and Rome is still structured in the same way, comprising mainly general survey courses for students of philosophy, history, and literature. The Institute for the History of Ancient Civilizations (IHAC) at Northeast Normal University is still the only institution that continuously employs one or two ‘foreign experts’ to teach and conduct research in the field of Western Classics. It sill runs a special program in Classics, and it still publishes its Journal of Ancient Civilizations and, under the directorship of Zhang Qiang, a former



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IHAC-student himself, continues with its series of bilingual editions of Greek and Latin texts.14 However, the caliber of the institute is no longer as exceptional as it had been at the end of the 1980s. In the meantime an increasing number of Chinese students and colleagues have had or have the opportunity to study or research Greek or Roman history, literature, or philosophy at Western institutions, and most of them return to China to take up professorships at good universities. Accordingly, the number of Chinese universities where the teaching of Western Classics transcends general introductions or surveys is growing. I begin with the one I am most familiar with: Peking University. ‘Beida,’ as it is called in China, has a relatively old but repeatedly interrupted tradition of teaching Western Classics in one way or another. At present the decisive institution for the field is the Centre for Western Classical Studies. It was formally founded a few years ago, and it owes its establishment to a favorable constellation of persons: Huang Yang (1965–), a former student of IHAC who received his PhD in Greek history from King’s College London at the beginning of the 1990s and, after teaching for several years at Fudan University in Shanghai, joined Beida’s History Department in 2009; some influential staff in the university administration with a deep interest in the foundations of Western culture; and a few younger colleagues with Western PhDs in the Philosophy Department and in the School of Foreign Languages. Up to this point, the center offers students majoring in history, philosophy, or foreign languages the possibility of acquiring a special competence in Western Classics. In order to do so, they have to enroll in a certain number of language and other courses offered at the center. The first group of six students who chose the Western Classics option graduated last summer, and three of the six were accepted for MA/PhD programs at the Sorbonne, Columbia University, and Cornell University. This is a hearty and encouraging beginning. Nevertheless, it is clear that further advancement is required, and that this will demand good judgment and careful planning. This applies also to other places where similar developments can be observed, upon which, unfortunately, I can touch only very briefly. Thus, Latin and/or Greek courses and more specialized courses in Greek and Roman history are offered in several history departments around the country – for example, at Nankai University in Tianjin, at Fudan University in Shanghai, at Southwest Normal University in Chongqing, and at Huazhong Normal Univer-

14

There are now fifteen volumes available: eight with Greek works, seven with Latin works. Among the translators are Luo Niansheng and Wang Huansheng. 

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sity in Wuhan,15 to name only a few. In these, as in some other departments, the colleagues also supervise MA or PhD theses in Greek and Roman history. A similar situation exists in some departments of philosophy and foreign languages – that is, where there are colleagues with a particular interest and competence in Western Classics who teach Greek and Latin languages and Greek and Roman philosophy and literature and instruct students to conduct research in those fields. One of these latter cases deserves a closer look: that of Liu Xiaofeng and his group. Liu Xiaofeng (1956-) – whom, unfortunately, I have not yet had the opportunity to meet personally – is obviously an important figure in China’s intellectual, and to a certain extent even political, circles. He started out as a student of Germanic languages, but then turned to philosophy and theology, in which he received a doctoral degree from the University of Basel in Switzerland. After his return to China, the Philosophy Department of Sun Yat-sen University in Guangzhou became his home base, but by now he holds special professorships at a number of other universities as well – most recently, at the People’s University in Beijing. In the course of time, Liu has assembled a large group of students or followers with whom he has started an ambitious program of translating and commenting Greek and Latin, mostly philosophical, texts. A few years ago Liu also founded the Chinese Journal of Classical Studies, which he is still editing. This journal is dedicated to the interpretation of the Classical texts of all great civilizations, but it seems that so far three-quarters of the articles address Greek (and a few Roman) texts. What is striking in almost all the articles is the limited discussion of secondary literature, which probably has to do with the Leo Straussian inclinations of the group and the belief that the deepest meaning of Classical texts reveals itself to the congenial reader more or less directly.16 Even this very brief and necessarily incomplete characterization of the Liu Xiaofeng school of Classical studies should make it understandable that there seems to be a certain tension between this group and those – just as solidly trained and as capable, but perhaps less charismatic – colleagues active in the field. On the whole, at any rate, it can be said that the level of scholarship on Western Classics has risen considerably. More and more colleagues are able to 15

16



The professors at Nankai (Wang Yixin, Yang Juping, and Ye Min), Southwest Normal (Xu Songyan), and Huazhong Normal (Xu Xiaoxu, who now teaches at People’s University) were all at some point students of Wang Dunshu’s; several of them also studied at IHAC. Currently teaching at Fudan are Huang Yang, who returned from Peking University; and Zhang Wei, who earned his PhD at Johns Hopkins with a dissertation on early Greek poetry. For an interesting analysis of the Straussian orientation of the journal, see the chapter by Shadi Bartsch in this volume.

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take into account Western scholarship, which is much more easily available than in earlier times, both in libraries and through the internet. At the same time the ideological constraints on scholarship are less tangible than before. Thus, nowadays one can find excellently informed introductory works to the different fields of Classics that present things in ways that stimulate the student not simply to absorb what he or she is offered, but to think critically about it. Xilashi yanjiu rumen: An Introduction to Greek History, by Huang Yang and Yan Shaoxiang,17 is a good example.18 The book is written on the basis of a solid knowledge not only of English and American, but also of French and German scholarship, and it presents history and research in a decidedly ‘problem-oriented’ way; that is, the authors do not simply tell the reader how things ‘really were’ but how scholars think that they might have been, and also why the opinions of some may be preferable to those of others. In this way the reader is drawn into the scholarly process and in the end may be left with more questions than answers, but at any rate with a clear idea of what research is about and how it was and should be pursued.19 A nice indication of where things stand right now was provided by the tenth meeting of East Asian ‘Western Classicists’ which I had the opportunity to attend in October 2013 in Beijing. It was the third time Chinese academics participated in this triennial meeting, which had been started forty years ago by South Korean and Japanese colleagues, and it was the first time the meeting was held in China. On the whole, the event was very gratifying, as it showed the Chinese scholars as being fully integrated into the community of East Asian ‘Western Classicists’ and – especially in the contributions of some of the younger colleagues – as in no way standing behind their Japanese and Korean counterparts, who had never to the same degree been cut off from Western scholarship. 2.2 The Church So far I have talked about Chinese colleagues who are engaged in teaching and research in Western Classics. But even in these brief remarks I should not leave unmentioned a group of Western foreigners that has recently become quite 17 18 19

Yan Shaoxiang (1962) comes originally from Hua Zhong Normal University in Wuhan, received his PhD at IHAC, and is now teaching at Capital Normal University in Beijing. Huang and Yan 2009. In the meantime the ‘Roman counterpart’ has appeared as well: Liu 2014. It is just as impressive in approach and execution. Liu Jinyu (1972–) is a Nanjing University graduate with a PhD in Roman history from Columbia University who holds a tenured professorship for Roman history at DePauw University, but also teaches regularly in China.



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active in the field as well. I refer to a number of Catholic clergymen who, in the course of the last few years, have gained a foothold in several universities where they are employed as regular academics. Thus, an Austrian Steyler missionary, Leopold Leeb (1967 -), went to Taiwan to study Chinese and Chinese philosophy, earned a PhD at Peking University in 1999, and has been working as a regular staff member at the People’s University since 2004, teaching mostly Latin language. His Chinese is very good and, being a very energetic person, he has published quite a number of useful tools for Chinese students of Latin, along with other works introducing Western Classical and medieval culture to the Chinese public. Another case is more recent. Beijing Foreign Studies University has for a long time had a ‘National Research Centre for Overseas Sinology,’ where early missionaries’ reports on China have been an important object of research. A few years ago the university employed an Italian Salesian of Don Bosco, Michele Ferrero (1967–), as a regular staff member. Ferrero, who is a sinologist by training, has integrated himself very well and last year succeeded in founding Latinitas Sinica: Centre for Latin Language and Culture in China. The center is active in teaching Latin, supporting research on the history of the Christian missionaries in China, organizing workshops, conferences and concerts with Latin songs, mostly Christian hymns, but sometimes, to the pagans’ delight, also including ‘Gaudeamus igitur.’ The center has also started publishing a Journal of Latin Studies in China, and I am sure there is more in store. A third case offers further proof of the variety of constellations one can find in the field of ‘Western Classics’ – if that’s what we still want to call it – in present-day China. Since 1998, at the University of International Business and Economics there has been a Center for Chinese Studies which provides oneyear courses on Chinese culture, originally for students of the twenty-eight Jesuit Universities in the US, but now also for students from other American schools. At the same time, however, the center serves as a research institution for the history of East-West relations, especially with regard to the Catholic mission in China. In this capacity, in the course of the last ten years, the center has been able to construct an excellent library on this topic. With wonderful early editions of the Jesuit classics on Chinese history, philosophy, and literature, the library is probably the best of its kind in China. The director of the center is a French Jesuit, Thierry Meynard (1963–), who, however, holds this directorship only as a second job, since for several years already he has been a professor of Chinese philosophy at Sun Yat-sen University in Guangzhou. One can thus see that ‘Western Classics’ figures in a variety of ways at an increasing number of Chinese universities, under the auspices not only of



