Worlds of Bronze and Bamboo 9780231113045, 0231113048

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WORLDS OF BRONZE AND BAMBOO: SIMA QIAN'S CONQUEST OF HISTORY

Grant Hardy

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS

WORLDS OF BRONZE AND BAMBOO

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WORLDS OF BRONZE AND BAMBOO SIMA QIAN’S CONQUEST OF HISTORY

Grant Hardy

c o lu m b i a u n i v e r s i t y p r e s s

n e w yo r k

Permission to use the following materials is gratefully acknowledged: Portions of chapters 2 and 3 were originally published in History and Theory 33 (1994): 20–38. Copyright © 1994 by Wesleyan University. Portions of chapters 5 and 6 were originally published in Chinese Literature: Essay, Articles, Reviews 14 (1992): 1–23. Copyright © 1991 by CLEAR. Howard Nemerov, “Gnomic Variations for Kenneth Burke” I, Inside the Onion. Copyright © 1984 by Howard Nemerov.

Columbia University Press Publishers Since 1893 New York Chichester, West Sussex Copyright © 1999 Columbia University Press All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hardy, Grant. Worlds of bronze and bamboo : Sima Qian’s conquest history / Grant Hardy. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-231-11304-8 (alk. paper). 1. Ssu-ma, Ch’ ien, ca. 145-ca. 86 b.c. Shih chi. 2. China— History—To 221 b.c. 3. China—History—Ch’ in dynasty, 221–207 b.c. 4. China—History—Han Dynasty, 202 b.c.–220 a.d. I. Title. DS741.3.S683H37 1999 931'.04—dc21 98-52716 ⬁ 䡬 Casebound editions of Columbia University Press books are printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 p 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Heather, my

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments Preface 1 . I N T RO D U C T I O N : W H Y H I S TO RY ?

The Role of History in Chinese Culture Sima Qian and History

ix xi 1

5 14

2. REPRESENTING THE WORLD

27

The Structure of the Shiji Reading the Structure A Bamboo World

29 42 48

3. MICROCOSMIC READING I

The Web of History Multiple Narrations 4. MICROCOSMIC READING II

The Significance of Events Assessing Generalizations 5. SHAPING THE WORLD

Judgmental History The Shiji as a Hermeneutical Tool Transforming the World

61

62 73 86

87 102 114

115 127 136

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contents

6. CONFUCIAN READING I

Guiding Interpretation Chronicling the Sage

142

142 153

7. CONFUCIAN READING II

169

A World of Bronze Contesting the World

170 184

8 . U N D E R S TA N D I N G T H E W O R L D

194

Fitting the Times The Limits of Rationality Knowing and Being Known

195 202 209

Epilogue Notes Glossary Bibliography Index

213 219 263 277 289

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

his book has been long in coming, and many have helped it along. I would like to thank Hugh Stimson and Ying-shih Yü for guidance long ago, as well as the National Endowment for the Humanities, which granted me a summer stipend to start this project. Mark Csikszentmihalyi, Stephen Durrant, David Honey, Anne Kinney, Wai-yee Li, Bill Nienhauser, VivianLee Nyitray, Michael Nylan, Michael Puett, Haun Saussy, and Nathan Sivin all offered support and encouragement, and my debt is particularly great to several anonymous reviewers who provided detailed critiques of my manuscript. These people may not be entirely persuaded by the hypothesis I put forward, but my book is better for their comments and criticisms. It will be obvious to readers how much I owe to Burton Watson, whom I have never met. Finally, I am grateful to my family, who graciously forwent my company for many weekends and evenings, and especially my wife, Heather, to whom this book is dedicated.

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PREFACE

his is a book about another book, the Shiji (Records of the scribes), written about 100 b.c.e. by Sima Qian, the Grand Astrologer at the court of Emperor Wu in Han dynasty China. I refer to the Shiji as a book, but it actually bore little resemblance to the volume you are now holding. First of all, it was written with brush and ink on thousands of bamboo slips, packaged into about 130 bundles (pian), each held together by three or four silken cords and rolled up like so many window shades. It would have been impossible to hold the original Shiji in one’s hands; in fact, it would have taken a cart to contain it. There is also a profound difference in the influence exerted by this book and Sima Qian’s. Although I, like all authors, have the highest hopes for my book’s success, I have written the previous sentence with absolute confidence. My efforts will join those of earlier interpreters, may have some slight impact on the way the Shiji is read, and perhaps, in the very best case, may even provoke some discussion of comparative historiography, but Sima Qian’s book became a foundational text in Chinese civilization. Sima wrote a universal history, an account of the entire world (which to him was China and its neighbors) from earliest legendary times to his own age, and in doing so, he defined what it meant to be Chinese. Not only do standard surveys of Chinese history and historiography include a chapter on the Shiji, but such chapters also are common in surveys of Chinese literature and Chinese philosophy. In fact, I would argue that after Confucius and the First Emperor of Qin, Sima Qian was one of the creators of Imperial China, not least because by providing definitive biographies, he virtually created the two earlier figures.

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Given its physical layout, the Shiji obviously enjoyed only a limited distribution at first, but within a few generations it became more widely known and it eventually became the basis for a long tradition of Chinese historiography that continued into the twentieth century. The Shiji was the model for the so-called Standard Histories (zhengshi ) that each dynasty wrote for its predecessor in order to demonstrate that it had inherited the true succession, and Sima’s work stands as the first in the series. There are now twenty-six Standard Histories, totaling nearly 100,000 pages in the uniform Beijing Zhonghua editions, and together they constitute our most important source for the history of China. Both my book and Sima Qian’s are about the past, but this similarity conceals much more significant differences. Not only are there contrasts between universal history and historiography, between private and academic writing, and between inventing a genre and conforming to the established rules of a discipline, but the organization of our books also is so different that readers may wonder to what extent we are engaged in the same activity at all. My book takes a familiar shape: I present my opinions about what happened in the past, offering rational arguments, citing pertinent evidence, and carefully noting where I have drawn on the insights of other scholars. If all goes well, readers will decide that my interpretations are correct, or at least plausible. These have been the basic tasks of historians since Herodotus and Thucydides, and although my book differs from the classic Greek histories in modes of analysis, evidence, and documentation (not to mention brilliance and eloquence), it is nevertheless clear that I am their intellectual descendant. Western readers who open Sima Qian’s book find themselves in a different world. The Shiji is divided into five major sections: basic annals (which record imperial reigns), chronological tables, treatises (on topics such as music, the calendar, the heavens, and the economy), hereditary houses (devoted to the feudal lords), and categorized biographies. Information dealing with a single historical event or figure may be scattered among several chapters, and incidents may be narrated more than once, from slightly different perspectives. The frustration that readers may experience when grappling with this fragmented organization is compounded by Sima Qian’s own elusiveness. The Shiji almost presents itself as a book without an author. Obviously, Sima Qian had a role in the production of the text, but he deliberately tries to minimize his contribution. He relies heavily on earlier documentary sources, which he often paraphrases or copies directly into his history, and

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he rarely offers explicit comments or interpretations. Even the Han dynasty biographies, which Sima was most likely to have written, have an impersonal quality, with generalizations and first-person asides seldom intruding into the narrative. Although most chapters do end with a paragraph or so of personal comments, clearly marked off by the phrase “The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks,” these passages are brief, inconsistent, and frequently simply cite the judgments of others. In addition, the form of these personal comments is equivocal, for the term Eminent Grand Astrologer can refer to both Sima Qian and his father, Sima Tan, who also had some, rather unclear, role in the creation of the Shiji. The last chapter of the Shiji is ostensibly an autobiography of Sima Qian, but even there he devotes much more space to the teachings of his father and Dong Zhongshu than to the sparse details of his own life. Throughout the Shiji, Sima Qian generally refuses to provide an original, narrative reconstruction of the past in his own voice, based on his own reading of the evidence, and to Western readers this is a serious deficit indeed. Sima Qian has, nonetheless, produced a work of history. His subject is the past; he ties his material to a clear chronology; he presents full narratives of historical events in a refined literary style; and his personal comments reveal a sophisticated understanding of the uses and difficulties of documentary evidence. His comments also indicate a careful concern for accuracy, as does the very existence of complicated chronological tables. In addition, his focus on military and political affairs, as well as on the decisions and actions of individuals, will be familiar to readers of Western history. Western sinologists have tended to emphasize the similarities between the Shiji and their own historiographical tradition, giving particular attention to Sima’s critical methodology as sketched in his brief comments and transforming impersonal plagiarism into “objectivity.” It is possible to read the Shiji in this way, especially if one is primarily interested in mining it as a documentary source, but its basic structure remains strange and unsettling. The Shiji does not fit comfortably into the Western conception of what a history ought to be, and efforts to establish its credibility in Western terms seem awkward and strained. In the end, it is apparent that Sima Qian’s book is based on a radically different notion of history and historical writing. In the West, history is a form of rhetoric. The Greeks wrote accounts of the past to instruct, to point out moral lessons, to inspire, and to honor, but their writings became history only when the author sought to convince his readers that his narratives were accurate and his judgments trustworthy. The

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transition from Homer to Herodotus is characterized by the latter’s awareness of a skeptical audience. As history writing developed, readers became more sophisticated, and historians borrowed techniques of argumentation from law and theology and eventually from the natural sciences, but the basic strategy remained the same. Historians still present their opinions and attempt to convince readers that their reconstructions of events reflect what actually happened. Even if they have renounced the search for absolute truth, their accounts will be judged by their plausibility with regard to carefully developed standards of argumentation and evidence. We may confess our own biases and acknowledge the limits of our methodologies; we may offer tentative interpretations and concede the validity of alternative approaches; but in general we write as if the truth about the past were attainable through rational argumentation. In the Shiji, by contrast, the historian is curiously absent. He does not offer many arguments or narratives in his own voice, and in fact it is notoriously difficult to derive Sima’s opinions from his history. The aim of the Shiji is not to proclaim truth but, rather, to enable understanding. Sima Qian does not expect that his will be the final version of history, and his writing style does not emphasize his own efforts at sifting data and comparing variants. Indeed, his personal comments, which frequently are tentative and contradictory, are clearly secondary to his real purpose. The Shiji demonstrates a method of reading the world, a hermeneutic that enables us to engage the past directly in ways that are not always strictly rational. Rather than offering a persuasive account of the historian’s opinions about the past, Sima strives to open to us the past itself, or at least a usable condensation of it. The Shiji is no ordinary book; when you hold it in your arms (even in modern printed form, it usually amounts to several volumes), you are holding the world in miniature. All models are constructed for some purpose, and if the Shiji is a useful model of the world, it is fair to ask “useful for what?” Some of what happens in the Shiji is familiar—it honors admirable individuals, identifies patterns, and suggests moral lessons—but for the most part, it does so indirectly. Rather than drawing conclusions and citing supporting evidence, Sima forces readers to become their own historians. Of course, great histories in the West also avoid blatant didacticism, but the Shiji is extraordinarily openended, and by Western standards it appears unfinished or underdetermined. Sima seems deliberately to relinquish tight control over his narrative, and in return it gains a sort of credibility. By not attempting to unduly influence his readers’ reactions, he assures them that they are learning from history

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itself, and not just from an admittedly limited historian. This obviously is a rhetorical stance, since the historical data in the Shiji have been strenuously selected and arranged, but we must beware of being drawn back into traditional Western readings of history, with their polarized notions of objectivity and subjectivity, for the Shiji has other ambitions. Sima’s history has a magical quality, magical in the nonmetaphorical sense of seeking to influence the world through specialized words and actions that transcend ordinary cause and effect. The Shiji represents the world, and it does so in a way that draws on the performative, ritual functions of language. By naming, categorizing, and ordering in the Shiji, Sima Qian imparts a certain structure to the universe itself. Yet Sima would undoubtedly disagree with such a self-affirming description, for his efforts in the Shiji are not calculated to demonstrate his originality or brilliance. Nor would he understand the Western distinction between natural and supernatural. Rather, he attempted to match like with like, to categorize (that is, to work his word magic) in an utterly natural fashion. His editing reveals the inherent patterns of the cosmos, and by doing so, it reinforces the natural order. Microcosm and macrocosm are intrinsically and magically connected. Bringing order out of chaos is a delicate operation, since Sima wants to discover rather than create. Accuracy is not irrelevant to his task, yet it is not sufficient either. His “ideal chronicler” is not an objective observer who records every incident but a sage who can penetrate surface events and discover the moral truths they embody. In order to transcend mere accuracy, sages rely on an intuitive understanding of past figures; their harmony with the moral order of the cosmos allows them to identify those who are in the Way or out of it, even if the historical evidence is sparse. For ordinary mortals, this intuitive ability to correlate can be imitated through a dialogical hermeneutic. We study history—critically evaluating evidence and our own responses to the past—in order to be changed, fully expecting that as we learn, our judgment will become clearer and more in tune with the natural order. Not only are we transformed by the past, we also have the power to change history, since the past is never really completed. When historians rescue worthy individuals from obscurity or undeserved disrepute, they are adding another chapter to the life stories of their subjects. This is not merely a pleasant diversion: by exercising historical judgment, historians themselves play a crucial role in the smooth functioning of the moral universe they seek to reveal. The model affects the modeled; the historians participate in their own history; and in the end, nothing remains detached.

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Sima Qian’s conception of magical, engaged history draws on a cosmology that assumes a natural moral order, correlative connections, and an ideal of sagely judgment, especially as expressed in naming and classifying. In this regard, it is not difficult to place the work in the context of Han dynasty Confucianism. In particular, the Shiji is related to the tradition of the Spring and Autumn Annals. This short text, a history of the state of Lu from 722 to 481 b.c.e., is traditionally ascribed to Confucius, but it consists of little more than a dry list of deaths, official visits, battles, marriages, and portents arranged chronologically by year. Nevertheless, its assumed association with Confucius prompted scholars in the late Zhou and Han dynasties to seek hidden, profound meanings in the nuances of its arrangement and phrasing, and by Sima Qian’s time it came to be viewed as a magical text encompassing the principles of historical change and the patterns of moral behavior. Sima Qian originally entitled his history The Book of the Eminent Grand Astrologer (Taishigong shu), referring to the official position at court held by himself and his father, and later his book came to be known as the Records of the Scribes (Shiji). But it really deserves to be called The Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Sima. Like the Annals—at least as they were interpreted by Han Confucians—the Shiji is a book, but more than a book; a history, but more than a history. The Shiji represents the world, but it also demonstrates a method of reading the world, of making sense of it in a way that ostensibly reflects the order of the cosmos itself. In this book I explore the ways in which the Shiji organizes the world, and at the same time I give careful attention to the Shiji ’s own organization. The structure of every text recommends certain reading strategies, and the Shiji is not a history that encourages or rewards a straightforward read. In fact, it seems deliberately designed to frustrate such an approach. I focus on two major aspects of the Shiji, in each case identifying an interpretive principle in one chapter and illustrating it in the next two. After an introductory discussion of the extraordinary influence of historical thinking in Chinese culture and of Sima Qian’s own commitment to the study of the past, chapters 2 through 5 develop my contention that the Shiji is a microcosm and demonstrate how to read it as such. In chapter 2 I provide a comprehensive description of the Shiji’s structure and a historiographical analysis of its implications, which is followed in the next chapter by two detailed examples of how the various sections of the Shiji work together to represent the world in all its complexity. Chapter 4

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offers additional examples of microcosmic reading and analyzes an extensive narrative cluster—the two dozen chapters that recount the conflict between Xiang Yu and Gaozu that ended with the founding of the Han dynasty. Chapters 5 through 7 look at the Shiji as an exemplar of the Confucian program of historical inquiry and sagely judgment. I examine the tradition of history inherited from Confucius (especially as embodied in the Spring and Autumn Annals) and suggest ways in which Sima Qian negotiates its contradictory impulses. I also note ways in which Sima Qian implements Confucius’s injunction to “rectify names.” This discussion is followed by two chapters of examples demonstrating how Sima Qian has shaped his material to give it meaning. Chapter 6 includes a reading of the “Hereditary House of Confucius,” and chapter 7 offers an interpretation of Sima Qian’s account of the First Emperor of the Qin dynasty, the bête noire of Confucian political thought and Sima’s rival in world making. In the last chapter I explore some of the primary concerns of Sima Qian’s historiography, including the relationship between individuals and their times, conventional morality, and his views on knowing and being known. It turns out that the Shiji, despite its seemingly objective form, is actually the product of a highly personal and emotional engagement with the past. There are two fine introductions in English to the Shiji—Burton Watson’s 1958 Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China and Stephen W. Durrant’s 1995 The Cloudy Mirror: Tension and Conflict in the Writings of Sima Qian. Both these works provide a general overview of Sima’s history, with Watson offering more details of historical context and Durrant concentrating on literary features of the text. Both, in addition, attempt to resolve tensions in the Shiji by appealing to Confucian precedents: Watson cites Confucius’s combination of objectivity and moral interpretation in the Spring and Autumn Annals, and Durrant notes the complementary ideals of “literary culture” (wen) and “ritual behavior” (li) in the Confucian notion of a true gentleman (junzi). Since I am attempting to make sense of many of the same incongruities that perplexed my predecessors, some overlap is to be expected. I have benefited enormously from these earlier monographs, and I refer readers to them for fuller explanations of standard issues such as textual criticism and the Confucian Classics. Yet my work is in many ways a challenge to these previous conceptions of the Shiji. In this book I propose to look at the Shiji as a microcosm. Although this approach does not solve all the difficulties in interpreting this puzzling ancient history—and indeed, I would hesitate to insist that I have at last (after two thousand years!) discovered the key to

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this work—I believe that my reading of the Shiji highlights and emphasizes certain previously neglected features of the text. At this late date, conclusive proof of Sima Qian’s intentions is beyond our reach, but I will be quite satisfied if my imaginative reconstruction of his project is judged to be both plausible and useful. My intentions, unlike Sima’s, are easy enough to establish—I hope to offer a fresh, provocative examination of Sima Qian’s remarkable history and the intellectual environment that made it possible.