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well-trained and active Chinese colleagues, but also of some holy men from the West. 2.3 The Less Fine Arts: Tourist Attraction and Decoration Finally, I would like to come back briefly to a phenomenon which I find particularly remarkable – namely, that Western Classical antiquity is gaining a place here and there in China even outside the academic sphere. I will not discuss further performances of Greek tragedies, like those of Antigone and Oedipus, produced by professional companies and presented inter alia in the great theater hall of Peking University.20 Instead I refer to the phenomenon that Western Classics, these days, seems to be reaching out not only beyond the academic sphere in the narrow sense of the word, but also beyond the sphere of so-called ‘educated classes.’ I will discuss three cases. I was informed about the first one by friends in Germany who pointed out to me an article in the online version of the German weekly Die Zeit.21 The article was about the village of Liqian, Yongchang county, in Gansu province, where the authorities had started to build – both metaphorically and literally – on the story that after the battle of Karrhae, some of Crassus’ soldiers had, perhaps, made their way to Western China.22 The goal was to instigate tourism and thus raise the standard of living in this bleak region. Many years ago I had read the book by Homer H. Dubs,23 in which he had proposed this theory. Now, as it seemed, it had started to bear fruit in a peculiar and very Chinese way. Something like a Sino-Roman ancient city site was to be built, hotels were planned, and great hopes were set on the Lanzhou-Urumqi high-speed railway and the G 30 Lianhuo expressway, which both pass near enough to bring the great masses of tourists. How everything will develop remains to be seen. Concerning the other two cases, I can serve as an eyewitness. In January 2013 I was invited to give a talk at the University of St. Joseph in Macao. Walking back from the department to the ferry station in the evening, my wife and I suddenly found ourselves in front of a Disneyland-like compound called 20

21 22

23

I should, however, mention that Luo Jinlin is still active and that under his co-directorship a group of Peking University students joined the 3rd International Youth Festival of Ancient Drama in Mycenae in April 2014 and staged a performance of Sophocles’ King Oedipus with great success. (accessed March 4, 2018). For some more evidence, see (accessed March 4, 2018), and (accessed June 1, 2018). Dubs 1957.



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‘Fisherman’s Wharf’ – probably built from gambling tax revenues – where the attention of passers-by was attracted not only by illuminated replicas of the Potala Palace in Lhasa and a Chinese Tang-Dynasty fortress, but also by lifesize mock-ups of Trajan’s Column and the Colosseum. I do not know to what extent these replicas might stimulate a deeper interest in Western Classical antiquity, but here or rather there they were, and probably still are. Finally, a particularly peculiar encounter of a similar kind. Above, I mentioned that already in the late 1980s, just after arriving in Changchun, I saw a young man on the street who was carrying a cast of the head of Augustus of Primaporta. On the national holiday in 2012, I had a comparable, but at the same time slightly different encounter. My wife and I were spending some days in Shanghai and had the idea of using the 1st of October for a visit to ­Hangzhou, supposed to be one of the most beautiful cities in China and only a forty-minute train ride away. The idea turned out to be not so good, for, as we heard the next day on TV, we ended up visiting Hangzhou with a million other sightseers. And that’s how it felt. But, anyway, while we were making our way through the crowds from the railway station to the famous West Lake, we suddenly passed a multi-story building whose main entrance gate was flanked by two life-size replicas of the Augustus of Primaporta, and this time not in pale white but in color. Since it was a holiday, it was not possible to find out anything concerning the background of this phenomenon, so that I now have a research project, the results of which I hope to be able to present on some other occasion. For the time being, however, I would like to take the development from a pale whitish head in 1988 to two life-size, colored statues in 2012 as a symbol of the growing significance of Western Classics in China.

References Cited

Cameron, Nigel (1976), Barbarians and Mandarins: Thirteen Centuries of Western Travelers in China. Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press. Dubs, Homer H. (1957), A Roman City in Ancient China. China Society Sinological Series 5. London: The China Society. Huang Yang 黄洋 and Yan Shaoxiang 晏绍祥 (2009), Xilashi yanjiu rumen希腊史研究 入门 (An introduction to Greek history). Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe. Liu Jinyu 刘津瑜 (2014), Luomashi yanjiu rumen 罗马史研究入门 (An introduction to Roman history). Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe. Mutschler, Fritz-Heiner (1995), ‘“Western Classics” im Reich der Mitte,’ Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der TU Dresden 44, no. 5: 45–52.



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Wang Dunshu 王敦书 (1999), ‘Kenhuang bozhong chuang xueye – xuegui zhongxi tong gujin’ 垦荒播种创学业 – 学贵中西通古今’ (Sowing seeds of scholarship on virgin soil: Thoroughly encompassing the past and the present of both China and the West), in ‘Zhongxi gudianwenming yanjiu’ bianxiezu 《中西古典文明研》编写组, Zhongxi gudian wenming yanjiu – qingzhu Lin Zhichun jiaoshou jiushi huadan lunwenji 中西 古典文明研–庆祝 林志纯教授九十华诞论文集 (Studies in Chinese and Western Classical civilizations – Essays in honor of Prof. Lin Zhichun on his ninetieth birthday). Changchun: Jilin renmin chubanshe. Wang Dunshu 王敦书 (2003), Yi shu tang shi ji 贻书堂史集 (Historical writings from the studio of books bequeathed to us). Beijing: Zhonghua shuju. Wang Zisong 汪子嵩 (2001), ‘Chen Kang, Miao Litian yu Yalishiduode zhexue yanjiu – jianlun xifang zhexuede yanjiu fangfa he fanyi fangfa 陈康,苗力田于亚里士多德哲 学研究 – 兼论西方哲学的研究方法和翻译方法’ (Chen Kang, Miao Litian and the study of Aristotle’s philosophy: And the method of research and translation in Western philosophy), Zhongguo Renmindaxue Xuebao 人民大学学报 (Journal of People’s University) 5, no. 4: 37–44. Wyngaert, Anastasius van den, ed. (1929), Sinica Franciscana I. Florence: Collegium S. Bonaventurae. Yang Xianyi (2002), White Tiger: An Autobiography of Yang Xianyi. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press.



Chapter 22

Western Classics in Japan: Memories of Bungakubu, Kyoto, 1997–2002 Elizabeth Craik For some thirty years, before working in Japan, I taught in the Department of Greek at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. While I do not regard myself as an expert on the Eastern reception of Classics – my five-year tenure in Japan being short and somewhat restricted – I hope that the following observations and the questions I address will be of some interest to those wishing to strengthen this emerging discipline.1 I was professor in Classics at Kyoto University (Kyodai) from March 1997 to March 2002: the academic year begins in the spring, just a few weeks after the entrance examinations are held and marked, but that is another story. When I told colleagues in the West that I was taking up a post in Kyoto, the general reaction was one of surprise, not at my courage, though at that too, but at the very existence of Classics as a subject in the universities of Japan. I think that now, fostered by academic exchange between individuals and by regular interaction at Classical meetings, there is more awareness in the West of the activities and achievements of our Japanese colleagues. I believe that the work of Japanese scholars deserves to be internationally recognized and that this is to our mutual benefit. I venture to make a few general comments on first impressions and the targeting of resources. Basic backup support from such staff as (departmental) secretaries and (faculty) computing officers was lacking. In all such practical matters, my two Classical colleagues were immensely helpful; I could not have functioned without their aid. And, to my surprise, many buildings were not adequately heated, cleaned, or maintained. I found that if I did not clean my own office it would remain untouched, so I quickly discovered the broom cupboard and used it weekly. There were some changes when a new building was opened: at least the corridors and toilets there were regularly cleaned. When I first came to work at Kyodai, the absence of controls and procedures – and in particular the degree of professorial autonomy – struck me forcibly. Such a system can work only if the participants are invariably scrupulously honest and free from prejudice. I was aware of no exceptions to this, and 1 See also the contributions of  Yaginuma (1997) and Minamikawa (2009), detailed at the conclusion of this chapter.  Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_024 ©

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observed no abuse of privilege. However, in our imperfect world there are bound to be unfortunate isolated cases, and it seems that at present there is scant means of isolating or correcting them. In my somewhat limited experience of faculty administration, the absence of debate at the faculty level, especially concerning policy, seemed strange to me. The setting and administration of entrance examinations was taken very seriously, but by contrast the marking was in some respects haphazard. For example, I became aware that one co-marker used only three marks! This crude assessment separated candidates into three broad categories – definite success, definite failure, and intermediate – but was in itself useless, as so many candidates fell in the intermediate category. In general, there was a rather arbitrary and subjective attitude to the business of marking. This attitude extended to undergraduate teaching. Once admitted, students received little formal guidance on their choice of major subject and of appropriate ancillary subjects. Once they had made their choices, they were likely to find no formal syllabus and no course outline. Once they had completed a course, they were subject to a rather random examination system, rather than to conditions uniform throughout the faculty. Arguably, in a system where it is unusual to fail, none of this matters. But that is an unusual educational system. One problem particular to Kyodai was the separation of the Graduate School of Letters from ‘Integrated Human Studies.’ It seemed that there was much casual and disorganized teaching at lower levels, where part-time teachers were employed, apparently on an ad hoc basis. (But I understand that steps have now been taken to address this situation.) The admission of students to the master course was, in my experience, well managed. However, once admitted, candidates were not always closely monitored. Such crucial aspects as selection of courses to be followed, calculation of accumulated ‘credit’ and coordination of coursework with thesis all tended to demand independent organization by the individual student. There was a lack of communication between the administrative bureau and the academic departments with regard to students’ choice of courses, fulfilment of requirements, and overall performance. Nevertheless, the final assessment of master course students was remarkably fair and rigorous, and high standards were maintained. Many of these comments about the master course apply a fortiori to the doctor course. In addition, it may be added that there was a tendency for students to work (or supposedly work) for a very long time before submitting a thesis. It seemed unfortunate to me that the process of doctoral examination depended heavily on the same academics who had admitted the student and supervised the work. Whereas professors in other subjects were invited to attend oral examinations, in practice this rarely happened; and the vote of assent 

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at faculty meetings was a mere formality. I recognize that in many cases it would not be easy to find an appropriate specialist from another university to serve as external examiner; but it seems desirable that some such judgment should be applied wherever possible. In some respects, the situation in Japan, at least with regard to the state universities, can be seen as analogous to that in Thatcherite Britain of the 1970s. There, the first agony of cuts and closures was followed by a protracted period of ever-increasing bureaucratic control. The new procedures in the UK have not been beneficial: ‘research assessment’ has tended to supplant research. It may seem paradoxical that I have commented adversely above on the lack of controls in Japan, while regretting the presence of controls in the West. But there is a difference between necessary control, securing academic integrity (e.g., in examinations) and unnecessary control, undermining academic freedom (e.g., constant monitoring of daily activities). The downside of controls and procedures regulating academic activities is that they divert time and effort from teaching and research, the primary business of a university, to the secondary business of keeping records. What’s in a name? Often, much. In St. Andrews, there used to be three separate and autonomous Classical departments (Greek, Latin, Ancient History); and ancient philosophy was a quite separate specialization in a further two departments (Moral Philosophy, and Logic and Metaphysics). When the three Classical departments became a ‘School,’ it was named for a time ‘Greek, Latin, and Ancient History,’ then simply becoming ‘Classics.’ When (decades ago) Greek and Latin introduced a non-linguistic course, there was more discussion of appropriate name than of appropriate content. ‘Classical Culture’ won out at that time; later this became ‘Classical Studies.’ With a modular degree structure, the distinctions between subject areas have become more blurred. There is more than one way to carve up our wide subject within the humanities. Questions of subject area, specialization, and definition are fundamental in any attempt at comparative treatment of ‘Classical Studies’ in Britain and Japan. What is ‘Classics’ in the UK? What is seiyokoten (Western Classics) in ­Japan? Are we comparing like with like? Why study Classics in the West today? Why study Classics in the East? Is the answer the same in both cases? There are obvious differences in historical sweep. In the West, we look back to the Renaissance, and to centuries when Classics held a dominant position in the university curriculum. In Japan, the Meiji restoration of 1868 marks the start of serious Westernization, a process well documented in the decorative arts, with a craze for Japonisme in Europe. Of course, there were contacts and influences before that time, notably in Kyushu. In the late sixteenth century, Portuguese Jesuits introduced the first Greek text to Japan – that of Aesop’s 

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fables, viewed as suitably improving moral material – and in the eighteenth century Dutch traders brought Hippocratic medicine to Dejima in Nagasaki Bay. Kyoto University recently celebrated the centenary of its Faculty of Letters. The Classical Society of Japan was founded just after the war ended in 1945. The buoyancy of the subject can be illustrated by the ongoing success of the society which meets every spring and which publishes a journal in Japanese, with English summaries appended. I was able to be present at the fiftieth annual meeting which took place at Tokyo University in May 1999 (during a weekend, of course – weekend working is a salient difference between East and West): it was attended by some two hundred of the society’s 570 members. Most of these members are employed in higher education, but very few in university departments of Classics: some teach English, or other European languages; some teach historical, philosophical, or cultural subjects. The occasion in Tokyo was marked by lectures of retrospective reflection by three distinguished professors who had made a major contribution in the development of Classical studies in Japan. Itoh Sadao gave an admirably lucid and wide-ranging account of the influence of Max Weber on historical thought and method, including that of his predecessor at Tokyo University, Murakawa Kentaro (1907–1991). Yaginuma Shigetake spoke of the pioneering founders of the society, especially Tanaka Michitaro (1902–1985) and Matsudaira Chiaki (1915–2006]) of Kyoto, and Kozu Harushige (1908–1973) of Tokyo; the atmosphere of the war years and of the postwar intellectual world was vividly evoked. Fujisawa Norio emphasized the importance of research on Greek philosophy and the origins of scientific thinking in our own ‘scientific’ age; he discussed the historical lines of demarcation between the three main areas of specialization (philosophy, history, and literature), deplored the fact that the gap seemed to be widening, and expressed the hope that the Classical Society of Japan could provide a bridge to permit a more synoptic view of the subject. In both the East and the West, the traditional divisions of the subject are literature, history, and philosophy; but we may note that the term tetsugaku, first appearing in 1874, was coined for Western philosophy. On the second and third days, the meeting followed its traditional pattern, giving a platform to young scholars (or junior scholars, some not so young) hoping to have their papers accepted for publication in the journal and/or hoping to find an established post. On that occasion, papers were delivered on a wide range of authors and topics: Statius’ Thebaid and Virgil’s Aeneid (comparison of emotional characteristics); Aristotle’s Poetics (oikeia hedone of tragedy); Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey (messenger scenes); Andokides (contemporary philia and hetaireia); Sextus Empiricus (relativism and skepticism); Euripides’ 

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Troades (Helen scene); Quintus Smyrnaeus (battle scenes); Aristotle’s De philosophia fr. 16; the Capitolium; the wine trade of Thasos. The conference ended with a lecture by Oshiba Yoshihiro, professor at Tokyo Metropolitan University, on Catullus 44. The list gives an impression of the range of interest in the subject; see also the publication ‘Forty Years of the Journal of Classical Studies’ (a collection of summaries in English, or in a few cases French or German, of papers published 1958–1998). The importance of establishing an international presence, as so few foreigners can read Japanese, is obvious. The ancient historians have pioneered the way, publishing pieces written in Japanese with English summary in traditional history journals such as Shigaku zasshi (Journal of historical study, University of Tokyo) and Shirin (History, Kyoto University). In textual studies, a new journal, Philologica, has been initiated, with the intention to publish some of its papers, or some of its issues, in English. And a new journal Japan Studies in Classical Antiquity, publishing papers in English, is off to a very good start. What do we in the West understand by the term ‘Classics’? The German term gives a good definition: Altertumswissenschaft, the study of the culture of Greece and Rome. By this is meant culture in the widest sense: language, literature, history, society, philosophy, religion, medicine, science, architecture, and artifacts. That is, Kultur, Kunst, and Philologie. But over the centuries the most important of these has perhaps been Philologie, the study of texts, or – to broaden this a little – of written materials, including epigraphy, papyrology, and numismatics. It is the culture of a wide time: circa 2000 BC – 500 AD, from the Early Bronze Age to the time of Justinian; or – in terms of texts – from the eighth century BC to the fifth century AD, from the time of Homer to that of Augustine. But some might range still more widely, regarding Byzantine and Modern Greek or Vulgar Latin as proper subjects of study for Classicists. It is the culture of a wide region: Persia to the east and Egypt to the south affect Greece; Rome conquers the Mediterranean world, France, for instance, being Roman Gallia, or Gaul. The main focus of study is: Athens of the fifth and fourth centuries BC, that is the time of the tragedians Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides, of the comic poet Aristophanes, of the lyric poet Pindar, of the historians Herodotus and Thucydides, of the philosopher Plato and of the orators Isocrates and Demosthenes; and Rome of the late republic and early empire, that is the time of the prose writers Cicero and Tacitus, and of the verse writers Virgil, Ovid and Juvenal. What then is the essence of Classical study? Texts? In the Renaissance, the prime concern was with the transmission of newly discovered texts. Establishing a text as close as possible to the author’s putative autograph is still an important scholarly activity; but now there is a different emphasis. The old 