WORLDS OF BRONZE AND BAMBOO

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1

INTRODUCTION: WHY HISTORY?

Green silk, made by you; I think of ancient men, so that I have no faults. Fine and rough cloth, chilled by the wind; I think of ancient men, to find my true heart. Classic of Poetry (Mao no. 27)

n 1975 a number of Qin dynasty (221–207 b.c.e.) graves were discovered in Shuihudi, Yunmeng Prefecture, Hubei Province. The excavation of these tombs revealed the types of artifacts that are normally found at such sites; bronzes, lacquered vessels, pottery, jade, and silks all were unearthed from the small wooden chambers that surrounded the coffins. But there was a surprise in tomb 11, for when the coffin itself was opened, its occupant was discovered to be sharing his cramped quarters with more than eleven hundred bamboo slips. The deceased was obviously a man of letters, buried among the remains of his bamboo books. Unfortunately, the bamboo proved more durable than the cords that had originally held the books together, and the skeleton in tomb 11 seemed to be swimming in a tangle of narrow bamboo slips. Nevertheless, the writing was still quite legible in most places, and the ten books that were eventually reassembled were discovered to be primarily legal texts.1 Why would someone want to be buried with his or her books? This practice was apparently fairly common in early China, at least among the educated classes, but in most cases the books have not survived. Of the estimated ten thousand Han dynasty (202 b.c.e.–220 c.e.) tombs that have been found since 1949, only a few have yielded texts written on bamboo

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slips or on silk, the contents of which range from copies of philosophical works such as the Daodejing and Sunzi’s Art of War to Confucian classics like the Classic of Poetry and Classic of Change to historical writings such as the Intrigues of the Warring States to numerous other previously unknown texts concerned with medicine, divination, and philosophy.2 Since death is indisputably a major transition for an individual, those who interred the dead must have thought that these books would either celebrate the life that had recently come to an end or would somehow assist the soul of the departed on his or her journey into the next life. It is unlikely that mourning relatives dumped the books into graves because they did not know what else to do with them. In a world in which literacy was rare and books even rarer, these texts represented a valuable commodity on the level of the fine bronzes and lacquerware that sat beside them in the tombs. As objects of value, books would have been a worthy means to demonstrate the depth of a child’s respect for a departed parent, or they may have represented the high status that was similarly indicated by expensive coffins or buried carriages, but the primary interest of books is in the writings that they contain. Texts on divination and religion may have guided the soul through unknown territory, much like the famous funeral banners from the tombs at Mawangdui, and perhaps philosophical or medical texts would have aided the soul in attaining the calmness and harmony with natural forces that could ensure a smooth passage from one realm of existence to another (the bronze mirrors with markings that look like T’s, L’s, and V’s frequently found in ancient tombs seem to have filled this function).3 And I suppose that almost anything could have served as pleasure reading for the soul of a serious bibliophile with eons of time on its hands.4 But legal texts? Was the occupant of tomb 11 a legal scholar who could not imagine an existence without his casebooks and law codes? Did he expect to impress whoever might find his tomb or encounter his soul with the accomplishments of a lifetime of adjudication? Did he hope to plead the cases that any administrative hierarchy, even a celestial one, must inevitably deal with? This is, of course, airy speculation, for all that we know about this person comes from another text, which occupied a place of honor directly under his head—a text of history. Rolled up like a pillow under the head of the corpse was a book that scholars have labeled the Biannianji (Chronological record), which provides brief notices of yearly events in the state of Qin from 306 b.c.e. to 217

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3

b.c.e.—the later date being several years after Qin, under the leadership of the First Emperor, had brutally unified the various independent kingdoms of the Warring States era. Typical entries from this short book are “Fifteenth year, attacked Wei” and “King Zhuang third year, King Zhuang died.” Often the text simply records the year, with no event noted.5 By comparison, the legal writings seem positively fascinating, but our attention is drawn to the chronicle by the fact that the biographical notices of a man named Xi are interspersed with the affairs of state. Xi was born in the fortyfifth year of King Zhao (262 b.c.e.), and since his career included several positions in the Qin archives and legal system and his age corresponds to that of the skeleton in tomb 11, it appears that Xi is none other than the deceased himself. In this case, a work of history has filled an intriguing function. When faced with a daunting, unknown, and perhaps terrifying future, Xi attempted to gain control of his situation with an appeal to history. By mastering the past through a personalized chronicle, he firmly grounded his own life in the greater context of the history of the state he had served. History afforded him a clear identity, a sense of purpose, and a record of obstacles that had already been overcome. The state of Qin had, during the last hundred years, brought order out of political chaos in its inexorable drive for unification. With the Chronological Record under his head, Xi was similarly ready to wrest order from whatever chaos might await him. Actually, the choice of history as the source of life’s meaning is not necessarily obvious. Many persons and cultures have rejected history as merely the ephemeral trappings of more substantive, permanent realities that might be better approached through other means. For instance, although ancient Greece produced several first-rate historians such as Herodotus and Thucydides, their inquiries did not become the foundation for a continuous historiographical tradition. Instead, later scholars followed Aristotle’s dictum that poetry is “a more philosophical and a higher thing than history; for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular” and concentrated their efforts on the correction and interpretation of the Homeric epics.6 Similarly, Hindu ideas of reincarnation, karma, and the illusionary nature of this world steered Indian scholars away from history and into texts of ritual, epic, and philosophy. With the exception of the Rajatarangini (Kashmir chronicle, c.e. 1149), substantive works of Indian history had

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to await the efforts of Muslim invaders in the fourteenth century, a fact that is perhaps not surprising given the historical orientation of Islam.7 Like its cousins Judaism and Christianity, Islam believed that the one God had intervened in human history and revealed himself in a unique way at a particular time and place. The study of human history was therefore a principal avenue to the knowledge of God. Written history was also a battleground for those seeking to demonstrate the unbroken succession of their religious authority (or the spuriousness of their rivals’ claims). And last, the final judgment posited by all three faiths gave awe-inspiring significance to the historical actions of individuals. Of course none of these beliefs held much sway in preimperial China, and yet history became a primary focus of intellectual activity there. Other options were available to our friend Xi—by the time of the Qin dynasty the Chinese had accumulated enviable traditions of mythology, divination, ritual, philosophy, and protoscientific analyses of the natural world, any one of which he could have employed to discover and fix his place in the cosmos. But his choice of history was perhaps not unexpected. From earliest times, Chinese civilization has been uncommonly bound to its past, and it can claim the longest, most elaborately documented historiographical tradition in the world. Indeed, the fixation with continuing and interpreting the record of the past has been both one of China’s chief glories and one of its major sources of difficulty in adapting to the modern world of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. A little more than a hundred years after Xi was buried with his history, another historical text, also written on bamboo slips, was buried by its author, Sima Qian (145?–86? b.c.e.), for safekeeping. The Shiji (Records of the scribes) was Sima’s attempt to bring order to the whole of human history, and although he was still alive at the time of the Shiji’s interment, he was exquisitely aware of the personal cost incurred in its production.8 In order to have enough time to finish the Shiji, Sima had opted for castration rather than the death sentence imposed after he had attempted to defend a fellow official from the emperor’s wrath. By so doing, he brought his family line to an end, heaped shame on himself and his father, and imperiled his own posthumous condition.9 The Shiji is thus his vindication, his offering to his father, and the metaphorical son that would carry on his name. The Shiji was to have a profound impact on the historical consciousness of the Chinese, but before we examine in detail the circumstances of Sima Qian’s writing of this text, it may be useful to review some of the cultural factors that impelled him to turn to history.

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5

The Role of History in Chinese Culture The question of why the study of history has played such a dominant role in Chinese intellectual life is complicated, but several factors or, rather, clusters of factors, can be at least roughly delineated: ancestor worship, Confucianism, and bureaucracy. The earliest writings in China—divinatory records scratched on the shoulder blades of cattle or on turtle shells— reveal that the veneration and propitiation of ancestors were fundamental components of Chinese culture from the beginning. These Shang dynasty (c. 1525–1025 b.c.e.) oracle bones were specially prepared with grooves and pits so that when they were heated, they cracked in regular but not exactly predictable ways. These cracks were interpreted as either positive or negative responses to the questions asked, and the original queries were then inscribed on the bones and shells for future use. A major concern of these inscriptions was the desire to determine the influence of ancestors on present circumstances—whether various ancestors of the Shang kings were satisfied with the offered sacrifices, whether these entities were responsible for dreams, aches, or other misfortunes, and whether they could be entreated to intervene in matters of war, weather, sickness, harvest, and childbirth.10 From the Shang dynasty onward, the Chinese worshiped their ancestors and looked to them for guidance and aid. This was particularly true of kings, whose ancestors were as powerful in death as they had been in life. Indeed, the king’s connection with the past, as both a descendant of the these powerful beings and the one man authorized to communicate with them, was a crucial component of his claim to authority. It is important to note that this appeal to the past was not especially esoteric, for the dead were conceived of as acting in the present, and the sense of their presence was given concrete form by the use of impersonators who took their places at the ritual feasts and sacrifices of a clan.11 Nevertheless, reverence for ancestors was quite naturally tied to a general respect for the past—the original setting in which noble ancestors had performed great deeds—and the historical, earthly accomplishments of progenitors were often celebrated in song and story and held up for emulation. In addition, respect for ancestors was carried over into the here and now in the strong subordination of the young to their elders (who would soon be transformed into ancestral deities). It is impossible to say whether a firmly hierarchical, familial social order gave rise to religious practices or vice versa, but the conjunction of the ways of heaven and earth certainly reinforced the high value placed on tradition, precedent,

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continuity, deference to elders, and social harmony. As Roger Ames has noted with reference to Confucianism: In this traditional paradigm, a figure achieves prominence not from standing out in contrast to his historical inheritance but rather from the degree to which he embodies, expresses, and amplifies his tradition. It is for this reason that from earliest times there has been such an extraordinary emphasis on historical records in China. The records represent a repository of the past cultural tradition out of which the new can emerge.12

When the Zhou people defeated the Shang and began a new dynasty, they were quick to renounce the claim of innovation; instead, they portrayed themselves as the inheritors and restorers of a tradition that had fallen into decline. Likewise, when the Zhou dynasty weakened and the traditional convergence of political, religious, and lineage authority gave way to the competition, usurpation, and chaos of the Warring States era (403–221 b.c.e.), most of the strategists and philosophers who arose to resist the increasing tide of warfare and political strife argued for their various remedies by appealing to historical precedents. Confucians looked back to the golden age of the early Zhou dynasty; Mohists fastened on the age of the legendary emperor Yu as their ideal; and Daoists looked back even further to a time before organized government. It seemed obvious to many that what was called for was not new measures but, rather, the tried and proven methods of the past. As Confucius famously noted, “I transmit, not create; I am faithful to and love antiquity.”13 The idea that the harmonious organization of society had already been achieved by the ancestors was a powerful argument, and the appeal to the past was so pervasive that even the Legalists, who brusquely rejected anything old as outdated and useless, at times stooped to appealing to historical precedent to support their rejection of historical precedent. Accordingly, the Book of Lord Shang argues: As rulers, King Tang and King Wu did not follow the ancients and yet they came into power; but the destruction of the Xia and Shang dynasties occurred despite the fact that they did not alter the customs. Therefore you need have no doubts: turning from the ancients is not necessarily bad, and following custom does not guarantee increasing good.14

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Political advisers scrambled to dress up their arguments with historical allusions, and the result was greater confusion as people cited alternative traditions (in some cases creating more convenient versions of the past) or sought to understand how contradictory and incomplete records could be used with certainty or deplored the whole process: “Vulgar people mostly honour the past above the present; therefore those who cultivate a Way have to credit it to Shennong or the Yellow Emperor before it can be taken seriously.”15 The intense argumentation that accompanied the competition of Warring States scholars for positions of power and influence at various courts eventually led to the development of a historical professionalism, since arguments could be won if a king could be convinced that one’s historical references were more accurate than those offered by one’s rivals or if another scholar’s claim to knowledge was demonstrably spurious. The Confucians—whose recommendations that kings personally conform to the ethical standards of the past had never made them popular—were the vanguards of this movement. Confucianism, therefore, can serve as a heading for the second cluster of factors that encouraged the emphasis on history that characterizes Chinese civilization. Confucius himself recognized that the records of the Xia and Shang dynasties were too sparse to allow the reconstruction of their customs, but he considered the current Zhou dynasty—still in existence, though much weakened, after almost six hundred years—to be the culmination of earlier traditions, and Zhou practices could be documented.16 Confucius and his followers therefore set about to gather together the available historical sources on divination, poetry, ritual, official documents, and chronicles, and they edited these records into the five Confucian classics: the Classic of Change, Classic of Poetry, Classic of Documents, Records of the Ritualists, and Spring and Autumn Annals. They then made themselves experts on the transmission, interpretation, and historical contexts of these writings. As Confucian teachers and commentaries on the classics multiplied, what had once been the common heritage of Chinese civilization assumed a decidedly Confucian bent.17 Actually, this brief synopsis owes a great deal to Sima Qian’s own historical and heroic reconstruction of Confucius’s labors. As Stephen Durrant has admirably documented, the process of compiling and canonizing the Confucian classics took several centuries, and many of the details surrounding the creation of these texts, including the identity of editors and redactors, remain unclear.18 But it seemed to many scholars in the Han dynasty that