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discipline of stemmatics, or establishing a family tree of manuscripts, has been much overlaid by new views about the importance of horizontal transmission and contamination of a text at source. How important is knowledge of the ancient languages? How deep should this knowledge be? When should it be acquired? Need the answer be the same for all Classicists? Clearly, archaeologists may get along without the languages. But what about historians? Or philosophers? There is now an important series of Oxford commentaries on Plato in translation. What is our response to this trend? In the UK, there has been a general change from purely linguistic learning to much ‘background’ study. The Classical languages are not now taught in many schools, and the situation is gradually worsening. Two main changes have resulted: the universities are faced with classes of adult beginners in the languages; and Classical texts are taught in translation, in courses on the ‘civilization’ or ‘culture’ of the ancient world. Can breadth of knowledge replace depth in understanding? What about standards? What is understood in Japan by the term seiyokoten? The list of topics covered in a typical issue of the journal of the Classical society of Japan answers the question: all of the above. There are some cases where the remoteness of Japan presents a problem: especially study involving artifacts. But the problem is not insurmountable. In this ‘Age of Globalization’ it is easy for students and scholars to travel abroad for specialist training and research. And the resources of Japan are not insignificant: to give two examples – the Greek-Roman museum of Kyoto has a fine collection, including a remarkable number of sarcophagi; and the magnificent library of early printed texts collected by Charles Brink is now located in Tokyo. Visionary individuals make good use of these materials. Library provision is inevitably patchy, though I must say that in Kyoto I always found it better than I expected; however, the library system was fragmented, with the result that there was much wasteful duplication of books and periodicals. Few Japanese scholars are willing to venture beyond a very limited field of specialization. Training has much to do with this: programs are not structured, and there is no recognition of the desirability of following a core syllabus, organized to include major authors and important topics, to permit later specialization from a broader base. In Japan, all beginners are adult beginners. We can hardly expect schools in Japan to teach Latin and Greek. However, I found in Japanese students a genuine wish to understand every nuance of the language – and this was true of pupils from history, philosophy, and aesthetics, as well as philology. When I taught a course on rhetoric and the development of Greek prose, I incorporated some exercises in English-Greek translation, culminating



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in prose composition, and the students responded to the new challenge with admirable enthusiasm. One activity very prominent and very important is translation, making Greek and Latin texts accessible to the Japanese reading public. There is a scheme to translate all of Greek and Latin literature. My good friend Professor Yaginuma completed Athenaeus as he neared his eightieth birthday – and promptly started work on Plutarch. The translated texts are published in a convenient and attractive pocket-sized format, and marketed to appeal to the station bookstall customer. Attitudes to reading are very different in Japan. Even fragments attract interest. Soon after I reached Kyoto, I was asked to write geppoh (inserts, akin to a publisher’s blurb) for Uchiyama Katsutoshi’s edited collection of fragments from the Pre-Socratics. The fragments of Menander and the fragments of Pindar have been ‘done,’ while those of Seneca are included in a major new six-volume translation of the complete works. Attitudes to education are very different too. When I gave a series of ‘pocket seminars’ (open to entrant students, with a quota imposed), I had a group of very dedicated engineers. And I like to recall the elderly lady who traveled on the shinkansen from Fukuoka every week for an entire semester to attend my course of lectures on Aristotle’s Poetics. Academic life is marked by continuity and change, or by new directions and false starts. There are marked differences in time and place. At the end of the nineteenth century, the new discipline of archaeology (allied with social anthropology) brought a different style of approach to the Classics. When Gilbert Murray said ‘Greece, not Greek, is the object of our study,’ he was challenging received ways of thinking. In the twentieth century, new scientific aids have revolutionized the entire academic world. The personal computer has brought changes comparable with those that attended the advent of the printing press. By comparison with specialists in other Classical areas, we are fortunate that all of Greek and Latin literature – plus much documentary material – is available online and can be addressed by a variety of programs and packages. The subject introduced to postwar Japan has not stood still either in the sourcing countries or in the adopting one, and the story of reception is complex. Why study Classics in the West? The question, and its answer, relate to general problems in education today. In a time of financial constraints and social change, the ‘relevance’ of the humanities is questioned. Pupils, and their parents, look for practical, vocational subjects: to science rather than the arts; and within the arts to subjects with an evident (or apparent) career usefulness, such as sociology, economics, and management. In addition, there are particular problems for Classics, which is seen to be passé, élitist, and difficult. There were gloomy predictions in the late nineteenth century about the collapse or 

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decline of Classical scholarship, in both Britain and Germany. At that time, the perceived threat came from such new subjects as modern languages; but Greek and Latin have not been lost. Recently a book was published in USA with the title Classics: A Discipline and Profession in Crisis; and in the UK a group called Friends of the Classics has been set up to promote and publicize the subject. Perhaps ‘crisis’ is too strong a word, but there is certainly a problem. In Japan, I found similar constraints. Some justifications from different times and places in the West may be aired: First, justification may be sought in imitative terms, with Classics as a model. In the Renaissance, artists like Michelangelo had a clear motivation to improve their own standards in art and so on. This has disappeared, but occa­sionally resurfaces: many nineteenth-century town halls in Britain are modeled on the Parthenon. Imitation, from Seneca to Racine to Brecht, involves also interpretation within an author’s own culture. The influence of the Hippocratic Corpus has been pervasive in the West, from antiquity to the present day. The view that all true medicine was anticipated by Hippocrates prevailed until the nineteenth century, and medical doctors wrote commentaries (in Latin) for use in everyday practice. When Harvey published his discovery of the circulation of the blood, a French doctor, Riolan, countered with an attempt to adapt the new research, to bring it into line with Hippocratic views. The long adherence to humoral theory had the same source. The Hippocratic Oath became, and can be still regarded as, the foundation of modern medical ethics. Second, justification may be sought in practical terms, Classics as training for the professions of church, law etc. The New Testament is written in Koine Greek. Roman law is the basis of much of Western law. (This has disappeared, as standards of linguistic rigor have fallen and diachronic study is no longer valued.) Third, justification may be sought in theoretical terms, and Classics involved in understanding the roots of language, politics, ethics, etc. (This still applies: Greek and Latin are vital philological tools; the ideas and ideals of Thucydides and Plato epitomize early European thought.) None of these justifications is so cogent in Japan, with its completely different social, cultural, and intellectual background. Why study (Western) Classics in Kyoto? But, then, why study Japanese at Cambridge? There is an important question here: is it the same thing to study another culture from ‘inside’ and ‘outside’? Victorian Englishmen viewed the Greeks as their kin, as honorary gentlemen. There is a tendency now to view them rather as not ‘self’ but ‘other’ (in the jargon) or as desperately foreign. Does this mean that they understood one another better than we, whatever our nationality, can ever hope to understand them? (Greeks today tend to believe they have special insights into ancient Greece – but do they?) Does it mean that a European scholar (their 

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cultural descendant) can understand them better than an Eastern one? What are the implications for Indology and other areas of Classical study? Does human nature change, or are the differences merely differences of custom or nurture? Can we learn from one another here? It may be controversial to suggest that Japanese Classicists should have the courage to seek to make a distinctive contribution, to react in their own way, to disagree with one another and with established Western traditions, to capitalize on their different traditions rather than to disregard them. There is no one ‘right’ approach, no one ‘right’ interpretation. Some past examples may illustrate the possibilities of productive disagreement (Friedrich Nietzsche and Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff on approaches to Greek tragedy), of lateral thinking (Milman Parry on the nature of Homeric formulaic epic), of personal quest (Heinrich Schliemann on the discovery of Troy), of a bold angle (Martin Bernal in Black Athena on the Afro-Asian roots of Greek civilization). There are some examples where a different scholarly background could lead to new insights: religion and myth (seasonal festivals; weather gods; creation myths; syncretism paralleled by Buddhism making its way from India and coexisting with Shinto practices); social history (the family – for example, the practice of ‘adopting’ adults for reasons of name and property); heroic poetry (Ainu texts); dramatic traditions (Noh and Kyogen); medicine (kampo and moxibustion); language (use of particles; women’s language). There are of course dangers in arguments from analogy. The point is not simply that analogies exist (though they do) but that scholars might capitalize on their personal awareness of Japanese traditions to explicate comparable Greek and Roman traditions. It would be good to have grammar books and commentaries based on Japanese idiom, not filtered through English or German. Perhaps it is time to cut the umbilical cord and become more independent, more original. Such activity would complement, not replace, contributions to traditional Classical scholarship. Japanese scholarly activity, already rich, could become even richer.

References Cited

Minamikawa Takashi (2009), ‘The Power of Identity: A Japanese Historical Perspective on the Study of Ancient History,’ in Applied Classics: Comparisons, Constructs, Contro­ versies, ed. A. Chaniotis, A. Kuhn, and C. Kuhn, 231–243. Stuttgart, Germany: Franz Steiner Verlag. Yaginuma Shigetake (1997), ‘A Brief History of Classical Studies in Japan,’ Kleos 2: 311–318.



Chapter 23

The Reception of Parthenon Sculpture in Modern Japanese Art Studies (Recreation in 3-D of the Olympian Gods of the Parthenon Frieze: A Practice Report) Rui Nakamura In this chapter* I explore the reception of Greek sculpture in contemporary Japanese art studies and demonstrate how we at Tokyo University of the Arts recreated the Olympian gods of the Parthenon frieze in three dimensions over the last several years.1 Tokyo University of the Arts dates back to Tokyo Fine Arts School, founded in 1887. It is the oldest art school in Japan. In 1949 Tokyo Fine Arts School and Tokyo Music School formed Tokyo University of the Arts, which has played a major role in the development of arts in Japan. Students in fine arts become skilled in figure drawing, after a long training of so-called ‘cast drawing’ of Classical Greek and Roman sculpture. This training is essential, because the admission of students to Tokyo University of the Arts is strictly based on their figure drawing ability. I present as an example a cast of the well-known ‘Hermes of Olympia,’ a sculpture of the late Classical period dating to the mid-fourth century BC, which some believe to be a copy of an original sculpture (see fig. 23.1a).2 Figs. 23.1b and 23.1c present an example of a drawing done by one graduate student. The drawing was started with an outline, then given shadow and texture. It took about eighteen hours to complete. This traditional training is intended to develop the ability to capture form and to depict space. It was practiced in Europe until the end of the nineteenth century, and was introduced to Japan in * I would like to thank Professor Almut-Barbara Renger of Freie Universität Berlin for the opportunity to present my research at the conference ‘Greek and Roman Culture in East Asia: Texts & Artifacts, Institutions & Practices,’ July 4–5, 2013. This project of reconstructing the gods of the Parthenon east frieze was made possible by the support of Professor Hideto Fuse of Tokyo University of the Arts, Professor Toshihiro Osada of University of Tsukuba, and members of the ‘Parthenon Project Japan,’ 2007–2009 and 2011–2014. The project is supported by funding from the Grant-in-Aid for Scientific Research, Monbukagakusho, Japan. 1 Nakamura 2011. 2 Stewart 1990: 198, figs. 607–608.

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2019 | doi 10.1163/9789004370715_025



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the Meiji era. This training in France has been discussed by Albert Boime, and, according to his research, basic drawing instruction was offered at the atelier, the preparatory school of the École des Beaux-Arts, and instilled ‘in the pupil an unshakable confidence in his drawing ability, and enabled him to tackle the most complicated objects with ease.’3 The transplantation of European art education by hired foreigners in Japan during the Meiji era has been actively discussed in the field of art history.4 This training has declined in importance in Europe, but it has remained an indispensable element of training in Japan to the present day (see fig. 23.2).5 I now turn to the project of recreating the Olympian gods of the Parthenon frieze in three dimensions. These figures were created by graduate students in the Department of Artistic Anatomy at Tokyo University of the Arts. They were well trained in cast drawing. The project combines art history, art education (especially cast drawing), and art creation (see fig. 23.3). The project has also enabled me to pay close attention to ‘the point of view of the artists,’ a matter that has not been well examined in Parthenon studies. I cite the project as one example of how Greek sculpture is received in modern Japanese art studies. 2

Recreation of the Olympian Gods of the Parthenon Frieze in 3-D

Historical Background 2.1 The Parthenon was built in Athens at the peak of the Classical period from 447 to 432 BC, by the sculptor Pheidias and several studios of sculptors from all over Greece. It is well documented in Plutarch’s Life of Pericles. Three sections – pediment, metope, and frieze – are embellished with rich sculptural decoration. The frieze was carved on the wall of the inner temple on all four sides, about 160 meters.6 The depth of the carving is 6 cm, so it is low relief. It represents the procession of the festival of the goddess Athena, the Great Panathenaia, which was held every four years in Athens.7

3 Boime 1971: 24. 4 Sato 2013. 5 Kanai 2005 and 2012. I would also like to thank Mr. Takeo Sato, the vice president of Shonan Art School, the pre-college institution in Japan, for allowing me to attend the cast drawing class on August 23, 2013. 6 The main bibliography on the Parthenon frieze: Brommer 1977; Jenkins 1994; Hurwit 1999; Neils 2001 and 2005. 7 Jenkins 1994: 24–25.



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Figure 23.1a The cast of the bust of the ‘Hermes of Olympia.’ © Rui Nakamura

Figure 23.1b A drawing of the bust of the ‘Hermes of Olympia.’ Drawing: Kota Kato. An early stage. November, 2012. © Rui Nakamura



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Figure 23.1c A completed drawing of the ‘Hermes of Olympia.’ Drawing: Kota Kato. It took about 18 hours to complete. November, 2012. © Rui Nakamura

Figure 23.2



The cast drawing class at Shonan Art School, the pre-college institution, August 23, 2013. Students are drawing the bust of the Borghese Ares. © Rui Nakamura

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Art History

Art Education (cast drawing)

Recreation in 3-D of the Olympian Gods

Art Creation

Figure 23.3 Diagram showing the combined effort of art history, art education, and art creation. © Rui Nakamura

2.2 Composition of the Frieze The procession on the frieze starts at the southwest corner of the temple and terminates at the center of the east frieze, where the climax of the festival, the so-called Peplos ceremony, the dedication of the costume for the goddess ­Athena, is depicted. Next to this dedication scene, twelve Olympian gods are represented, divided into two groups. The heads of both gods and humans are about the same height, indicating the size of gods, as well as giving unity to the composition. Relief sculpture is midway between drawing and sculpture, between two dimensions and three. It poses the problem of how one depicts space under the constraint of two dimensions. The space of the Gods and the Interpretation 2.3 How to understand and interpret the configuration of the twelve gods on the east frieze is an unsolved problem, one that has been considered since the end of nineteenth century.8 The gods have two roles here: attending the Peplos ceremony and receiving the procession. It is also the case that they are considered invisible. Paradoxically, they are both present and not present; they are both here and on Mt. Olympus. They are essentially symbolic, and there are strongly held opinions that it is not unproblematic to consider the space they occupy on the Parthenon frieze. 8 Neils 1999: 11–14.



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Figure 23.4

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The three-dimensional recreation of the gods of the Parthenon frieze. Displayed at the ‘Parthenon Now’ exhibit, the British Museum, from November 2012 to May 2013. It is formally accepted as an art resource of the British Museum. © Rui Nakamura

In 1999, Neils proposed that the configuration of the gods could be a semicircle, and she reconstructed it using computer graphics.9 She depicted the gods as if they were viewing a drama at an ancient theater, only here they are viewing the Peplos ceremony. This reconstruction became very popular and is often cited and shown at scholarly meetings. This idea of a semi-circle was actually first proposed by A.H. Smith at the British Museum, and his drawing was published at the beginning of the twentieth century.10 Neils’s reconstruction has updated this idea using new technology. Recreation: First Model and Second Model 2.4 I am interested in the central scene of the east frieze and the surrounding gods, and I raised the issue in my class in the Department of Artistic Anatomy at Tokyo University of the Arts. One graduate student in the class suggested creating a model for the scene. So in February 2009 we decided to work on the threedimensional model. We did not use a 3-D scanner, or any other technology; we used only our own eyes and hands. We have two types of models: the first model was made with industrial clay, from February 2009 to March 2010. When the exhibition at the British Museum was formalized in February 2012, we added some details to the first model and made a second model with urethane resin. The second model may be seen in fig. 23.4.