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Confucius had given definitive shape to traditional notions of the past and its relevance to the present. The consolidation of Confucian texts, and indeed, of an “orthodox” Confucian school itself, was tied to the establishment of centralized governmental authority. Some Confucians realized that at least in China, control of the past was a necessary correlate to political control. And so it happened that when China was finally unified, it was not long until Confucianism became the official ideology of the state. Within six years of founding the Han dynasty, Emperor Gaozu turned to the Confucian expert Shusun Tong to create his court ritual, and during the reign of Emperor Wu (141–87 b.c.e.) official positions were set up for experts in the Five Classics.19 Backed by the full authority of the state, Confucianism gained a prominence that carried it through, with only a few lapses, until the end of the imperial age in 1911. The ascendance of Confucianism guaranteed the continuing dominance of reverential attitudes toward history as described in the texts edited by Confucians, and the number of both Confucians and texts increased through the centuries. In fact, until the modern era, history written in an archaic style remained the most prestigious prose avenue for the display of literary talent. As Arthur F. Wright has observed, “To add to the historical record was to participate in the great work the sages had begun.”20 In applying the labels of Daoist, Legalist, Mohist, and Confucian to trends of the Warring States era, I am following the broad classifications that Chinese scholars invented in the Han dynasty. Before that time, schools and positions were more fluid and eclectic, and there are surprising similarities between rivals as well as fierce controversies in what we now consider a coherent school. For example, even a Confucian as orthodox as Mencius could state, “If one were to completely believe the Classic of Documents, it would be better not to have the book at all. As for the ‘Wu cheng’ chapter, I can only accept two or three bamboo slips of it.”21 Nevertheless, the individuals whom we group together as Confucian did share certain general understandings of historical evidence and historical change, and these ideas retained their currency throughout the imperial era. Foremost among these concepts was the “Mandate of Heaven” (tian ming ), which offered a moral explanation for dynastic change in which the rather impersonal force of tian, or Heaven, granted its seal of approval to a virtuous man who was thereby authorized to rebel against a wicked and corrupt tyrant. This pattern was repeated as strong and wise dynastic founders were eventually succeeded by descendants whose cruelty and addiction to pleasure obliged Heaven to take back its charge and bestow it

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on someone more deserving. The paradigmatic example of this pattern is preserved in the Classic of Documents, in which the first king of the Zhou dynasty explains to the officials of defeated Shang that what he has done is no different from what the Shang founder did to the Xia dynasty.22 This appeal to precedent for legitimacy eventually led to the production of a long line of official histories, the twenty-six zhengshi, for it was incumbent on new regimes to document the evils of their defeated predecessors.23 In addition, dynasties meticulously preserved their own records, though as we shall see, this was not done solely as a favor to their inevitable conquerors. Confucianism is often characterized as a practical, “this-worldly” school of thought, because Confucius stressed ethics and social relations and had very little to say about abstract ideals, grand philosophical systems, incredible phenomena, or an afterlife. This pragmatic attitude colored the Confucian reading and writing of history. History was valued for its didactic lessons, for its depictions of individuals whose dealings with those around them could be categorized as good or evil. Indeed, the dramatic interplay of individuals was seen as the driving force behind historical change. By reading history, one could understand society and find appropriate models for the conduct of life. The pragmatism and rationalism of Confucians were also evident in their dislike of mythology, which was regularly excluded from their histories or at least transformed into something more sensible. Miraculous claims were disparaged, and legendary figures (especially those put forward as heroes by rival philosophical schools) and even gods were often stripped of their supernatural attributes and given historical dates and pedigrees.24 By transforming myth into history, Confucians not only rejected mythological thought, but they also denied it a place in educated discourse. As a result, there was no sharp divide between the age of heroes and the present. Unlike ancient Greece where everyone acknowledged that people no longer walked and talked with the gods as the heroes of the Iliad had, in China the remote ages of the past were not thought of as qualitatively different from the present.25 Things continued for the most part as they always had, and if the achievements of past ages no longer held sway, it was still theoretically possible to follow the ancients exactly. Of course, the absence of a distinctly supernatural, transcendent realm was not entirely due to the efforts of Confucians. The Chinese never really had a creation myth that posited the existence of a transcendent creator, and the cult of ancestor worship also narrowed the gap between the mundane and the holy.26 The seen and the unseen were part of the same world system in which relationships and

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obligations continued from one realm of existence to another and from one age to the next. Respect for the past was also sharpened by what eventually became a founding myth of Confucian studies, the famous burning of the books by the First Emperor in 213 b.c.e. When the unifier of China found that scholars dared to criticize his achievements, he sought to cut off the basis for those criticisms by forbidding the private ownership of all texts except practical handbooks of medicine, divination, and agriculture. Proscribed texts were collected and burned. If Confucian accounts can be believed, works of history were a primary target of this literary purge, which was soon followed by the mass execution of more than 460 Confucians, who became martyrs for the cause.27 Derk Bodde has argued that the loss of ancient literature due to this notorious edict was not so uniquely devastating as it has often been made out to be, and in fact, the First Emperor’s actions had an unexpected consequence: One other very important effect, however, which the Burning of the Books has had, is that far from blotting out antiquity, as Li Ssu [Li Si, the adviser who first suggested the ban] had intended, it has made the Chinese inordinately conscious and interested in their past. The very fact that literature had been destroyed, made the Han scholars bend every effort toward the recovery of this literature. The result has been the development of what may almost be called a cult of books in China, and a tremendous reinforcement of the interest, already strong, of the historically minded Chinese in their historical records.28

Like the Confucians, the First Emperor realized that control of the past was an integral component of political power in China, and this leads us to a third cluster of factors, the role of the state bureaucracy in promoting historical thinking. As Etienne Balazs has pointed out, in China “history was written by officials for officials.”29 Perhaps the term incipient bureaucracy better fits the conditions of Sima Qian’s China, but from earliest times, Chinese rulers looked to genealogy, ritual, and portents from Heaven to confirm the legitimacy of their administration, and they gathered about them educated officials who were capable of performing ceremonies and recording significant events. The Shang kings had their diviners, who carefully preserved the oracle bones for future reference, sometimes later adding notations of just how a prediction had been fulfilled, and the early Zhou court had employed

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numerous record keepers as well.30 Scribes (shi) of the Spring and Autumn era are mentioned, sometimes by name, in the Zuo zhuan, and since this is a Confucian text, the courage, independence, and strict moral judgment of these individuals are duly celebrated.31 Rulers, for their part, did not question the need for bureaucratic record keeping. The demise of the old pattern of sovereignty in the Warring States era was accompanied by the rise of larger, more complex governments that had an even greater need for regular reports and detailed records of revenues, population, and legal procedure. And of course, scribes soon discovered that in addition to aiding the ruler, a precise record of events could be employed to advance their own careers and opinions. Some even claimed that the highest calling of a scribe was to criticize a wayward ruler on the basis of his recorded deeds (though this typically Confucian attitude could derail careers). Rulers, in response, attempted to influence what was being written about them, and as a last resort, they destroyed records (even the First Emperor of Qin was following historical precedents when he burned the books).32 A thorough knowledge of history was deemed essential for officials, in part because much of the discussion of policy was conducted in the refined language of historical allusion. This was a legacy of the Spring and Autumn era, when diplomats would quote lines of ancient poetry and expect their counterparts in other states to infer their meaning from them.33 “Speaking of the past in order to criticize the present,” dao gu yi hai jin, the very game that had so infuriated the First Emperor, was also a respectable way of avoiding the direct criticism that was both detrimental to Chinese social custom and potentially dangerous to the bureaucrat himself.34 Of course, one studied history not only to be forearmed for arguments but also to scrutinize the past for useful precedents and to gain the public-minded morality considered to be the foundation of the state. Not surprisingly, there were historical precedents for the use of historical precedents: the Classic of Documents records the advice given by the king of Zhou to his younger brother, who was appointed to rule over the native region of the conquered Shang: Moreover, where you go, seek out extensively among the traces of the former wise kings of Yin [Shang] what you may use in protecting and regulating their people. Again, you must more remotely study the old accomplished men of Shang, that you may establish your heart and know how to instruct the people. Further still, you must seek out

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besides what is to be learned of the wise kings of antiquity, and employ it in the tranquilizing and protecting of the people.35

The early Zhou kings used the concept of the Mandate of Heaven to justify their rule, but the same notion could be used by the bureaucracy as a means to influence an autocratic ruler. Kings were sensitive to charges that their policies were of the sort that would forfeit the Mandate, and both the Classic of Documents and the Classic of Poetry encouraged rulers to regard the Shang people as a “mirror” (jian) by which to judge their own actions: “The ancients had a saying, ‘Men should not look for their reflections (jian) in water, but should look in the mirror of people.’ Now that the Shang have lost their Mandate, how can we not use them as the great mirror by which to calm the times?” and “You should look in the mirror of the Shang; it is not easy to preserve the Mandate.”36 The image of history as a mirror by which one could find an identity and correct one’s faults recurs frequently and is cited by Mozi, Mencius, Hanfeizi, and in the Narratives of the States.37 Later, one of the most influential synopses of Chinese history went by the title of the Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government (1084 c.e.). In addition to being the foundation of legitimacy and identity, history was also the key to stability. Over and over, advisers argued that only adherence to the proven standards of the past would enable rulers to pass on their sovereignty to their descendants, as in the Classic of Poetry: . . . you do not think of your heritage, Do not faithfully imitate the former kings, Or strive to carry out their holy ordinances. Therefore mighty Heaven is displeased. [Various changes are called for, so that] . . . your sons and grandsons continue forever, By the myriad peoples each accepted.38 This idea was tied to Mandate of Heaven theories, as well as to ancestor worship (without descendants in power, one’s future career as a deified ancestor would be drastically reduced), but Confucian bureaucrats also posited a high degree of continuity in human nature and human institutions. Although the records demonstrated differences among the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, Confucius himself had asserted that by carefully scrutinizing the patterns of historical development, one might know the

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ways of the eventual successors of the Zhou, even one hundred generations in the future.39 Within such a worldview, it made sense for rulers to follow the counsel of historically well-informed advisers. If citing noble examples of old, warning about the Mandate, and threatening the emperor’s descendants did not persuade a ruler to follow their advice, bureaucrats could always hold out the judgment of future generations as an incentive. The extensive reports, correspondence, edicts, and memorials to the throne that were necessary to the functioning of a large bureaucracy were carefully preserved, both for practical reasons and also as political weapons. Rulers were encouraged to take responsibility for their recorded actions, and bureaucrats tried to ensure that documentation was as detailed as possible. Once again, this practice followed past precedents. The Zuo zhuan reports that in 671 b.c.e. an adviser tried to dissuade his king from taking a ritually inappropriate journey with the words, “The ruler’s travels must be recorded. If what is recorded does not follow the standards, how will this be viewed by your posterity?”40 The persuasiveness of this argument depended on the assumption that future generations would continue to care about the past. Finally, bureaucrats were forced to appeal to history in their arguments because the consolidation of religious, political, and lineage authority in the Shang and early Zhou dynasties led to a situation in which, as David Keightley has written, “the state . . . could embrace, ideally, all aspects of one’s allegiance, leaving little ideological ground vacant as a base for dissent.”41 A church separate from the state, which could be appealed to as an alternative moral authority, never developed in China. Similarly, the degree to which China was isolated from other developed civilizations meant that alien concepts and practices could not be adduced as serious alternatives to the status quo.42 In challenging the historically conscious, unified social system of China, one risked being ranked with the barbarians (a charge often leveled at the state of Qin). Ancestor worship, Confucianism, and bureaucracy all contributed to the prevalence of historical thinking in Chinese civilization. Though one might argue that the secret of Confucianism’s success was its appropriation and amplification of the historically minded tendencies already present in the culture, in the end it is difficult to untangle which factors were causes and which effects. The practices and attitudes I have sketched here were related in complex ways whose exact configuration changed over time. Nevertheless, it is abundantly clear that the Chinese were uncommonly connected to their past as a source of identity and direction.

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Sima Qian and History About 108 b.c.e. Sima Qian, the Grand Astrologer at the court of Emperor Wu, turned to history and began to write a book that would summarize in a comprehensive and systematic fashion the history of the world from its legendary origins to his own day. Like Confucianism, Sima Qian both drew on and extended the historical consciousness of Chinese culture, and in the end he produced an account so persuasive and so tantalizingly unfinished that for two thousand years educated Chinese have read it, argued over it, admired it, written continuations, and tried to imitate its organization and its literary style. Eventually, the Shiji, Sima Qian’s text, took its place as the first of the twenty-six Standard Histories (zhengshi), all of which adopted Sima’s basic format and approach and together constitute our first source for imperial Chinese history. Homer H. Dubs once estimated that the first twenty-five Standard Histories included more than 20 million characters, a scholarly translation of which would run to about 450 volumes of 500 pages each.43 Sima Qian’s pioneering achievement nonetheless remained elusive. Sima was the first Chinese to attempt to write a universal history, and the conceptual and technical problems entailed in such a project were considerable. How could chronology be determined? What counted as evidence? How should documentary sources be handled? What were the major continuities to be traced? Most important, how should historical knowledge be organized? Sima Qian answered the last question in a bold and innovative fashion. When he discovered that the traditional forms of historical writing were inadequate for his needs, he devised a new method of organizing historical data, dividing his history into basic annals, chronological tables, treatises, hereditary houses, and categorized biographies. Sima adapted earlier forms of history and combined them into an original and coherent whole. As the Qing dynasty historian Zhao Yi (1727–1814) wrote, In ancient times, the historian on the left recorded the words of the emperor and the historian on the right recorded his actions. The record of words became the Classic of Documents and the record of actions became the Spring and Autumn Annals. Later these developed into two types of history—narrative and annalistic. In narrative histories, each chapter narrates one event, but is not able to include everything from that time period. Conversely, annalistic histories are not able to concentrate on single individuals and observe the beginnings and

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endings of each one. Sima Qian carefully considered the whole of history and invented the form of comprehensive history (quanshi ), which revealed the commonplace and uncovered examples through the basic annals, which narrate kings and emperors; the hereditary houses, which recount nobility and kingdoms; the ten tables, which link times and events; the eight treatises, which detail institutions; and the categorized biographies, which record human affairs. Afterwards, the rulers, subjects, government, events, and worthies of a time period were not lost, but were all gathered within one compilation. Ever since this model was first established, historians have not been able to surpass its scope. It is the highest standard for true historians.44

Nevertheless, other issues were not so decisively resolved, and although Sima made progress toward a systematic historical method, he often appears to have been making up the rules as he went along. Or in a more positive light, one might assert that the Shiji is enlivened by a sense of experiment and intellectual adventure. Like other pioneering works that put forward new arrangements, new vocabularies, and new concepts, the Shiji can be both stimulating and frustratingly difficult to interpret. For instance, one of the peculiar results of the fivefold division is that a particular story may be told more than once, each time in a slightly different form and from a different perspective. For Western readers at least, this is somewhat problematic in a work of history. In addition, at the end of most chapters Sima has included brief personal comments, which often offer insights into his historiographical principles but which also occasionally contradict the import of the chapter itself. Other Standard Histories found it difficult to repeat Sima’s performance, and they narrowed their focus to single dynasties while retaining the Shiji’s core arrangement of basic annals and biographies with concluding comments (the entire package is known in Chinese as jizhuanti), sometimes augmented by treatises. Later, in the Song dynasty, historians attempted to match the comprehensive scope of the Shiji , but in doing so they usually had to give up the annals-biography form. Sima Guang (1019–1086) followed the pattern of year-by-year annals and produced the Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government, a record of 1,326 years of history, and Zheng Qiao (1108– 1166) and Ma Duanlin (thirteenth century) expanded the treatise genre to follow topics such as taxes, government organization, and penal law over the course of several dynasties.45 Yet the Shiji was always the model to imitate

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or adapt, for in constructing his account of the world, Sima Qian firmly established the Chinese conception of the past. Given the role of history in Chinese civilization, and the role of the Shiji in Chinese historical writing, the question of why Sima Qian turned to history is significant. Actually, this query comprises two separate lines of investigation: (1) Why did Sima Qian look to the past for answers, and (2) what circumstances or difficulties led him to seek answers in the first place? Of these, the former question is easier to tackle, for Sima Qian was deeply influenced by the Chinese propensity toward history that I outlined in the preceding section. Sima’s most explicit statements about his motivation for writing come from his autobiography in the last chapter of the Shiji (chap. 130), and a letter to Ren An preserved in the Han shu (the second of the Standard Histories). Taken together, these two documents provide virtually everything we know about Sima Qian’s life.46 Sima Qian was clearly influenced by the tradition of ancestor worship. He begins his autobiography by recounting the deeds of illustrious ancestors, who significantly included scribes in the royal court of Zhou, and he devotes a great deal of space to the life and opinions of his father, Sima Tan. Sima Tan’s own father had attained a midlevel honorary title, and although Tan studied philosophy and astronomy, he seems to have labored as a farmer until he was appointed to the post of Grand Astrologer (taishiling ), a position that he held from 140 b.c.e. until his death in 110 b.c.e. Despite Sima Tan’s apparently successful career, Sima Qian felt that his family was in decline, and he looked back to the glories of the past. The office of Grand Astrologer combined record keeping, observation of natural phenomena, calendar making, and divination, but in the Former Han dynasty this was not a particularly prestigious or influential job. Sima Qian describes his father as “kept for the amusement and sport of the Emperor, treated the same as the musicians and jesters, and made light of by the vulgar men of his day.”47 Confucianism also played a major role in Sima Qian’s turn to history. Ever since Ban Gu (c.e. 32–92) criticized Sima’s Confucianism as insufficiently orthodox, Chinese commentators have debated whether Sima Qian was more Confucian or more Daoist (the latter charge was based primarily on Sima Tan’s essay on philosophical schools, which clearly favored Daoism and was included in Shiji 130).48 This seems to me to be a nonissue. Surely Sima Qian was eclectic in his approach and flexible in his outlook (he certainly was not “anti-Daoist”), but his most basic attitudes were Confucian. This is evident from his reverential treatment of Confucius and the overall