9 10



Neils 1999: 13, fig. 13. Smith 1910: 50, fig. 96.

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Figure 23.5a The Parthenon frieze, ( from the left) Hermes, Dionysus, Demeter, and Ares. British Museum. © Parthenon Project Japan

2.5 Hera and Zeus, and Four Gods Why do we try to analyze the space the gods occupy on the mid-fifth-century Parthenon frieze? Because there was an important advance in the representation of space around the 440s and 430s BC. I take the figures of Hera and Zeus as examples. The head of Zeus, on the right, is viewed from the side (profile), the torso is a three-quarters view, and the legs are viewed from the side again. Thus, the frieze presents a combination of side view and three-quarters view. For Hera, on the other hand, her head is in three-quarters, her torso almost frontal, and her legs from the side, thus combining three types of view. This type of three-quarters view first appeared in Greek art around 520–500 BC, when a group of artists called ‘Pioneers’ were active.11 Before that, for example, in the well-known archaic relief, the gods of the east frieze of the Siphnian Treasury at Delphi, made around 525 BC, do not have a three-quarters view but only a side view, a frontal view, or a back view.12 The space represented for gods on the Parthenon frieze has a depth in which gods can be seen to move, think, and react. The stool Hera sits on is not parallel to the throne of Zeus, but, taking into consideration the thickness of the body, we can suppose a certain depth of space. Given this recognition of body and space, we created the images of Hera and Zeus. The faces are modeled on some related works: the head of Hera on

11 12

Williams 1991: 287. Stewart 1990: 102. 

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Figure 23.5b Speculative bird’s-eye view of Hermes, Dionysus, Demeter, Ares, and three other figures. Drawing: Kota Kato. © Rui Nakamura

Figure 23.5c The bird’s-eye view, ( from the left) Hermes, Dionysus, Demeter, Ares, and three other figures. Source: Second Sight of the Parthenon Frieze, 1998. This is the part of the figure on the page 35. It indicates the space and the overlapping of figures for sighted and visually impaired people. Reproduced by kind permission of the Trustees of the British Museum.

the Classical style of the Roman period (AD 30–180, from Agrigento, Sicily),13 and the head of Zeus on the ‘Zeus of Artemision,’ in the Classical period.14 I also take up four gods next to Hera; they are Hermes, Dionysus, Demeter, and Ares. All of these gods, except Ares, are in physical contact. Ares is minimally isolated, but he overlaps with Hera, so he can be considered as closer to the viewer (see fig. 23.5a). Fig. 23.5b shows the speculative view from above. Jenkins and others at the British Museum have published a unique book of the Parthenon Frieze, Second Sight of the Parthenon Frieze, for sighted and visually 13 14 

Jenkins et al. 2009: 12. Kaltsas 2002: 92–93.

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Figure 23.6a The drawing of Demeter in the Parthenon frieze.

impaired people. It is unique because the depth of the space and overlapping of figures are indicated in a tactile relief form, and one can ‘see’ the Parthenon frieze with one’s fingers. The space is represented with a bird’s eye view of the figures. If we see the section of the four gods (Hermes to Ares) in the simplified signs (see fig. 23.5c), these gods are, indeed, placed within the depth of space.15 2.6 Study of the Anatomical Structure In considering the space the gods occupy, the study of individual bodies is crucial. Take a look at the anatomical structure of Demeter. Anatomical studies of ancient art were not unusual in the nineteenth century. At the French art school, the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris, the anatomical study of ancient art was quite popular.16 Fig. 23.6a is a line drawing of Demeter on the frieze by a Japanese art student. The head of the goddess has been destroyed, but we can assume that it was in three-quarter view, that her torso was also in three-quarter view, and her legs in side view, but the right thigh is seen from above. If we kept her outline and removed her costume, she would have a very compressed 15 16

Jenkins et al. 1998: 35; Miyazato 2007. Comar 2009: 86.



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Figure 23.6b Demeter nude.

Figure 23.6c The skeletal structure of Demeter. Note. 6a-c, drawings: Kota Kato. © Rui Nakamura



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torso and rather long legs (see fig. 23.6b). And if we speculated about the skeletal structure of Demeter, her left pelvis would be in side view, and her right pelvis would be seen from above; we can see how an adjustment is achieved around the pelvis (see fig. 23.6c). In this way, we adopted the nineteenth-century style of studying the composition of the body in Greek and Roman sculpture and incorporated that into the three-dimensional model. ‘Parthenon Now’ 2.7 In March 2010, we presented our reconstruction at the international symposium at the University of Tsukuba. The following year, in July 2011, an exhibition, ‘The Body Beautiful in Ancient Greece,’ which featured treasures from the British Museum’s Greek and Roman collection, was held in Tokyo. We had an opportunity to show our reconstruction to Dr. Jenkins, the curator of Greek and Roman art at the British Museum, who came to the exhibition. We then agreed to display the reconstructed figures at the ‘Parthenon Now’ exhibit at the British Museum in November 2012. The display remained there for about six months, until May 2013, and this 3-D reconstruction was officially accepted as an art resource at the British Museum. In Tokyo and other cities, we have been organizing a traveling exhibit of ‘Parthenon Now’ at the art galleries of universities (including the exhibit ‘Greek Sculpture Today: Plaster Casts, Facsimiles, and Recreation’ at Niigata University in 2015). We made models available to the audience, and the figures are now used by scholars in philosophy and art history as a tool for art appreciation and art education in college. 3

Conclusion

As I mentioned at the beginning, this project of recreating the twelve gods of the Parthenon frieze is based on a long tradition of cast drawing of Classical sculpture. It is at the junction of art history, art education, and art creation. The reception of Classical art through cast drawing in Japan, however, has many problems. The old craft of plaster casts has not changed since the Meiji era, and in art education we still follow the nineteenth-century approach to Greek art, even though we have the benefit of spectacular archaeological finds in the twentieth century (for example, the Riace bronzes). Yet, the high quality of Classical sculpture has drawn students into the recreation of the gods on the Parthenon frieze. I hope that this project will enrich art history, art education, and art creation, and that it will enable new possibilities in Parthenon studies and contribute to a fresh reception of Greek and Roman culture.



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References Cited

Boime, Albert (1971), The Academy & French Painting in the Nineteenth Century. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Brommer, Frank (1977), Der Parthenonfries: Katalog und Untersuchung. Mainz, Germany: Zabern. Comar, Philippe, ed. (2009), Une leçon d’anatomie: Figures du corps; À l’école des beauxarts (format réduit). Paris: École nationale supérieure des beaux-arts. Hurwit, Jeffrey M. (1999), The Athenian Acropolis: History, Mythology, and Archaeology from the Neolithic Era to the Present. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jenkins, Ian (1994), The Parthenon Frieze. Austin: University of Texas Press. Jenkins, Ian, et al. (1998), Second Sight of the Parthenon Frieze. London: British Museum Press. Jenkins, Ian, et al. (2009), The Greek Body. London: British Museum Press. Kaltsas, Nikolas (2002), Sculpture in the National Archaeological Museum, Athens. Kapon Editions. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. Kanai, Tadashi (2005), ‘Do We Need a Cast Drawing?’ (feature articles on cast drawing education in Japan), Windows of Arts 267 (December 2005): 13–76 (Japanese). Kanai, Tadashi (2012), ‘Plaster Cast: Its Functions and Drawings,’ Jinbun Kagaku Ronshyu (Shinshu University) 46 (2012): 127–39 (Japanese). Miyazato, Akito (2007), Research Report on the Composition and the Production Process of the Parthenon Frieze. Tokyo: Tokyo Gakugei University. Nakamura, Rui (2011), ‘Space of Gods in the Parthenon Frieze: Some Thought from the Reconstruction,’ in An Art Historical Analysis of the Aims of Building the Parthenon: Ancient Greek Art, from an Asian Viewpoint, Parthenon Project Japan 2007–2009, ed. Toshihiro Osada, 111–29 (Japanese). Tsukuba: University of Tsukuba. Neils, Jenifer (1999), ‘Reconfiguring the Gods on the Parthenon Frieze,’ Art Bulletin 81 (March 1999): 6–20. Neils, Jenifer (2001), The Parthenon Frieze. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Neils, Jenifer, ed. (2005), The Parthenon: From Antiquity to the Present. Cambridge: Cam­ bridge University Press. Sato, Doshin (2013), ‘Hybrid Art in Logic of Leave Asia, Enter Europe: Japanese Style Painting and Western Style Painting, the Past and Present,’ presented at the conference ‘The Cases of Encounter with European Painting: Greece and Japan,’ held at the National Museum of Western Art, Tokyo on June 8, 2013, unpublished manuscript. Smith, Arthur Hamilton (1910), The Sculptures of the Parthenon: with an Introduction and Commentary. London: British Museum Press. Stewart, Andrew (1990), Greek Sculpture, 2 vols. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Williams, Dyfri (1991), ‘The Drawing of the Human Figure on Early Red-Figure Vases,’ New Perspectives in Early Greek Art, Studies in the History of Art 32 (1991): 285–300.





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Index Of Names

Daphne 140, 141, 303 de Gouveia, Alexandre 52 de Pantoja, Diego (P’ang, Ti-wo, or Pang, Diwo) 32, 40 de Premare, Joseph Henry-Marie (Mo, Jo-se, or Ma, Ruose) 32 de Sousa, Policarpo 51, 57 Demeter 461, 462, 464 Democritus 25, 27, 28, 43 Demosthenes 449 Diocletian 135, 139­–141 Diogenes Laertius 29 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 150 Dionysus 139, 382, 461 Doi, Bansui 154, 156 Dong, Han (Tung, Han) 37 Dresser, Christopher 177 Dubs, Homer H. 442 Dudink, Ad 39

Gaia 301 Gan, Yang 247, 249–253 Gibbon, Edward 264, 281 Giraudoux, Jean 156, 157, 163 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 190, 193, 195, 196, 310, 311, 425 Goto, Shinpei 343, 344 Gracchus (C. Sempronius Gracchus)  384 Gracchus (T. Sempronius Gracchus) 384, 385 Gross, Nikolaus 397 Grotius, Hugo 56 Gu, Jiegang 124, 202, 207, 212 Gu, Zhun 8, 244, 245, 370 Guanzi 415 Guo, Binhe 101, 102, 103 Guo, Moruo 10, 207, 310–314, 319–322 Guo, Zhong-Duan 343, 350 Guyot, Arnold 184

Eborensis, Andreas 21 Eliot, T. S. 162, 167 Est Em 299 Euclid 22, 365, 404  Euripides 6, 157, 159, 160, 164–166, 168, 169, 311, 312, 321, 367, 368, 381–383, 399, 435, 448, 449 Eusebius 385, 386 Even-Zohar, Itamar 157, 158

Hades 304, 305 Hadrian 136, 263, 275 Haggard, H. Rider 116  Hearn, Lafcadio (Koizumi, Yakumo) 142, 195 Heinsius, Nicolaus 55 Heo, Kyung-Jin 398 Hera 305, 460, 461 Heracles 388 Heraclitus 25, 27, 28, 42, 43 Hermes 454, 461 Herodotus 363, 369, 388, 399, 449 Hesiod 92, 106, 123, 382, 388, 399 Hoe, Seung-Il 384, 385, 387 Homer 106, 121, 195, 368, 369, 379, 382, 388, 396, 399, 400, 434, 448, 449 Hong, Jeong-Yu 421 Horace 52, 54, 69 Hori, Tatsuo 193, 194, 196 Hoshino, Lily 299 Hosokawa, Chieko 269 Hsia, Ronnie Po-chia 20, 30 Hu, Shi 106, 113, 115, 120, 124, 125, 242, 319, 320 Huang, Jia Li 303 Huang, Jun-Ming 343, 350 Huang, Qiu-Yue 343, 350 Huang, Yang 11, 12, 247, 363, 438, 440 Hukuda, Togo 345, 346

Fenollosa, Ernest 7, 167, 177–183, 192, 197 Ferrero, Michele 441 Finley, Moses I. 216, 372, 378, 379 Flanagan, Hallie 167 Flavius (Gn. Flavius) 416 Florus (L. Annaeus Florus) 67 Foucault, Michel 144, 145, 222–224 Foucquet, Jean-François 51, 52, 58, 61, 64, 65 Frois, Luis 74 Fu, Chao-Ching 343 Fu, Ssu-Nien (Fu, Sinian) 347 Fujisawa, Norio 448 Fukui, Takumi  297 Fukuzawa,Yukichi 183 Furtado, Francisco (Fu, Fan-chi, or Fu, Fanji) 32, 65, 366, 404, 405 Fuyuki, Rurika 305

469

Index Of Names Huxley, Thomas Henry 221, 364 I, Deug-Su 13, 408 Ide, Kaoru 345, 346 Ikeda, Hayato 150 Ikeda, Riyoko 297 Ikeno, Koi 302 Ikuta, Chōkō 154 In-Di 353 Inoue, Shōichi 197 Isocrates 149, 399, 401, 449 Itō, Chuta 182 Iwaaki, Hitoshi 269 Jenkins, Ian 461, 464 Jhering, Rudolf von 413 Jiao, Hong (Chiao, Hung) 40 Jokai, Maurus (Jókai, Mór) 117 Joyce, James 157, 162, 163 Juan, Yun-Che  352 Justin (M. Junianus Justinus Frontinus) 67 Justinian 449 Juvenal 69, 449 Kamarotos, Dimitris 328 Kanda, Naibu 4, 80, 81 Kang, Dae-Jin 397, 400 Kang, Sang-Jin 399 Kant, Immanuel 223, 224 Kanze, Hisao 167, 168 Kim, Bong-Chloe 387 Kim, Chung-Soo 380, 381, 382, 383 Kim, Deogsu 12, 376, 395, 399 Kim, Heon 396, 397, 399, 401, 404 Kim, Jin-Kyung 380, 381, 382, 383 Kim, Kee-Young 396, 397, 401 Kim, Kyong-Hyun 387, 399 Kim, Nam-Duh 395, 399 Kim, Weol-Hoi 404 Kitazono, Katsue 168 Kiyoteru, Hanada 136 Knütel, Rolf 424 Kodama, Yuki 297 Koeber, Raphael von 4, 80, 81, 82, 83, 19 Kōzu, Harushige 154, 156, 448 Kubo, Masaru 83 Kuki, Ryūichi 178, 181, Kuki, Shūzō 190, 191, 198

Kuo, Liang-Hui 353 Kurahashi, Yumiko 6, 157, 158, 163–169 Kure, Shigeichi 83, 154, 156 Kuroiwa, Ruikō 188, 189 Kurumada, Masami 293, 303 Kusanagi, Mizuho 305 Lactantius (L. Caecilius Firmianus Lactantius) 70 Lang, Andrew 5, 116, 120–125, 127 Lee, Chang-Uh 399 Lee, Jong-Sook 395 Lee, Seung-Hoon 404 Lee, Soon-Hyong 397 Lee, Sung-Won 395 Lee, Tae-Soo 397, 399 Lee, Teng-Hui 354 Leeb, Leopold 441 Lei, Haizong 7, 202, 207, 208, 209 Li, Cian-Lang (Li, Qing-Lang) 343, 350 Li, Eric X. 240, 241, 242, 249 Li, Sher-shiueh (Li, Shih-hsüeh) 21, 366  Li, Zhizao (Li, Chih-tsao) 34, 366 Liang, Qichao 7, 91, 94, 206, 222, 223, 242, 243, 364, 365 Lin, Zhichun (Rizhi) 203, 210–215, 369–371, 430 Liu, Xiaofeng 247, 249, 251–253, 439 Liu, Yizheng 94–96 Livy 67, 69, 369 Lu, Xun 107, 128, 363–366 Lucan 56 Lucretius 53, 63, 252, 400 Luk, Bernhard Hung-Kay 19, 30, 31, 36, 37 Luo, Niansheng 368, 432, 434 Machiavelli, Niccolò 8, 224­–228, 230–232 Maeno, Ryotaku 76, 77, 78, 79 Manilius 54 Marcus Aurelius 275, 396, 399, 404 Marmarinos, Michael 10, 326­–328, 333–336, 339 Mars 301 Martial  52, 56 Martini, Martino (Wei, K’uang-kuo, or Wei Kuangguo) 33, 68, 69 Mayer-Maly, Theo 425 Medea 6, 10, 158–161, 164–166, 169, 311, 318, 321, 322