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form of his text, with its rationalized mythology, its tables imitating the Spring and Autumn Annals, and its adoption of the dynastic cycle based on Mandate of Heaven theories. I will have much more to say about Sima Qian’s Confucianism later on, but even in his autobiography Confucian attitudes are paramount. There Sima Qian records his father’s deathbed instructions, which despite the elder Sima’s Daoist tendencies, turn out to be a model of Confucian exhortation In an emotionally charged scene, Sima Tan grasps his son’s hand and tearfully urges him to restore the honor of their ancestors by completing an unofficial history that Tan himself had planned. He laments his inability to take part in the feng sacrifice at Mount Tai (the most ritually significant event of his generation), stresses the duty of filial piety, and cites the example of Confucian heroes like the duke of Zhou and Confucius himself. As Sima Qian later recalled, his father wanted him to correct and continue the Confucian classics and even become Confucius’s successor in the great five-hundred-year cycle that stretched back from Confucius to the duke of Zhou.49 If anything, Sima Tan veers away from orthodoxy in his overenthusiastic (to the point of blasphemy) Confucian ambitions for his son. In Li Zhangzhi’s paraphrase, Sima Tan wanted his son to become “the Second Confucius,” a notion that would have been unthinkable to later, more conventional scholars.50 Perhaps to undercut the heretical implications of his father’s astonishing aspiration, Sima Qian follows it with a lengthy discussion on the meaning of the Spring and Autumn Annals, a text he obviously admired and wished to emulate. Because the Annals were generally (though erroneously) ascribed to Confucius, they were the focus of much attention and controversy in the Han dynasty, and it is difficult to pinpoint exactly how Sima wished to imitate them, especially since the discussion in Shiji 130 consists almost entirely of quotations from the Confucian scholar Dong Zhongshu (c. 179– 104 b.c.e.). Nevertheless, Sima Qian appears to subscribe to the view that Confucius, frustrated by his lack of success, encoded his moral judgments in the text of the Annals, hoping that they would serve as a model for later rulers. We might conclude that Sima similarly intended his history to serve as a moral handbook and to convey his analysis of the patterns of historical change, were it not for his explicit disavowal at the end: “If you compare my history with the Annals, you are mistaken.”51 Sima Qian’s modest demurral is generally ascribed to his political caution, for Confucius’s judgments were largely negative, and to write in direct imitation of the Annals would be tantamount to treason. Yet it is likely that

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one of Sima’s primary intentions was to follow the example of the Annals and criticize contemporary evils, a theme that brings us to the convergence of Sima Qian, history, and the bureaucracy.52 Although in the early Han dynasty, a number of influential officials looked to the past for guidance in policymaking and for examples by which to warn emperors, Sima Qian and his father were not generally involved: “The Eminent Grand Astrologer oversaw heavenly bodies; he did not govern the people.”53 Sima Qian’s most important commentator and translator in English, Burton Watson, has always translated the title taishiling as “Grand Historian,” perhaps in order to remove the taint of pseudoscience still attached to the term astrology today. Yet it is important to realize that although Sima’s position did give him crucial access to the imperial archives, his historical labors were not part of his job description, except as far as he himself, wishing to carry on family traditions, defined it. Unlike later Standard Histories, which became products of official sponsorship, the Shiji was a private history, privately circulated after Sima’s death. Grand Astrologers were not expected to have much influence in bureaucratic debates, and in fact, Sima Qian’s most famous foray into remonstrative politics ended in disaster in 99 b.c.e. A general named Li Ling, with whom Sima was casually acquainted, had been sent deep into enemy territory to lead five thousand troops against the Xiongnu barbarians. Despite initial successes, eventually heavy casualties and shortages of food and weapons forced Li Ling to surrender when promised reinforcements failed to materialize. Emperor Wu, who expected his generals either to win or die in the effort, was furious, and the courtiers surrounding him joined in the general denunciations of Li. Sima Qian, however, ventured to remind the emperor of Li Ling’s past achievements and suggested that he had surrendered in order to have an opportunity to serve the emperor again in the future, an opportunity open only to the living. This defense only made the emperor angrier (it implied a criticism of the general who should have led the reinforcements, a man who happened to be the brother of Emperor Wu’s current favorite), and Sima Qian was charged with “defaming the emperor,” a crime punishable by death. It was customary for officials accused of high crimes either to buy their way out of such legal difficulties or to commit suicide rather than to submit to punishment, but neither option was available to Sima Qian. His family did not have the financial resources for the first alternative, and he himself chose not to commit suicide so that he might have a chance to fulfill his father’s charge and complete the history he was writing. This opportunity

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presented itself, though at a grim price, when Sima Qian’s sentence was commuted to castration. He accepted this humiliation, even though he acknowledged that “no disgrace is greater” and then lived to complete the Shiji.54 He tried to explain his decision in a moving letter to Ren An, another official who found himself entangled in the web of the law, but Sima Qian’s final justification can lie only in the Shiji itself, a text that not surprisingly exhibits a fascination with the problem of how to criticize rulers and yet survive unscathed. The cost of Sima Qian’s devotion to history was so high that we must ask ourselves what motivated his search for answers. What shock or discomfort or lack led to such an iron determination that it was more bearable to live with mutilation than without history? I can suggest some possibilities, but at the outset it may be wise to concede that in the end, we will be left with only the ambiguous text of the Shiji. Nevertheless, some educated guesses may guide our reading. Surely, the death of Sima Qian’s father (when Qian was about thirtyfive years old) was a traumatic experience. Almost 60 percent of Sima’s autobiographical chapter is taken up by a synopsis of the contents of the Shiji, but half of what is left is devoted to his father. In fact, aside from one impersonal reference to “father and mother” in an exhortation to filial piety,55 Sima Tan is the only immediate family member to whom Sima Qian refers. Nowhere in his autobiography is there any mention of siblings, a wife, or children. In a culture that traditionally emphasized respect for parents and at a time when filial piety was becoming the most important of all virtues (perhaps due to the political usefulness of its corollary precept of obedience to ruler), Sima Qian was firmly bound to his father, who was also his model and guide, and he was deeply moved by his father’s deathbed admission that his life had been a failure: The Eminent Grand Astrologer [Sima Tan] grasped Qian’s hand and tearfully said, “Our forebears were Grand Astrologers of the Zhou court. From ancient times they manifested their merit, and they won fame in the time of Yu and Xia by overseeing the affairs of the Heavenly Governors [stars and planets]. In later ages the family declined, and now will it come to an end with me? If you in turn become Grand Astrologer, then you can continue our ancestral line. Today the Emperor has accepted the tradition of a thousand years and is performing the feng sacrifice at Mount Tai, yet I am unable to follow him. Surely this is fate; indeed it is fate.

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“I am dying. You must become the Grand Astrologer, and as the Grand Astrologer do not forget that which I have desired to set in order and write. . . . It has been more than four hundred years since the capture of the unicorn [that marked the end of Confucius’s labors]. The feudal lords have joined together, but their scribal records have been scattered and discontinued. Now the Han has arisen and all the world is united under one rule, yet as Grand Astrologer I have not set in order and recorded the glorious sovereigns, worthy rulers, loyal ministers, and gentlemen who died for righteousness. I am fearful that the historical writings of the world will be discarded. You must bear this in mind.” Sima Qian bowed his head, and said, weeping, “Your humble son is not very clever, but I would like to thoroughly set in order the old traditions that our forebears put together. I dare not be remiss.”56

If writing is a response to some deep-felt need or lack, the original impetus for the Shiji was Sima Tan’s own unfulfilled ambitions. He had apparently gathered historical materials and may have even begun writing, but his labors were cut short by his death.57 Given what we know about the official duties of the Grand Astrologer, Tan’s aspiration to write a history was more personal than professional, but this desire is what Sima Qian inherited, and he continued Tan’s researches in part as a way to deal with the loss of his father and also as an attempt to transmute his father’s failure into success. His urge to do so was strong enough to justify accepting castration as its price. Filial piety was at the root of Sima’s relationship with his father, but its requirements were not always immediately evident. For instance, Sima Qian traveled widely in the fifteen years before his father’s death and pointedly tells us that his itinerary included a pilgrimage to Confucius’s home, which would have pleased his father greatly. But there is a certain irony in leaving one’s parents to study at the shrine of a man who once said, “While father and mother are alive, do not travel far.”58 More to the point, what were Sima Qian’s options when he was condemned to castration? He could commit suicide, which would have preserved some semblance of family honor, or he could accept mutilation, which would bring disgrace to himself and to his father but would also give him the opportunity to complete something lasting and valuable in Sima Tan’s name. Either choice would probably result in the termination of his father’s lineage. In his letter to Ren An, Sima reveals that he has

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21

no brothers and no close family, and there is a strong suggestion that he himself has no male heirs.59 Perhaps this is why there is a certain ambiguity in Sima’s recollection of his father’s injunction to carry on their ancestor’s line (lineage? line of work?). Sima Tan advised his son, “Filial piety begins in serving parents, advances to serving a ruler, and culminates in establishing oneself. To gain fame among later generations, in order to glorify father and mother, is the greatest requirement of filial piety.”60 This is in striking contrast to Mencius, who argued that “there are three ways of being unfilial, and to have no posterity is the greatest.”61 In the end, Sima Qian wagered that a cultural legacy would outweigh the disgrace and the loss of biological descendants, but the choice was not obvious. As he wrote to Ren An (in Burton Watson’s marvelous rendering), I have brought upon myself the scorn and mockery even of my native village and I have soiled and shamed my father’s name. With what face can I again ascend and stand before the grave mound of my father and mother? Though a hundred generations pass, my defilement will only become greater. This is the thought that wrenches my bowels nine times each day. Sitting at home, I am befuddled as though I have lost something. I go out, and then realize that I do not know where I am going. Each time I think of this shame, the sweat pours from my back and soaks my robe. I am now no more than a servant in the harem. How could I leave of my own accord and hide far away in some mountain cave? Therefore I follow along with the vulgar, floating and sinking, bobbing up and down with the times, sharing their delusion and madness.62

Just as castration compounded the tragedy of the death of Sima’s father, so also it intensified another probable source of inspiring discontent. Sima Qian was living in an age of rapid political and social change, and he was deeply suspicious of much of what he saw. After centuries of increasingly brutal civil strife among kingdoms, China was finally unified in 221 b.c.e. by the First Emperor of Qin, who tried to do away with historical customs and reform Chinese society on a huge scale. Although he anticipated that his descendants would rule China for ten thousand generations, his regime collapsed shortly after his death only fourteen years after it began. China once again plunged into civil war, which ended when Han Gaozu proclaimed the Han dynasty in 202 b.c.e. Despite his peasant background,

22

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Gaozu restored some elements of traditional aristocratic China, including the institutions of subsidiary kings and feudal lords. His successors fended off challenges from these feudal lords and the family of Gaozu’s empress, but on the whole they adopted a laissez-faire attitude toward government that gave China a much needed respite. All this changed in 141 b.c.e. when the fifteen-year-old Emperor Wu ascended to the throne. In the course of his long reign, Emperor Wu took firm steps to do away with the feudal lords, initiated massive campaigns against the Xiongnu barbarians in the north, invaded the Korean peninsula, resettled 700,000 colonists in Central Asia, and launched expeditions to the south. He also reformed religious and political rituals, monopolized the minting of money, regulated markets, established state monopolies of the manufacture of salt and iron, raised taxes, and oversaw an increase in litigation and legal severity. In short, it seemed as though Emperor Wu was returning to the authoritarian style of government that had made the First Emperor so unpopular. Sima Qian was troubled by these current events, and in response he turned to history (we can safely assume that his experiences in Emperor Wu’s legal system would not have significantly altered his negative impressions of his sovereign). As we saw earlier, there was an old tradition in China of using the past to criticize the present, and much of the Shiji seems to fit this pattern. There are hints of profound dissatisfaction with Emperor Wu’s economic, military, legal, ritual, and personnel policies, and the lengthy discussion in Sima’s autobiography of Confucius’s Spring and Autumn Annals highlights this aspect of his work. Indeed, searching for implied criticisms hidden in Sima’s accounts has afforded untold hours of pleasure for generations of Shiji scholars. Yet the Shiji is much more than a thinly (or even thickly) veiled diatribe. When his interlocutor, Hu Sui, interrupts Sima’s musings on the nature of the Spring and Autumn Annals to point out that Confucius’s negative historical judgments would be inappropriate in a work describing the glorious present, Sima Qian agrees and tells us that he has accepted his father’s ambition to preserve the memory of virtuous deeds and worthy gentlemen.63 Although this assertion was politically expedient, I do not believe that it was entirely facetious. Even Emperor Wu had his good points—after all, it was he who established Confucianism as the official ideology of the Han dynasty—and his reign marked a time of unprecedented strength and confidence for China. Sima Qian himself had a hand in celebrating these qualities when he helped devise the new calendar that

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23

was promulgated in 104 b.c.e. as part of the rejuvenation of the imperial reign. Sima is justly famous for the variety of his interests and the empathy with which he describes his subjects. Strengths and weaknesses all receive a fair hearing, and in the end the Shiji offers a richly layered, complex portrayal of China’s past, but there does seem to be a pessimistic current beneath the surface that is driving the project forward. One final impetus for writing was Sima Qian’s desire to contribute to his era’s great quest for restoration, unity, and synthesis.64 The founder of the Han dynasty had finally brought stable political unity to the Chinese world, and consolidation in other aspects of life soon followed. Sima Qian concludes his autobiography by listing the achievements of Han scholars who, reversing the dissipation of culture in the late Zhou and Qin dynasties, had systematized codes of law, military regulations, the calendar, measurements, and ritual while the all-important records of history, literature, and philosophy remained scattered and confused. Sima continues: Of the remains of literature and ancient affairs scattered throughout the world, there is nothing that has not been exhaustively collected by the Grand Astrologers [Sima Tan and Sima Qian]. . . . In all, 130 chapters, 526,500 characters make up the Book of the Grand Astrologer [an earlier name for the Shiji ]. I have organized and arranged it in order to gather together the [literary] remains and repair omissions in the classics. It completes the discourse of a single school [or “family”] by harmonizing the different traditions of the Six Confucian Classics and correlating the miscellaneous sayings of the hundred schools of philosophy. I have placed one copy in a famous mountain and another in the capital, where they will await the sages and gentlemen of later generations.65

Sima intended his history to be a grand synthesis of Chinese culture and thought. Once again, this motive is connected with filial piety (as indicated by the alternate reading of “family,” jia), for the one passage that is unambiguously from the brush of Sima Tan is a comprehensive essay on the major philosophical schools that notes the strengths and weaknesses of each.66 Sima Qian copied this essay verbatim into his autobiography and then concluded the chapter, as we have seen, by proclaiming that he had fully completed his father’s project of philosophical harmonization. As Sima Qian collected and consolidated the fragments of the past, he also tried to make sense of them. This was natural given his training

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and profession. The Grand Astrologer was responsible for coordinating the calendar and carefully observing and interpreting natural phenomena, and we would expect that Sima’s search for meaningful regularities and patterns of change in nature would carry over into his examination of history.67 I have gathered together the old traditions of the world which were neglected and lost, and investigated their deeds and affairs. I have searched into the principles behind their successes and failures, their rises and declines, [making] in all, 130 chapters. In addition I wished to study the relationship of Heaven and man, and to penetrate changes both ancient and modern, thus completing the discourse of a single school.68

For Sima Qian, making sense of the world was not just identifying relationships of cause and effect or reconstructing chronologies; he was also interested in the moral meaning of history and, in particular, the problem of injustice. He was keenly aware of the many individuals of integrity and talent who had unjustly suffered, and by the time the Shiji had been completed, he himself had joined their ranks. But he also knew that some of these people had managed to transcend their straitened circumstances through literature. After referring briefly in his autobiography to his personal tragedy, Sima tried to contextualize his history by citing the examples of ten other works of literature (including four of the five extant Confucian classics), all of which were written when their authors had experienced grave injustice and were looking for a way to communicate their ideas to those who might someday recognize their true worth. Like them, the Shiji “narrated past events while thinking of future generations.”69 Or as Sima says in his letter to Ren An, “If I concealed my feelings and clung to life, burying myself in filth without protest, it was because I could not bear to leave unfinished my deeply cherished project, because I rejected the idea of dying without leaving to posterity my literary work.”70 Once again, Confucius was the exemplar in this process, for not only did he single-handedly gather together and consolidate the neglected traditions of the Zhou dynasty, as Sima Tan had reminded his son, but he also discovered the moral import of history and then struggled to embed his judgments in a form that would survive until they could be read by future generations, as Sima Qian made clear in his comments on the Spring and Autumn Annals. Sima Qian’s autobiographical chapter in the Shiji allows us to read his act of writing (along with the mutilation required to bring it to completion) as a

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25

major component in several competing narratives. Through writing he can fulfill his filial obligations to his father and, indeed, sacrifice for his father’s sake. He can gain the fame that will prevent the Sima line from vanishing into oblivion. He can restore the lost traditions of a culture as well as the reputation of a family in decline. He can bring order and meaning to the scattered remnants of the past. He can emulate the labors of Confucius by transmitting personal judgments about ancient and contemporary history to future generations and thereby transcend his unjust persecution. Finally, he can transmute his sufferings into a literary work of permanent value. We have here the beginnings of an interpretation of the Shiji, based primarily on Sima Qian’s concluding autobiographical chapter, but even though these motives are suggestive and contradictory enough to provide rich interpretive possibilities, there is reason to be suspicious of this type of reading. The Shiji is a large book (about four times the length of Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War ), and it is fairly easy to thumb through its pages and collect Sima Qian’s various pronouncements on economics, or government, or Daoism, or even his own intentions, always giving particular attention to the personal comment sections in which he seems to speak in his own voice. In fact, numerous Chinese studies of the Shiji have done just this. But this approach is ultimately limited by several factors. First, the form of the Shiji is fragmentary and open-ended and does not lend itself easily to simple summations. As Burton Watson has observed: It is . . . impossible, as those who have tried will know, to deduce from all of Ssu-ma Ch’ien’s scattered utterances a consistent system of thought. He seems rather to let himself be drawn along by his narrative, sighing in sympathy, moralizing, or chiding as the mood strikes him, and proclaiming quite the opposite when another mood is upon him.71

Second, the literary nature of the Shiji, with its avoidances, ironies, and disavowals, makes interpretation difficult. Even Sima Qian’s autobiography (which is fairly sparse to begin with) is deeply embedded in the text and shares in these literary devices. For example, are Sima’s vague remarks about running into trouble on his travels to be taken at face value, or are they, as Edouard Chavannes suggested, deliberate attempts to highlight parallels between his own life and that of Confucius?72 Are Sima Tan’s last words, as Stephen Durrant has suggested, “at least partially Sima Qian’s own voice”?73 And why is the discussion of the Annals in chapter 130 presented in the

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form of a dialogue between Sima Qian and his friend Hu Sui? Biographical interpretations are also clouded by the possibility of joint authorship with his father. Third, the Shiji is a complex text, and like all great works, it fulfills many functions simultaneously. True, one may read it as a description of Chinese history or even as evidence for Sima Qian’s mental life, but it is much more than this. Dominick LaCapra has warned historians against the narrow, “documentary” reading of texts, pointing out that “the multiple roles of tropes, irony, parody, and other ‘rhetorical’ devices of composition and arrangement generate resistances to the construal of texts in terms of the ‘representational’ or narrowly documentary functions, and they disclose how texts may have critical or even potentially transformative relations to phenomena ‘represented’ in them.”74 The Shiji cannot be reduced to a series of declarative statements or opinions. Three recent studies of Sima Qian have similarly examined the relationship between Sima Qian’s life and writings but have admirably avoided simplistic readings. Wai-yee Li invites us to see Sima’s sufferings as authenticating and expressing a individual moral vision.75 Stephen Durrant suggests that the Shiji is the result of the tension between Sima’s own creative, emotional encounter with the past and the charge to order and synthesize that he inherited from his father and Confucius.76 And Vivian-Lee Nyitray warns us of the complex relationship among author, editor, narrator, and Sima Qian, reminding us what a constructed thing an “author” is.77 Rather than decoding the Shiji, these studies offer readers lenses with which to read various Shiji narratives with more insight and nuance. I suggest yet another perspective that is perhaps more literalistic and less literary than those of my predecessors. I also am interested in how Sima Qian’s experiences shaped his perception of the past and how he incarnated this vision in his text, but is it possible that, to a degree unfamiliar in Western histories, there is a strong performative element in the Shiji as well? Perhaps the Shiji not only represents Sima Qian’s conception of history but also represents, in a strikingly literal fashion, the world itself, and through its very existence, it seeks to change that world.

2

REPRESENTING THE WORLD

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know Are a substantial world, both pure and good. William Wordsworth, “Personal Talk”

istorical writing in the West begins with the inquiries (historia) of Herodotus, who set the basic pattern of historiography that continues to this day (and, indeed, informs the book you are now holding). A historian, as Herodotus invented the role, is someone who, through a combination of curiosity, intelligence, and questioning, has managed to discover something of the past and then offers the results of these researches to the public in his or her own voice. As we read his Histories, we are constantly aware of the presence of the author at our elbow, telling stories, pointing out this or that, offering judgments, and generally exhibiting the wit, sensibility, and chattiness that make Herodotus a memorable guide through the past. A history is not a representation of the past itself; it is a representation of the author’s conception of the past. There is no history without a historian, just as there is no memory without a rememberer. English speakers are constantly reminded of this intimate connection by the somewhat confusing dual function of the word history, which refers to both writings about the past and the past itself. The role of a historian has been refined since Herodotus’s day—more emphasis is now given to the critical reading of sources, to the documentation in the public reporting of research, to the identification of causes, and to the recognition of the historian’s own biases—but the central issue remains that of Herodotus. Historians are still saying, “You can trust me. I know what

H

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I am talking about; I am using my sources responsibly.” Historical rhetoric in the West is a mode of persuasion, the object of which is to convince the reader that the historian’s account of history reflects the truth, that her reconstruction accurately represents what actually happened. It is possible to fit Sima Qian’s history into this general framework, and early Western sinologists were eager to do so. Trying to convince their audience not only of their own credibility but also of the worth of their subject matter, they naturally stressed those elements of the Shiji that seemed to cast Sima Qian in the expected role. He turned out, not surprisingly, to be a tireless researcher and traveler, an archivist, a critical user of sources, and an “objective” reporter. He was also blessed with the hallmarks of a great historian: he was a fine storyteller, an innovator, and a compassionate observer of human behavior. There is evidence in the Shiji for each of these characteristics, but taken together they do not fully account for Sima Qian’s work, for the Shiji is a very different type of historical text. The Shiji offers a multiplicity of voices and perspectives, and to read the text is to enter a confusing world of narratives and counternarratives, differing explanations and corrections, and a variety of literary styles and historiographical approaches. It presents neither a unified view of the past nor a consistent interpretation of what history means. This might not be surprising in a book that is a compendium of disparate materials gathered together with a minimum of editorial oversight, and in fact, many scholars have seen the Shiji in this light—the creation of an ambitious editor with too much material and too little time. Yet Sima Qian strenuously creates an identity for himself in the last chapter of the Shiji, which should give us pause. By revealing something of his own biography and motivations, he invites readers to speculate on the connections between his text and his life. By providing a comprehensive overview, chapter by chapter, with comments on why he chose to include each, he suggests that there is, despite appearances, an overarching plan to his method. Finally, by concluding with a few brief but suggestive remarks about the organization of the Shiji, he intimates that there is meaning in the arrangement of his history. It is this last hint that we will be taking up in this chapter, for in trying to determine exactly how the Shiji handles history, it is useful to begin with its most distinctive feature—its structure. Here we will be “reading” the organization of the Shiji and critiquing previous interpretations, holding off for a while most discussions of specific contents. The structure of the Shiji is complex, and it deliberately calls attention to itself in a way that contrasts with the more straightforward narrations of early Western historians. As we

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shall see in later chapters, much of the creative tension in the Shiji is due to the conflicting implications of its content and form.

The Structure of the Shiji When Sima Qian set out to write a history of the world, he found the traditional historical forms inadequate. The collection of speeches in the Classic of Documents, the year-by-year chronicles in the Spring and Autumn Annals and its commentaries, and the anecdotes arranged by states in the Intrigues of the Warring States all were insufficient to convey his conception of what history should be. So he invented a new method of organizing historical data that divided his account of the past into five major sections: basic annals, chronological tables, treatises, hereditary houses, and categorized biographies.

Basic Annals (chaps. 1–12) Sima begins with a chapter on the legendary Five Emperors and devotes subsequent chapters to the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties. He rationalizes mythical material, and with the Zhou dynasty, he is able to provide a clear chronology that he continues throughout the rest of the annals section, dating events by the year of the reigning sovereign. A chapter on the state of Qin follows and then the first chapter devoted to an individual ruler, the First Emperor of Qin, who unified China by conquering the states that had gradually gained autonomy as the power of the Zhou kings declined. Thereafter, all the annals describe individual rulers, including Xiang Yu, who managed to gain control of China after the overthrow of the Qin dynasty (even though he never officially became an emperor), and Gaozu, the founder of the Han dynasty. Sima devotes a chapter to Gaozu’s wife, Empress Lü, who controlled the government after her husband’s death (albeit indirectly through three boy emperors), and then recounts the reigns of rulers up until Emperor Wu, his own sovereign (unfortunately, this chapter has been lost).1 As his narrative moves closer to his own time, he has more sources to draw on, and from the First Emperor on, we have virtually a yearby-year account of major events, some of which are described in great detail.

Chronological Tables (chaps. 13–22) In this section Sima once again covers the entire duration of Chinese history, beginning with the mythical past and continuing through the

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reign of Emperor Wu, but here he offers very limited descriptions within a comprehensive chronological framework. Each table consists of a grid with time, in varying degrees of specificity, on one axis. The spaces within the grids are usually marked with numbers representing the progress of time by years or months, and these numerals allow readers to calculate just how long feudal lords or princes or government officials kept their positions. In addition, many spaces also include brief notations of events. The first table is a genealogical chart that traces the family connections of the Five Emperors and the founders of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties. There are, accordingly, eight rows segmented into columns representing generations (Sima explained that his sources were not adequate to affix actual dates to this table).2 As each emperor or family receives the Mandate of Heaven, they are elevated to the top row, and their original row becomes blank. When the Zhou dynasty begins, therefore, the eight rows are suddenly transformed into twelve, with the Zhou at the top and the others filled in with the eleven major feudal houses.3 This pattern is continued in the next two tables, which represent Chinese history year by year from 841 to 207 b.c.e. The Zhou house once again takes the upper row, but now there are fourteen rows (two begin blank and then are filled in with the enfeoffment of the dukes of Zheng and Wu). Years are noted along the horizontal axis, and the grid is filled in with the major events in each state, with special notice given to the rulers’ ascensions and deaths. Not every space has an event listed, but each does record the year of the current ruler’s reign. This, in effect, correlates the calendars of the different states, which were based on the reigns of local rulers. When a state is destroyed in the incessant fighting that characterizes this period, its row becomes blank.4 Finally, after 221 b.c.e. when the state of Qin defeats its last rival, the table offers only one space per year (see table 1, though the axes have been reversed to accommodate left-to-right writing). In the fourth table, multiple rows reappear (representing nine old feudal houses), and the chaotic events between the death of the First Emperor of Qin in 210 b.c.e. and the founding of the Han in 202 b.c.e. are arranged into columns that mark off the months. This slower pace forces an almost microscopic analysis of these crucial years. When Xiang Yu gains control and enfeoffs his followers, the rows are increased to twenty, one for each of the nineteen subordinate kingdoms and one at the top for the putative emperor. The fifth table resumes the year-by-year coverage of twenty-six kingdoms from the ascension of Gaozu in 206 b.c.e. to 101 b.c.e. As kingdoms are awarded, divided, and taken away, the corresponding rows are filled in

T h e Ta b l e b y Y e a r s o f t h e S i x S t a t e s ; C h r o n o l o g i c a l Ta b l e 3 [Year bce]

226

225

224

223

222

Qin

[Year of Reign]

Hann b

Wei

21 [General] Wang Pen attacked Chu

2

22

3 Qin subjugated King Jia.

Wang Pen attacked Wei, captured its king, Jin, and took over all its territory

Zhao 2

Chu 2

Yan 2

Qin greatly defeated us, taking ten cities.

3

23 [Generals] Wang Jian and Meng Wu attacked and defeated the Chu army, killing its general Xiang Yan.

4

24 Wang Jian and Meng Wu defeated Chu, subjugating its king, Fuchu

5

25 Wang Pen attacked Yan, subjugating King Xi. He also attacked and captured King Jia of Dai.a In the fifth month, the whole world celebrated with a great feast.

6 Qin’s general Wang Pen subjugated King Jia. Qin terminated Zhao.

Qi 29

39

Qin seized our capital, Ji, and captured Crown Prince Dan. The king fled to Liaodong. 3

30

40

4

31

41

5

32

42

33

43

Qin defeated our general Xiang Yan.

Qin subjugated king Fuchu. Qin terminated Chu.

Qin subjugated King Xi and seized Liaodong. Qin terminated Yan.

221

26 Wang Pen attacked Qi, subjugating King Jian. For the first time, the world was unified, and the King of Qin became the August Emperor.

44 Qin subjugated King Jian. Qin terminated Qi.

220

27 Renamed the Yellow River “Powerful Waters.” Made twelve bronze statues. Renamed the people “black-headed ones.” Standardized the world’s writing. Divided the empire into twelve commanderies

219

28 Built Epang Palace. Went to Mount Heng. Constructed fast roads. The emperor went to Mount Langye and returned by way of South Commandery. Built Apex Temple. Granted thirty households an advance of one rank.

218

29 There was a ten-day great search throughout the empire. The emperor went to Mount Langye and returned by way of Shangdang.

217

30

216

31 Renamed the La festival “Joyous Peace.” Granted to the black-headed ones six piculs of grain and two sheep per village so they might have joyous peace. There was a twenty-day great search.

215

32 The emperor went to Mount Jieshi and returned by way of Shang Commandery.

214

33 Sent fugitives, merchants, and adopted sons-in-law to seize Luliang. Made the commanderies of Guilin, Nanhai, and Xiang, and garrisoned them with convicts. In the northwest, captured [territory of ] the Rong barbarians and made it into thirty-four counties. Built a wall overlooking the Yellow River. Meng Tian commanded 300,000 troops.

a In 228 b.c.e., b Hann’s row is

Qin had subjugated King Qian of Zhao and taken his territory, but his son, Prince Jia, fled to the small state of Dai and made himself king there. blank because the state was terminated in 230 b.c.e. Source: Sima Qian, Shiji (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1959), 15.756–757.