470 Mei, Guangdi 95 Menander 162, 399, 451 Mencius 97, 98 Mentaiko 302 Meynard, Thierry 43, 441 Miao, Fenglin 93, 98, 104, 106 Miao, Litian 433 Mishima, Yukio 5, 6, 133–151, 156–163, 169, 292 Miyazaki, Hayao 297, 298 Miyazaki, Masahiro 149 Mizuki, Shigeru 293 Modestus, Lucius Quintus (character) 260, 263, 270–272, 274­–278, 281, 283 Mommsen, Theodor 265, 281, 401 Montecorvino, Giovanni di (John of Montecorvino) 436 Mori, Ōgai 182, 190 Mori, Sankei 187 Moriyama, Matsunosuke 345, 346 Moser, David 245 Motomura, Ryōji 266, 268, 281 Murakawa, Kentaro 448 Murayama, Kei 299  Murray, Gilbert 121, 122, 451 Murray, Oswyn 433 Mutschler, Fritz-Heiner 12, 15, 371, 430 Nagai, Gō 293, 295, 300 Nam, Myoung-Ryul 330 Nam, Pyong-Chol 12, 407 Narcissus 305 Natsume, Soseki 82 Nietzsche, Friedrich 223, 224, 227, 231, 233, 453 Ninagawa, Yukio 168 Nishi, Amane 80 Nogami, Yaeko 155 Noma, Hiroshi 144 Nomura, Ichirou 345, 346 Nye, Joseph 274 O’Neill, Eugene 163 Oda, Nobunaga 73 Oh, Hung-Shik 387 Okakura, Tenshin (Okakura, Kakuzō) 7, 178, 181, 182, 187, 195 Okayado 299

Index Of Names Olympians (Olympian gods) 14, 301­–305, 454, 455, 458 Orpheus 139, 297 Oshiba, Yoshihiro 449 Ovid 52, 55, 264, 399, 449 Park, Heung-Sik 398 Park, Hong-Gyu 395 Pascal, Blaise 93 Pasolini, Pier Paolo 163, 164 Pei, Ieoh Ming 347 Pericles 241, 378, 381, 431 Phidias  290, 311 Plato 80, 91, 93, 97­–99, 101, 103, 106, 141, 147, 235, 237­–239, 243, 249, 250, 252, 253, 311, 365, 368, 369, 399, 431, 449, 450, 476 Plautus 59 Pliny the Elder  51, 62, 64, 282 Pliny the Younger 63 Plutarch 268, 451, 455 Polybius 369, 385 Pound, Ezra 157, 167 Propertius 54, 68 Ptolemy 12, 407, 408 Pu, Songling 316, 318 Pythagoras 25­–28, 42 Qian, Xuantong 115 Quintilian 63, 399 Quintus of Smyrna 449 Rancière, Jacques 333, 335 Ranke, Leopold von 386 Rawson, Elisabeth 433 Reni, Guido 136, 147 Ricci, Matteo (Li, Madou) 20–23, 25, 27, 29, 30, 33, 34, 36, 40, 44, 50, 52, 68, 69, 365, 366, 436 Ruchun (Ju-ch’un) 41 Sakaguchi, Ango 144 Sakaguchi, Noboru 189, 191 Sallust 52, 67, 369 Sambiasi, Francesco (Bi, Fangji) 32, 366, 407 Sappho 118, 119 Sartre, Jean Paul 156, 157, 163 Satonaka, Machiko 269 Schall von Bell, John Adam (Tang, Ruowang)  58, 65, 66

471

Index Of Names Schliemann, Heinrich 453 Schmitt, Carl 222 Seneca the Younger 59, 63, 69, 399, 404, 451, 452 Sextus Empiricus 448 Shi-huangdi (The First Emperor) 415 Shiga, Shigetaka 184, 185, 190 Shin, Hu-Dam 407 Shinohara, Chie 269 Shinoyama, Kishin 148 Shiono, Nanami 9, 266–268, 281, 283 Shizuki, Tadao 78, 79 Sima, Qian (Sa Ma Cheon) 402 Socrates 28, 80, 94, 98, 101, 228, 235, 253, 311, 431 Sohn, Yun-Rak 398 Solon 28, 29, 381 Song, Moon-Hyun 376, 377 Sophocles 106, 164, 167, 368, 381, 399, 401, 434, 449 Sōryō, Fuyumi 297, 298 Standaert, Nicolas 20, 21, 23, 30, 32–36, 44 Statius 52, 57, 448 Stein, Aurel 192 Strauss, Leo 8, 220, 222–236, 251, 252 Suetonius 67, 268, 401 Sugitani, Daisui 155 Suzuki, Tadashi 167, 168 Tacitus 53, 67, 369, 449 Taguchi, Ukichi 188 Takahashi, Kinichiro 80 Takai, Cosme 74 Takano, Choei 79 Takekoshi, Yosaburō 188 Takeuchi, Naoko 293, 303 Tamura, Taijirō 144 Tanaka, Hidenaka 192 Tanaka, Michitaro 448 Tang, Yongtong 95 Tange, Kenzo 348 Tatsuno, Kingo 345, 346 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 154, 155 Terence 59 Terrentius, Johannes (alias Schreck) 52, 64, 65 Tertullian 70 Tezuka, Osamu 289–293

Theocritus 5, 112–115, 120–126, 128, 367 Titans 301, 302 Tokugawa, Yoshimune 76 Trigault, Nicolas (Chin, Ni-ko, or Jin, Nige) 32, 33, 52–54, 57, 58, 62–65, 67, 367, 404, 406 Tucker, Henry St. George 80 Uchimura, Kanzō 184, 185, 190 Uchiyama, Katsutoshi 451 Ueda, Rinko 270 Umekawa, Minoru 168 Ursinus, Fulvius 53, 66f. Vagnone, Alfonso (Kao, I-chih, or Gao, Yizhi) 21, 33, 44 Valente, Diogo 51, 52 Valerius Flaccus 53 Valerius Maximus 63 Valignano, Alessandro 76 Varro 65 Vegetius (P. Flavius Vegetius Renatus) 53, 66 Verbiest, Ferdinand (Nan, Huai-ren, or Nan, Huairen) 32, 33, 66, 68 Virgil 55, 79, 252, 369, 399, 434, 448, 449 Vitruvius 65, 66 Wang, Dunshu 433 Wang, Guowei 242 Wang, Huansheng 368, 433 Watsuji, Tetsurō 7, 191–193, 195–198 Weber, Max 240, 249, 250, 378, 448 Winckelmann, Johann Joachim 190, 342 Wu, Mi 92–98, 101, 103, 105, 107 Wu, Ming-Shiou 348 Xavier, Francis 73 Xenophon 365, 399 Xerxes 363, 383 Xia, Zengyou 7, 206 Xu, Beihong 435 Xu, Bo (Hsü, Po) 40 Xu, Dashou (Hsü, Ta-shou) 41 Xu, Guangqi (Hsü, Kuang-chi’i) 20, 22, 365, 366 Xunzi 98 Yaginuma, Shigetake 448, 451

472 Yamada, Shin’ya 273 Yamazaki, Mari 259, 261, 262, 267–283, 295 Yan, Fu 115, 221, 222, 243, 364 Yan, Shaoxiang 440 Yang, Byung-Woo 376–381, 383 Yang, Gladys 434 Yang, Tingyun (Yang, T’ing-yün) 30 Yang, Xianyi 434 Yang, Zhi 434 Yano, Ryukei 79, 80 Yashiro, Yukio 7 Yasuhiko, Yoshikazu 269, 290 Ye, Shengtao 367 Yeats, William Butler 167 Yi, Ik 36–38, 42, 43 Yi, Pyŏk  35 Yokoyama, Mitsuteru 301

Index Of Names Yoshihara, Yuki 299 Yourcenar, Marguerite 275 Yu-Gundert, Irmgard 397 Yu, Jae-Won 330 Yun, Si-Joong 332 Zeno 29 Zeus 302, 305, 379, 460, 461 Zhang, Qiang 437 Zhang, Taiyan 220 Zhou, Zuoren 5, 92, 112–122, 124–130, 242, 366–368, 432 Zhu, Guangqiang 432, 434 Zhu, Tingdan (Chu, T’ing-tan) 40 Zhu, Xi 204 Zhuangzi (Chuang-tsu) 27, 98, 223 Zürcher, Erik 39, 44, 46, 49