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or left blank. The years of each local king’s reign are numbered, and events are occasionally recorded in the grid, but the most common notation is simply “came to court.” The sixth table abruptly changes the pattern and lists 143 fiefs in vertical columns. Time is represented by seven horizontal rows: the top one lists the first individual enfeoffed and the reason for the honor, and the other six represent the reigns of the six major Han rulers.5 The grid is filled in with notations about the fate of the founders’ descendants during these time periods. An eighth row at the bottom lists the order of merit assigned by Empress Lü in 187 b.c.e., and the table as a whole is arranged by chronological order of enfeoffment. This means that time is actually illustrated along both axes: reading from left to right gives the order of the original grants of territory, and reading from top to bottom within a column shows what happened in each fief over time.6 The same basic arrangement characterizes the next two tables, which focus on fiefs that were granted by the later emperors. As the time nears Sima Qian’s own day, the rows are made up of major chronological subdivisions of Emperor Wu’s long reign. The ninth table retains this last chronological framework, but all the kingdoms listed along the top were granted to princes, simply because they were born into the right family. The last table returns to the year-by-year pattern (with the years along the horizontal axis) and contains four rows with the following labels (from top to bottom): major events, chancellors, generals, and censors. The spaces in the bottom three rows are filled with notations about the men who held these positions. The period covered by this table is 206 to 20 b.c.e., which indicates a rather conspicuous problem, since Sima died around 86 b.c.e., but the portion of the table that can reasonably be attributed to Sima Qian usually is.7 Another odd feature of this table, which I have never encountered elsewhere in historical writing, is that some of the entries are deliberately printed upside down (these are primarily records of deaths and dismissals).8

Treatises (chaps. 23–30) The treatises are essays on eight general subjects—ceremonial, music, pitch pipes, the calendar, the heavens, sacrifices, hydrography, and the economy.9 In the first five, Sima offers a brief history of these topics from ancient times to his own day, which is preceded or followed by a more technical discussion, sometimes borrowed from an earlier source. For example, the bulk of the chapters on ceremonial and music consists of philosophical

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discourses taken from the philosopher Xunzi and a Confucian text of ritual, the Liji, and the “Treatise on the Heavens” includes a lengthy catalog of stars and descriptions of planetary movement as well as information on divination and the interpretation of celestial phenomena such as eclipses.10 Some commentators have suggested that several of these chapters were lost and that the borrowed material was added by later interpolators, but this is not necessarily the case, as Sima regularly filled out chapters with long quotations.11 Nevertheless, these first five treatises are among the most problematical chapters in the Shiji, with regard to both their technical subject matter and their disputed textual history. The “Treatise on Pitch Pipes” is a case in point. Pitch pipes were used in music, divination, calendar making, and military strategy, but the chapter in the Shiji is confusing, and its authenticity has long been suspect. The treatise begins with a discussion of military affairs and concludes with technical descriptions of the eight winds and twelve pitch pipes.12 There is evidence that Sima originally wrote a “Treatise on Military Matters” that was later lost, but the introductory discussion may be from Sima’s brush, and the rest of the treatise may have originally been part of the “Treatise on the Calendar.”13 The last three treatises consist of detailed accounts of the actions of the Qin and Han rulers with regard to state sacrifices, canals and dikes, and state finances. Only these treatises provide extended narratives, and not coincidentally, they give considerable attention to the policies of Emperor Wu. In fact, after the “Basic Annals of Emperor Wu” (chap. 12) was lost, it was replaced by a long excerpt from the “Treatise on Feng and Shan Sacrifices” (chap. 28), so that in the current editions of the Shiji, most of this chapter appears twice.

Hereditary Houses (chaps. 31–60) In this section we once again start from ancient Chinese history and work our way toward Sima’s own day, chapter by chapter, but this time the focus is on the families of feudal lords. Each chapter spans several generations, and the first fifteen hereditary houses are actually histories of the major feudal states in the Zhou dynasty, in which major events are narrated briefly and dated according to the local chronology. Unlike the tables, the chronology is not comprehensive. That is, there is not a notation or a space for every year; rather, here the events are primary and the chronology secondary. The first two hereditary houses begin with Shang dynasty progenitors, but after that

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each of the fifteen early chapters takes place almost entirely within the Zhou dynasty, and states that play major roles toward the end of the dynasty tend to appear later in the hereditary houses section.14 Thus, the information within chapters is arranged chronologically, and the chapters themselves follow a basic chronological sequence, although there is considerable overlapping. The “Hereditary Houses of Guan and Cai” (chap. 35) presents a deviation from these principles, since it includes the histories of two feudal houses, Cai and Cao, but it is interesting that the accounts are sequential, separated by a personal comment by Sima, and are not intermingled. Likewise, the “Hereditary Houses of Chen and Qii” (chap. 36) includes two houses arranged sequentially, but the account of Qii contains only the names and dates of rulers with no descriptions of events and so seems little more than an appendix.15 The amount of detail accorded to different events varies considerably. Much of the first half of the hereditary houses section consists of extremely brief, dated notices (that is, “20th year, Duke Mu of Qin died”), but occasionally incidents are narrated at length, and when an event involves more than one state, it may be noted in several different chapters. In addition, some events that would seem to be internal affairs are noted in the hereditary houses of other states. For example, the assassination of Duke Yin of Lu in 712 b.c.e. is noted in seven hereditary houses. This device helps coordinate the local chronologies that are unique to each chapter, and it may also indicate that a particular event was influential abroad. The pattern shifts somewhat with the hereditary houses of Zhao, Wei, and Hann (chaps. 43–45), which were not ancient feudal states.16 Rather, they were families who managed to carve out domains from the wreckage of the state of Jin in 403 b.c.e. Similarly, the next hereditary house, that of Tian Jingzhongwan, follows the fortunes of a family who switched states (originally from Chen, they usurped power in Qi in 481 b.c.e.), and the next two chapters recount the lives of individuals without states— Confucius, who was a peripatetic philosopher, and Chen She, who led the first rebellion against the Qin dynasty. The remaining hereditary houses are those of persons who gained prominence (and usually a fief ) when the Han dynasty partially restored the old feudal order. Each chapter describes the achievements that led to that honor and then continues its narration through to the descendants who eventually lost the fief. The nine hereditary houses of families who were honored by Gaozu are divided into those who were related to him (chaps. 49–52), and those who earned their fiefs through

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merit (chaps. 53–57). The last three hereditary houses describe individuals who were enfeoffed by later emperors.17 Two hereditary houses are anomalous in interesting ways. The “Hereditary House of Chen Ping” (chap. 56) incorporates brief biographies of two men who were unrelated to Chen but were his close colleagues in the government. Other hereditary houses tend to focus on a continuous family line, although four of the hereditary houses on Han royalty contain sequential biographies of men related in various ways, and the chapter on Han empresses (chap. 49) offers the biographies of five women, one right after another. The other unusual hereditary house is the last, that of three sons of Emperor Wu, which consists almost entirely of memorials to the throne and edicts.18

Categorized Biographies (chaps. 61–130) The last and largest section of the Shiji (making up about a third of the total work) also begins with figures from the remote past and continues toward Sima’s time, ending with the autobiography of the historian himself. We can classify these chapters as follows: chap. 61

Shang dynasty

chaps. 62–66

Zhou dynasty: Spring and Autumn era

chaps. 67–84

Zhou dynasty: Warring States era

chaps. 85–88

Qin dynasty

chaps. 89–91

Chu-Han civil war

chaps. 92–109, 111–112, 117–118, 120

Han dynasty (in rough chronological order)

chaps. 110, 113–116, 123

Descriptions of barbarian peoples (which often focus on individual leaders)

chaps. 86, 119, 121–122, 124–129

Group biographies of assassin-retainers, compassionate officials, Confucian scholars, cruel officials, local bosses (you xia), imperial catamites, jesters, diviners (by lucky days and cracked turtle shells), and businessmen

chap. 130

Sima Qian’s autobiography

Most biographies begin by specifying their subject’s native region and zi name and end with a personal comment by Sima Qian. Otherwise

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their contents are quite heterogeneous. Some provide full accounts of their subjects’ lives, whereas others offer only a few anecdotes. Some consist almost entirely of primary sources such as letters or poems; some include lengthy quotations from earlier works like the Intrigues of the Warring States; and others appear to be original narratives written by Sima Qian. Furthermore, how individuals are incorporated into biographical chapters varies considerably. Biographies may be devoted to single figures, or they may include accounts of two or more persons—sometimes in separate sequential narratives and sometimes intermingled. In addition, several chapters are explicitly devoted to groups of people united by common native region, temperament, or profession. These distinctions cannot always be determined from the titles of the chapters. For example, “The Biographies of Mengzi and Xun Qing” (chap. 74) actually functions like a group biography of philosophers. Sima’s comment occurs at the beginning of the chapter, and the thoughts of four men are described in some detail, with brief information provided on eight additional philosophers. Likewise, “The Biographies of General Wei and the ‘Cavalry General’ ” (chap. 111) concludes with brief career summaries of eighteen Han generals. The reasons that various individuals are grouped into joint biographies are not always clear, and in some chapters we find striking chronological disjunctions. In “The Biographies of Qu Yuan and Master Jia” (chap. 84), one of the subjects belongs to the Warring States era, while the other was a Han dynasty scholar. “The Biographies of Lu Zhonglian and Zou Yang” (chap. 83) similarly joins figures from the Warring States and the Han dynasty. Group biographies bridge chronological divides more naturally, although it is interesting that all ten individuals described in “The Biographies of Cruel Officials” (chap. 122) belonged to the Han dynasty and that all five men of “The Biographies of Compassionate Officials” (chap. 119) were from the Spring and Autumn era. Thus although the biographical section of the Shiji is primarily arranged according to chronology, other organizing principles also are at work, so any scheme for categorizing biographies is bound to come up short. In fact, Liu Weimin has proposed several ways of grouping Shiji biographies—by chronological period, by number of subjects (individual, dual, or group biographies), by broad topics (chapters dealing with barbarian tribes, social issues, government, sciences, and economics), by geographical region, by whether chapter titles refer to their subjects by personal name, nickname, official title, honorific, posthumous title, and so forth.19

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I have translated the term liezhuan as “categorized biographies” because the word lie means “arranged” or “ranked.” Actually, however, several different schemes of categorization are used in this section, and although Sima seems to have organized these chapters deliberately, his criteria for selection and grouping are not always obvious. Prominent men are sometimes left without chapters, and failed individuals (such as unsuccessful assassins or dissidents) are occasionally given prominent treatment. Even within chapters, certain anecdotes seem to have been included primarily because they illustrate a certain type of character or virtue and not because they were important in the subject’s life.20 The first and last biographies have special significance. “The Biography of Bo Yi” (chap. 61) serves more as an extended meditation on historiographical issues than an independent biography. We will return to this biography in chapter 5. The last biography, Sima Qian’s autobiography, unfortunately does not contain a great deal of information about his life. Instead, as we saw in the previous chapter, it consists mostly of an essay by Sima Qian’s father, Sima Tan, comparing the strengths and weaknesses of the major philosophical schools; Sima Tan’s final instructions to his son; a lengthy discussion of the meaning of the Spring and Autumn Annals; and a table of contents for the Shiji that provides brief descriptions of each chapter.21 Two other features of the Shiji ’s structure merit specific notice—copying and personal comments. Readers of the Shiji recognized from the beginning that in many respects, it was a compilation. Sima Qian borrowed extensively from earlier sources, sometimes updating their language or adding explanatory glosses but often just copying verbatim. This was not considered deceptive or reprehensible, however, since those who could read in ancient China were educated enough to recognize sources, and at any rate, our modern emphasis on originality and individualism did not hold sway in Han China. Edouard Chavannes, after describing the historiographical traditions of Greece and Rome, explained: The Chinese do not have the same conception of history. It is, for them, a clever mosaic in which the writings of past ages are placed side by side, with the author intervening only in his selection of these texts and the lesser or greater ability with which he fits them together. . . . The work is so impersonal that when the narrative concerns events that the author was able to witness, the reader is correct in wondering whether the author is speaking in his own name when he relates these things or whether he is merely copying documents that are today

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lost. When one is familiar with the methods of composition used in Chinese literature, one adopts the second hypothesis in almost all cases in which the writer does not formally announce that he is expressing his own thoughts.22

This is an extreme view. Scholars today are more willing to grant Sima Qian credit for writing narratives of his own, especially with regard to contemporary events, but it is true that the Shiji narrations often seem impersonal and that Sima’s creativity through long stretches of the Shiji is confined primarily to the selection and arrangement of preexisting accounts. The exception to this, of course, are the personal comment sections that conclude most Shiji chapters. In these passages Sima Qian speaks directly to his readers, and his remarks are often replete with emotional reactions and moral judgments. Unfortunately, they are also very brief and inconsistent. Sometimes he does offer judgments or note moral lessons, but at other times he comments on his sources and methods, adds an additional anecdote or laments a particularly tragic turn of events, cites a personal experience, or obliquely criticizes contemporary politics. These comments have traditionally been the prime passages in which to discover Sima Qian’s intentions and biases, but it is difficult to weave their highly diverse contents into a coherent philosophy.23 And even in these personal comments, Sima often downplays his own contribution. In forty-six comments he quotes the judgments of others, often in the form of a familiar aphorism, and most often (sixteen times) in the words of Confucius.24 As can be surmised from my brief survey, any attempt at a detailed interpretation of specific Shiji passages is fraught with difficulty. Not only is there the obvious problem of trying to understand classical Chinese, but readers must also be on their guard for contributions from Sima Tan and unacknowledged quotations, as well as textual corruptions and later interpolations, and they must also allow some flexibility for Sima Qian in his various roles. The “Sima Qian” that we know from chapter 130 is a deliberate literary creation, who may or may not be identical with the ultimate author of the Shiji or the narrators of its various chapters.25 Nevertheless, the overall structure of the Shiji seems clear enough, and we can be reasonably assured that the form of the Shiji today is approximately that intended by Sima Qian, since it matches the chapter-by-chapter description that he thoughtfully provided in his last chapter.26 With such caveats in mind, then, we can proceed to a tentative interpretation of the Shiji ’s general structure.

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Reading the Structure From this synopsis, it is obvious that the Shiji incorporates enormous quantities of information in a variety of different forms, but to my mind, the most remarkable feature of the Shiji is its comprehensiveness. The Shiji is a massive text in which Sima has presented a history of the entire world as he knew it, from its legendary beginnings to his own day. Carefully dated events extend over a period of about 750 years, and Sima offered as much reliable information as he could about the preceding two millennia. From 841 b.c.e. on, each year is represented in order in at least one chronological table. This chronological comprehensiveness is matched by a wide geographical coverage. Sima’s account focuses on China, the Central Kingdom (zhongguo), but it also includes chapters on the barbarian tribes at the peripheries of the Chinese cultural sphere, and vast portions of China receive individual representation in the tables and hereditary houses as fiefs and kingdoms. Within China itself, the focus is on the political and military elite, but Sima expands his account to include chapters on other individuals who possess different types of authority—doctors, philosophers, and diviners who have specialized knowledge, businessmen who enjoy economic power, local bosses who enjoy political influence that does not come under the jurisdiction of the emperor, poets who speak with extraordinary refinement and perception, and assassins who despite failure exhibit exceptional loyalty and determination. The Shiji thus offers a sociologically rich portrait of China, in which more than four thousand persons are mentioned by name. But this is not all. In addition to portraying the human world, Sima also reserved space in his history for the natural world. The heavens are described in encyclopedic detail; spiritual beings are enumerated; and the treatises on pitch pipes and hydrography consider the operations of natural forces. Of course, the topics covered in the treatises are not unconnected to the human world—the heavens respond to human goodness and wickedness with omens; spirits require appropriate sacrifices; floods must be dealt with by governments; and pitch pipes have military uses. Even such human conventions as music and ritual are depicted as deriving their power from the rhythms of the cosmos and the depths of human nature. Sima’s perspective is firmly grounded in humanity, but the natural world is not entirely alien or indifferent to his concerns. Finally, the comprehensiveness of the topics that Sima takes up in the Shiji is matched by the exhaustive range of his sources. Sima Qian’s position at court gave him access to the imperial archives, and he names more

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than eighty texts that he consulted in composing the Shiji, in addition to numerous memorials, edicts, and stone inscriptions.27 As he noted in his autobiography, “Of the remains of literature and ancient affairs scattered throughout the world, there is nothing that has not been exhaustively collected by the Grand Astrologers.”28 In compiling the Shiji, Sima Qian drew on all available sources to create a history in which everything has its place and everything is connected. Another striking feature of the Shiji is the degree to which this vast amount of information has been systematized, organized, and correlated. The tables are the most obvious expression of Sima’s fervor for organization. It must have taken an enormous amount of effort to correlate local calendars and to recast data from the archives into a unified and usable form. As the Song dynasty historian Zheng Qiao (1108–66) noted in the preface to the chronological tables in his own comprehensive history, “For specialists in the study of history, nothing is easier than [to write] annals and biographies, and nothing is more difficult than tables and monographs.”29 Yet Sima’s passion for accuracy and thoroughness is evident throughout the Shiji and, in particular, in the personal comment sections. In these passages we see Sima struggling with problems of historical evidence and attempting to develop a critical methodology. He carefully identified sources, both written and oral, and he evaluated documents by comparing them with texts of known authenticity. In addition, he tried to verify accounts by traveling extensively, personally examining important sites and artifacts, and when possible, interviewing eyewitnesses and reputable local experts. Sima made it a rule not to guess on matters for which he had insufficient evidence (particularly when dealing with ancient history), and he deliberately omitted details of doubtful authenticity. He argued that facts could be properly interpreted only in context and insisted that analyses take into consideration both the beginnings and the ends of historical processes. When he did discover that generally accepted accounts were false, he tried to point out and correct those errors in direct comments. Finally, he cultivated a critical attitude that acknowledged deficiencies in the Confucian classics, and he remained skeptical even of his own impressions.30 All in all, the Shiji represents an impressive performance for a pioneering ancient historian, but unfortunately it does not add up to a unified, credible account of the past. Perhaps Sima’s vast scope made this goal unattainable, for in order to make his history truly comprehensive, he had to relinquish a consistent focus. The Shiji does not follow a single person or institution or idea through time, supplementing a clear story with digressions, as

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Herodotus’ Histories do. Instead, the Shiji follows everything at the same time.31 It does not even enjoy the focus of a consistent author, for Sima Qian himself often seems to get lost in the details. For many Western readers, the most surprising feature of the Shiji is the curiously self-effacing role of its narrator. In contrast to Herodotus or Thucydides, Sima Qian is at best an indeterminate presence in his own history. The Shiji is fragmented and sprawling, and non-Chinese readers are likely to welcome the firm, guiding hand of Edouard Chavannes or William Nienhauser, who copiously annotated their translations with explanations, cross-references, and interpretations, as opposed to Burton Watson, who, aside from some minor revisions in chapter sequence and three very brief introductions, simply translated. Indeed, reading the Shiji can be a frustrating experience, especially if one has been previously informed of its standing as one of the greatest Chinese histories, because its format breaks at least four critical requirements of traditional Western historical representation.32 First, there is no unity of narrative voice. The personal comments clearly belong to Sima Qian, but elsewhere there is doubt due to his habit of copying earlier accounts directly into his own history. Hence we find stories reproduced nearly verbatim from the Intrigues of the Warring States, narratives from the Zuo zhuan that have been paraphrased into language more familiar to Sima’s Han dynasty readers, and chapters that consist mainly of long extracts from poems and letters. It is often quite difficult to distinguish Sima’s writing from that of his sources. The comment sections at the end of chapters remind readers that there is a historian selecting and organizing this material, but Sima Qian has not completely refashioned his sources into a new, personal reconstruction of history. What constitutes a Shiji chapter constantly changes, and the narratives seem to function somewhat independently of the historian who writes the concluding comments. The perception of independence is reinforced by the fact that Sima Qian often fails to fully explain or interpret his narratives. For example, over the course of the Shiji, some thirteen people (including Sima himself ) offer various explanations for Xiang Yu’s defeat at the hands of Gaozu, an event critical to the founding of the Han dynasty in 202 b.c.e. Sima hardly ever mediates among these opinions by comparing arguments or questioning the reliability of speakers; he simply reports what was said, without comment.33 Even when he does offer personal remarks in his own voice on the subject, these interpretations are not always consistent, nor are they necessarily

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more persuasive than the opinions offered earlier by others.34 This makes it extraordinarily difficult to determine Sima Qian’s judgments of the events he records. For instance, what is a reader to think when the Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks in one chapter that Xiang Yu was quite mistaken when he attributed his defeat to Heaven but, in another chapter, acknowledges Heaven as the source of Gaozu’s victories?35 In the end, Sima’s is simply one voice among many, and his device of appended personal remarks often merely highlights the sparseness of his direct comments within the narrative. The Shiji does not read in the same way as do classical Western histories, which often seem like transcriptions of lectures (indeed, we know that Herodotus gave public readings of his history). The closest that Sima Qian comes to this personal tone is in the prefaces he provides for the chronological tables, the treatises, and a few of the group biographies. In these chapters, the phrase “The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks” occurs early, out of its usual position, and the effect is to cast Sima as the continuing researcher and narrator. But for the most part, Sima seems intent on forcing readers to compare and evaluate explanations themselves, to become their own historians. The second way in which the Shiji thwarts Western expectations is that its accounts do not display a consistent level of coherence or followability.36 Whereas much of the biographies and hereditary houses consists of recognizable narratives (stories with beginnings, middles, and ends in which details are interrelated in an explanatory fashion), other Shiji sections lack a clear narrative structure. In the annals and early hereditary houses (and, of course, the tables), the emphasis is often on chronology rather than a story line, and consecutive details sometimes bear no discernible relationship to one another. In other words, these chapters function more like chronicles, though the use of this term in a Chinese context is probably misleading.37 Events frequently occur with no explicit causes and little effect, and odd, unexplained incidents abound. In fact, some of the events briefly mentioned in the tables are never referred to again in the Shiji.38 This lack of narrative coherence is partially due to Sima’s vast scope; it was impossible to provide full background information for all the individuals and events to which he referred. It can also be traced to his stubborn insistence on following the example of Confucius in not inventing information that was not in his sources.39 Consequently, extended narratives are rarer in the chapters that deal with ancient history. Third, the Shiji does not recount events within a unified narrative. As can be seen from my description of the Shiji’s structure, there is considerable

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overlapping among the sections. Four of the five major divisions (the exception being the treatises) begin with the legendary period and trace their various courses through to the reign of Emperor Wu. Even in the tables section, the beginnings and endings of chapters overlap, and the later tables cover the same general time period three different times, once from the perspective of subordinate kings, once for nobles, and once for government officials. Furthermore, the events narrated in Shiji 5, “The Annals of Qin,” occur almost entirely during the time period of Shiji 4, “The Annals of Zhou.” The situation is even more complicated when Sima Qian is recounting stories. Different biographies may include separate accounts of the same event, and the same person may show up in several biographies, a couple of hereditary houses, a table, and an annal. Readers usually must read several chapters to get all the details relevant to a single historical event, and the broader the event is, the more chapters are likely to be involved. For example, information about the rivalry between Gaozu and Xiang Yu is scattered over more than twenty-five nonconsecutive chapters. Incidents that are only mentioned in some chapters are fully narrated in others, and although Sima occasionally refers readers to the longer accounts, for the most part readers must either consult modern indexes or read the entire text several times through to gain a comprehensive picture of events. Fourth, Shiji accounts sometimes lack consistency. Sima Qian’s fragmented organization allows him to tell the same story more than once, but these multiple narrations do not always agree. Stories are often retold from different perspectives, since incidents may have had different significance in the lives of the various subjects of the biographies. This is understandable, and readers may even forgive narratives in which the chronologies exhibit slight discrepancies (a fairly common occurrence), but Sima occasionally tells strikingly different versions of the same event that are not strictly compatible. We meet this problem early in the Shiji when the Shang and Zhou annals relate the traditional miraculous tales of the birth of the ancestors of these dynasties—the mother of one became pregnant from eating an egg, and the other’s mother conceived after stepping in a mysterious footprint—whereas the “Table by Generations of the Three Dynasties” assigns ordinary fathers to these two legendary ancestors and traces their lineages back to the Yellow Emperor.40 Likewise, the “Annals of Yin [Shang]” report that the Chief of the West (the father of the founder of the Zhou dynasty) was thrown into prison because he secretly sighed at hearing how poorly Marquis E had been treated, and the “Annals of

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Zhou” trace his incarceration to slanderous reports of the marquis’s popularity.41 What are we then to make of this text, which in some passages seems so carefully organized, verified, and correlated and elsewhere appears to lack the coherence and control that the discipline of history demands? If Sima Qian was so concerned with accuracy, why is the Shiji such a welter of differing accounts, perspectives, and judgments? The possible reasons are several. Perhaps Sima Qian really was more of an compiler than a historian. This was the solution adopted by earlier generations of Western commentators, who saw Sima Qian’s extensive copying as a strength—he presented earlier accounts “objectively” (after identifying the most reliable sources) and kept his own interpretations separate.42 Or Sima’s respect for the past might have prevented him from thoroughly reworking his sources. Perhaps the inconsistent aspects of the Shiji reflect Sima’s own contradictory inclinations, as Stephen Durrant has argued in The Cloudy Mirror. Or maybe the kind of unity we expect in a historical account was impossible for Sima to imagine, given his own experiences with historical records. Alternatively, perhaps he was developing a critical methodology and working toward a notion of history similar to our own but simply ran out of time. Or he might have been overwhelmed by the task. All these solutions are plausible to some degree, but let me further confuse an already complicated question by proposing yet another resolution. First, my assumptions. I believe that Sima Qian’s notions of accuracy, consistency, evidence, and rationality were similar to ours. I also believe that the Shiji, as we have it today, reflects a coherent conception of history and that Sima Qian brought his project to a successful conclusion. In other words, I think the fragmented and overlapping accounts that we find in the Shiji were deliberate and serve a well-thought-out historiographical purpose. Finally, I believe that Sima was a very active editor. Not every detail in the Shiji is the result of some conscious choice (after all, the Shiji is a very long book, and Sima Qian did not have the luxury of a word processor), but I nevertheless assume that the Shiji is, to a large extent, what Sima intended it to be. His ideas and judgments can be discerned in the arrangement of his material, as well as in specific statements.43 My solution is that the Shiji is a “reconstruction of the past” much more literal than that usually denoted by the phrase. It is, in fact, a textual microcosm. When we hold the Shiji in our hands, we are holding a model of the past itself, which intentionally replicates, though to a lesser degree,

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the confusing inconsistencies, the lack of interpretive closure, and the bewildering details of raw historical data.

A Bamboo World With the defeat of the state of Qi in 221 b.c.e., King Zheng of Qin completed the brutal process of unification that had been gathering momentum in China for the previous five hundred years. He took the new title of “First August Emperor” (shi huangdi) and proceeded to rule over his newly consolidated domain. He must have had a premonition that his extraordinary position would merit an equally extraordinary tomb, for by this time his mausoleum had already been under construction for twentyfive years. An ancient source describes the project as follows: When the First Emperor began his reign [as king of Qin in 246 b.c.e.], excavations and construction started at Mount Li. After he unified the empire, more than 700,000 people from all over the empire were sent there [as conscript laborers]. They dug through three levels of ground water, sealed these off with copper, and then completed the outer coffin. The burial chamber was filled with [models of ] palaces, towers, and the hundred officials, as well as curious vessels, precious rarities, and confiscated treasures. The emperor ordered craftsmen to construct mechanical crossbows with arrows that would automatically shoot any grave-digging intruders. The hundred streams, the Yellow River, the Yangtze, and the great ocean were all reproduced with mercury, and outfitted with a device that caused them to flow and circulate. The ceiling was decorated with the heavenly constellations, while the earth’s geography was depicted on the floor. They also made candles from whale oil, which they supposed would burn for a long time without going out.44

The point of this particular model of the cosmos seems to be control.45 The First Emperor sought to represent his power and authority in concrete form. His ability to create and organize this miniature China reflected his dominion over its real counterpart, and his authority was more directly manifest in the vast resources of material and labor that he was able to summon for its construction. In addition, this model also had a ritual function. After his death, the First Emperor intended that his spirit (as

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a deified ancestor) would continue his domination of actual China by means of this intricate model. Taking the symbol as the thing itself, the First Emperor’s mausoleum seems like an elaborate, subterranean miniature golf course, over which only a madman would want to reign, but as a ritual representation of all China, where model and modeled are joined by cosmological correspondences, the whole tomb operates as a spiritual device. Control of the model offers control of the whole. The tomb of the First Emperor was an astonishing display of imperial ambition and power, the scale of which came to light only with the 1974 discovery of more than seven thousand life-size terra-cotta soldiers, armed and arranged in battle formation, buried in underground chambers about one mile east of the rammed earth hill that covers the first emperor’s resting place. Nonetheless, there is something pathetic about the whole affair.46 The Qin empire, which was supposed to last for ten thousand generations, collapsed after just fourteen years, barely outliving its founder, and in the process, his mausoleum was broken into and looted.47 The meticulous precautions and the extravagant expenditure of human effort all came to naught. The historical description of the project highlights its futility (how long can even whale oil candles burn?) and adds a note of moral repugnance in its recounting the slaughter of the emperor’s concubines at his funeral and the burying alive of artisans and laborers to prevent their revealing the secrets in the tomb. Our account is taken from “The Annals of the First Emperor of Qin” in the Shiji, and Sima Qian had reason to disparage the world model of the First Emperor, for it was a rival to his own work. The Shiji is itself a model of the cosmos, which includes a comprehensive representation of the heavens, China’s waterways and geographical regions, and the empire’s various officials. Like the First Emperor’s tomb, it also preserves treasures, this time literary and philosophical, from throughout Chinese history, and it was similarly intended as a monument that would stand for all time. Sima concludes his history by noting that he has buried a copy in a famous mountain, where it will “await the sages and gentlemen of later generations.”48 Unlike the First Emperor’s tomb, however, the Shiji offers a version of the world based on a moral order, where events are produced by historical causes rather than by imperial fiat. The First Emperor’s tomb was an image of a world created and maintained by bronze—the force of arms—whereas Sima Qian’s Shiji offered an alternative depiction of the world, inscribed on bamboo slips and regulated by scholarship and morality (themselves often the product of books written

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on bamboo).49 If Sima’s creation could not match the First Emperor’s in coercive political power, it far surpassed it in influence, and eventually the famous mausoleum was known and understood by the place it held in Sima Qian’s all-encompassing, bamboo world. Three considerations lead me to regard the Shiji as a microcosmic model. First is its comprehensiveness, which I have already noted. The Shiji is a book in which everything and everyone have a place. But it is more than just a handbook or a catalog, for its constituent parts are arranged into meaningful sequences and clusters. Parallels and correspondences are woven into its structure, which in turn, mirrors the wider world. Whereas most models of the cosmos represent spatial relationships, the Shiji strives to convey temporal connections and social hierarchy, yet it does manage to incorporate the essentials of human experience in a manner analogous to other models. For instance, one might consider models of a corporate headquarters. In addition to the familiar architectural scale-models, an organizational chart of corporate hierarchy is a useful reduction. The Shiji is like the latter, with the added features of depicting how the chart has changed over time and how different individuals have shaped their positions. If we consider our world system not just as referring to the physical earth but also as including human relationships and history, the Shiji is a fair representation. Also, at a few points Sima’s hierarchical mapping correlates with more traditional cosmological models. For instance, near the conclusion of his autobiography, he writes: As the twenty-eight constellations revolve about the Pole Star, as the thirty spokes come together at the hub, turning in unison without end, so too do the ministers who serve and assist [the king,] attend him like arms and legs. They follow the Way loyally and faithfully, and thus they support and uphold their ruler. So I have made the thirty Hereditary Houses.50

In this case, the motions of the heavens (and the body) are mirrored by the actions of a particular class of human beings, which in turn are mirrored in the organization of the Shiji. Similarly, some early commentators of the Shiji professed to discover cosmological analogues to its five-part structure: the twelve annals corresponded to the twelve months of the year, the ten tables to the ten days of a xun-week, the eight treatises to the eight jie (the four days that begin the seasons, plus the equinoxes and solstices), the thirty hereditary houses to the thirty days of a month, and the seventy biographies

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to the human life span (with retirement at age seventy) or the seventytwo days in a xing period.51 Furthermore, the prominence of the number five significantly echoed Han cosmological speculations. These particular identifications are debatable, but in principle Sima Qian, as an astrologer, could have been interested in duplicating natural cycles in the structure of his book. This was certainly something that other authors of the time were doing, as we shall see later. The second feature of the Shiji that seems characteristic of a microcosm is its lack of interpretive closure. The Shiji can be frustratingly open-ended: accounts may be incomplete; loose ends are never picked up again; connections among events may be unclear; and significance and meaning are frequently obscure. Part of this is due to the audacious scope of Sima’s undertaking— trying to include everyone and everything—but equally important is the fact that the type of indeterminacy exhibited in the Shiji is also a feature of the past itself, which is notoriously complex and confusing. Although some Westerners might regard the Shiji as unfinished history—the next step would have been for Sima to work all his meticulously researched facts into a unified, coherent narrative—I do not believe that Sima ever had such a goal. Rather, he wanted to represent accurately the world and its history in all its splendor and confusion. This statement is not quite accurate, however. If the past is already a mass of confusion, why would anyone want to read a similarly confused book? The answer is that even though the Shiji shares the most important characteristics of history, it does so to a lesser degree. The Shiji is a model of the world, and like all models, it employs simplification and selection as aids to understanding. Models duplicate some functions or relations while sacrificing others. Obviously, models of the human body, or of airplanes, or of the earth, are accurate in some respects, but we have little trouble distinguishing between the model and the original; the simplifications are profound. So it is with Sima’s model of the world and its past. The sum of human experience is too complicated and unwieldy to grasp, but a simplified and streamlined synopsis has its uses.52 Sima Qian’s account of the Spring and Autumn era, for instance, is complicated, fragmented, and not easily understood, but it is less so than the period itself (and less so than his primary source, the Zuo zhuan). Sima’s version is in many ways superior to the raw data of history—he has verified the facts he includes; he uses standardized chronologies; and he has selected what is most essential. The significance of events may still be unclear, but Sima’s arrangement and selection are provocative. It is easier to

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derive meaning from the Shiji than from history itself. This is not to say that Sima chose facts to illustrate preconceived points; there is too much uncertainty, and his personal comments are far too tentative and tangential. Often Sima included details that he felt were important, without perhaps knowing exactly what they meant or how they fit together, but he did not expect that the Shiji would be the last word in history. In four of his personal comments he expresses his hope that later scholars would find his work useful in their own efforts to make sense of the world and its past.53 This brings us to the third reason for regarding the Shiji as a microcosm of the universe: the ideal of microcosms, textual and otherwise, was one of the main intellectual interests of the Qin and Former Han dynasties.54 The fact that the world could be unified politically suggested that it might be consolidated in other ways, and scholars of the time labored in a variety of fields to produce representations of the world that were both comprehensive and compact. In each case, these were not just verbal descriptions of the cosmos but concrete objects whose form reflected the structure of the universe. These microcosms range from the relatively straightforward funeral banner of Mawangdui tomb 1, which depicts the deceased midway between the heavens and the underworld, to the more abstract representations of bronze TLV mirrors, which are commonly found in Han tombs.55 Michael Loewe has described the latter as follows: These are the mirrors which bear a characteristic set of linear marks, known as TLV, together with emblems of the twelve divisions of the universe. These twelve emblems are coordinated with the four animal symbols just described [as corresponding to four of the Five Phases]. They are set in a square around the center of the mirror, which itself forms a symbolic representation of the fifth of the Five Phases in the form of a mound that stands for earth. This scheme thus neatly combines two explanations of the universe, the one by division into twelve parts, the other by recognition of the five operative factors of the Five Phases. The device symbolizes the perfect reconciliation of the two schemes, with the intention that the deceased person is thereby placed in the most perfect or felicitous combination of cosmic conditions.56

These mirrors were related to diviner’s boards (shi), which also represented the divisions of heaven and earth and were used by skilled practitioners to advise the living as to how they might calibrate their actions to the rhythms of the cosmos.57

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The design of the cosmos was also mirrored in the architecture of ritual buildings in the Qin and Han dynasties. We have already noted the First Emperor’s mausoleum, but he also built the huge Epang Palace, which was connected to his residence in the capital by a covered walk that spanned the Wei River “in the likeness of the Heavenly Plank Road [made up of six stars] that cuts across the Milky Way to join the Heavenly Apex and the Encampment constellation.”58 A little later, there was a great deal of discussion about the ancient Hall of Brightness (mingtang ), but although scholars agreed that it was a microcosm of some sort, they could not determine exactly what geometrical or numerical principles it was based on.59 Sima Qian notes that in 106 b.c.e., Emperor Wu built a hall of brightness at the foot of Mount Tai and made sacrifices in it. Unfortunately, Sima provides only sparse information, but it appears that this particular hall of brightness may have been built on cosmological principles. It had two stories, with the upper used for sacrifices to the Great Unity, the Five Emperors, and the Lord on High and the lower for sacrifices to the Earth Lord. An elevated walkway entering the building from the northwest was named after the Kunlun Mountains, which extended into China from the same direction.60 Whatever the cosmological significance of this particular hall of brightness, later in the Han dynasty ritual buildings became elaborate microcosms, perhaps culminating in the Wu Liang shrine (c.e. 151), a grand synthesis of history and cosmology based in part on the structure of the Shiji.61 Texts, like buildings, can also have complicated designs representing the shape of the cosmos. The most famous such book is the Classic of Change, a collection of short divinatory judgments arranged around the sixtyfour possible combinations of six broken and unbroken lines (hexagrams). Eventually, this series of hexagrams was thought to represent every possible stage of natural development. Consequently, holding a copy of the Classic of Change is like holding the universe, only in a more abstract form. One might compare it to picking up a dictionary and grasping the seeds of all the great works of literature written in that language—all the rest is combination—but the Change is much more useful because its structure hints at likely combinations. As Willard Peterson has noted, “The realm of heaven-and-earth is duplicated by the processes at work in the Change.”62 Or as the Great Treatise (ascribed to Confucius by Han scholars) asserts: The Book of Changes contains the measure of heaven and earth; therefore it enables us to comprehend the tao [Dao] of heaven and earth and its order. Looking upward, we contemplate with its help

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the signs in the heavens; looking down, we examine the lines of the earth. Thus we come to know the circumstances of the dark and the light. Going back to the beginnings of things and pursuing them to the end, we come to know the lessons of birth and of death. . . . In it are included the forms and the scope of everything in the heavens and on earth, so that nothing escapes it. In it all things everywhere are completed, so that none is missing.63

Another example of a textual microcosm is the Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Lü. This book is arranged into three major divisions—“records,” “surveys,” and “discussions”—the first of which consists of twelve chapters, each divided into five sections. The second division contains eight chapters, each subdivided into eight sections, and the third division has six chapters of six sections each. The exact meaning of these numbers is disputed, but some cosmological significance was undoubtedly intended. This is evident in the fact that each of the twelve chapters in the first division begins with a discussion of the appropriate activities for its corresponding month.64 Certainly Sima Qian regarded this text as a microcosm, and he described its creation as follows: Lü Buwei therefore ordered his retainers to write down what they had heard, and they collected and organized [these traditions] into eight “surveys,” six “discussions,” and twelve “records,” over 200,000 words in all. He regarded this as a complete rendering of heaven and earth, of the ten thousand creatures, and of affairs both ancient and modern, and he called it The Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Lü.65

Individual sections of this work contain numerous historical anecdotes, but these are arranged by topic rather than by chronology, and the Spring and autumn Annals of Mr. Lü is generally considered to be more philosophical than historical. Burton Watson has observed that although the organization of the book reflects the order of the cosmos numerically, the contents of most individual sections do not seem to be correlated with their cosmological position.66 The original Spring and Autumn Annals, by contrast, is a microcosmic text that is primarily historical. The Annals offers a year-by-year account of events in the state of Lu from 722 to 481 b.c.e. Unfortunately, incidents are recorded in only the most cursory manner, and the text amounts to

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little more than a dry list of deaths, official visits, battles, and sacrifices. Nevertheless, Han dynasty scholars believed that Confucius himself had composed the history, and they expended enormous amounts of energy in unraveling the hidden profundities supposedly encoded in nuances of its selection, sequence, and terminology.67 They also advanced the idea that the Annals was a microcosm incorporating all the essential moral and historical principles by which the world operated. Especially prominent in this mode of reading the Annals was Dong Zhongshu (ca. 179–104 b.c.e.), a teacher of Sima Qian’s, who outlined his use of the Annals as follows: The method of the Spring and Autumn Annals is to cite events of the past in order to explain those of the future. For this reason, when a phenomenon occurs in the world, look to see what comparable events are recorded in the Spring and Autumn Annals; find out the essential meaning of its subtleties and mysteries in order to ascertain the significance of the event; and comprehend how it is classified in order to see what causes are implied. Changes wrought in heaven and on earth, and events that affect a dynasty will then all become crystal clear, with nothing left in doubt.68

In fact, Dong found the miniature world of the Annals so complete and satisfying that it almost entirely supplanted the real world for him. After he was appointed by Emperor Jing as an erudite in Annals studies, Dong Zhongshu lectured to senior students from behind a curtain, and these students then transmitted his teachings to other pupils, some of whom had never seen their master’s face. Sima Qian records that “for three years Dong Zhongshu did not even look out into his garden; such was his spirit.”69 Apparently the Annals provided such a fine model that whether one encountered the world through that Confucian text or through one’s own senses, it was the same. One might go even further and suggest that the significance of Dong’s curtain is that the superficial patterns of experience may actually distract one from the deeper truths that are more readily apparent in the Annals than in the world itself. Given the prestige of the Annals, it is remarkable that Sima Qian would attempt to describe again that period of time that the Sage himself had treated definitively, but Sima does just this in the “Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords” (Shiji 14), and he does so in a similarly sparse,

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chronicle-like fashion. In his preface to this chapter, Sima places his efforts squarely in the Annals tradition. After describing the political turmoil of the Spring and Autumn era, Sima continues: For this reason Confucius illuminated the Kingly Way, and sought out some seventy-odd rulers, but not one was able to employ him. Therefore he went west and examined the Zhou archives. He scrutinized the records of the scribes and the old traditions, and starting with the state of Lu he arranged them into the Spring and Autumn Annals. He began with Duke Yin and continued until the capture of the unicorn during the reign of Duke Ai. He condensed their words and phrases and discarded confused or redundant passages in order to establish the rule of righteousness. In the Annals the Kingly Way was completed, and human affairs came full circle. The Master’s seventy disciples received his commentaries and instructions orally[,] since they included words of criticism, ridicule, praise, avoidance, constraint, and disparagement which could not be put into writing. Zuo Qiuming, a gentleman of Lu, was afraid that the disciples would each draw different conclusions, and that settling on their own opinions they would lose the truth. Therefore, he scrutinized their sayings with regard to Confucius’s scribal records, and composed the Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Zuo [the Zuo zhuan]. Duo Jiao was tutor to King Wei of Chu (r. 339–329 b.c.e.). Because the king could not read all the way through the Annals, Duo selected [examples of ] success and failure and made the Subtleties of Mr. Duo, forty chapters in all. In the time of King Xiaocheng of Zhao (r. 265– 245 b.c.e.), his chief minister Yu Qing selected from the Spring and Autumn Annals and observed recent political conditions in order to write the Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Yu, in eight chapters. Lü Buwei, chief minister of King Zhuangxiang of Qin (r. 249–247 b.c.e.), also investigated ancient history, selected from the Annals, and brought together the affairs of the Six Kingdoms [Warring States] Era, in order to compose the Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Lü, which includes the eight “Surveys,” the six “Discussions,” and the twelve “Regulations.” As for the disciples of Xunzi, Mencius, Gongsun Gu, and Hanfeizi who constantly borrow from the words of the Annals to write books, their number is beyond counting. The Han chancellor Zhang Cang calculated a table of the Five Virtues, and the high official Dong

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Zhongshu promoted the [principles of ] righteousness in the Annals and put them into writing.70

In this passage, Sima identifies a whole genre that had grown up around the Spring and Autumn Annals. These books, however, generally are not strictly commentaries on the text of the Annals, as are the Gongyang and Guliang commentaries. Rather, they are philosophical works that seem related to the Annals because they address the same types of moral and social questions that Han theorists had found answered in Confucius’s classic and because they rely on historical examples to prove their points. Of particular interest is the notion of ever smaller, more compact synopses of the main points of the Annals. Sima is about to best them all by compressing the essentials of the Annals into one chronological table, and his preface continues: The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks: The Confucians make judgments on the principles of righteousness [in the Annals] and the Itinerant Debaters recklessly expound its wording, but neither group takes into account the ends and the beginnings. Calendar-makers appropriate their years and months, Yin-yang specialists elaborate the divine twists of fortune, and Genealogists record only posthumous titles, but their comments are all quite sporadic. If one wished to grasp all the essentials at a glance it would be difficult. Therefore I have drawn up a table of the twelve feudal lords beginning with the Gonghe reign period [841–828 b.c.e.] and ending with Confucius in order to present the main arguments of the Narratives of the States and Annals specialists concerning prosperity and decline in [one] chapter. I have summarized and abridged this for the accomplished scholars who work with ancient writings.71

Whereas the “Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords” is Sima Qian’s audacious attempt to imitate and improve on the Spring and Autumn Annals, the Shiji as a whole is based on the structure of the Annals, with the narrative portions explicating the bare outline of the chronological tables. As early as the Tang dynasty, Liu Zhiji (c.e. 661–721) argued that the Shiji biographies (zhuan) explained and amplified the basic annals just as the canonized commentaries (zhuan) illuminated the Spring and Autumn Annals,72 but the tables are much more like the sparse and cryptic Annals than are Sima’s basic annals. Sima deliberately drew attention to the parallels between his history and Confucius’s by asserting in his autobiography that the Shiji ended with

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the capture of a unicorn in 104 b.c.e., that his text would “await the sages and gentlemen of later generations,” and that he was “a transmitter” and not a “creator” of history. The first and last of these claims are problematical, as we shall see in chapter 5, but they make sense as allusions to the Spring and Autumn Annals. However, the most important connection between the two texts is that the Shiji, like the Annals, is a model of the world that represents the structure of the universe and the sum of human history in microcosmic form. I suggest that the Shiji, which was originally called The Book of the Eminent Grand Astrologer (Taishigong shu), might be more appropriately titled The Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Sima. In Western historical writing, the past is replaced by the historian’s conception of it, and because historical accounts are so personal and specific, they tend to coexist uneasily. For instance, it would be difficult to piece together into one grand history the narratives from all the books on Columbus’s discovery of the Americas; there is far too much variation in interpretation, selection, and approach. Or as Louis Mink has put it, historical accounts do not usually aggregate well.73 Sima Qian has compiled a less determinate, more impersonal representation of the past, from which readers can construe a variety of interpretations and construct manifold lines of causation. The Shiji is, from a Western perspective, underdetermined, but such a configuration gives it a particular kind of usefulness. First, it affords a certain amount of safety for the author. Sima Qian had a direct and unpleasant experience with the limits to criticism in Emperor Wu’s court. By producing a history with little overt interpretation, Sima gained a degree of plausible deniability. In several passages he hints that this indeed was one of his concerns, although typically, he claims that Confucius and other writers before him also had availed themselves of an opaque, protective literary style. For example, in his comment at the end of “The Biography of the Xiongnu,” Sima wrote: The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks: When Confucius wrote the Spring and Autumn Annals, his account of the time of Dukes Yin and Huan was clear, but when he came to Dukes Ding and Ai, it was obscure. As he edited the writings of his own age, he used no direct praise [or blame], rather he employed terms of caution and avoidance.74

It is significant that Sima Qian refers to this style of historical writing at the conclusion of his chapter on the Xiongnu barbarians, a politically sensitive topic in the time of Emperor Wu.

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I also believe that Sima would have considered his historical format to be more true to history as it had actually occurred. The past itself is confusing and complicated, and so an account that was not so could be judged inaccurate on those grounds. It is clear from his personal comments that Sima Qian was concerned with accuracy, but the attraction of this ideal was not based on Western notions of objectivity. Sima believed that there were moral patterns embedded in the working of the cosmos and that a truly accurate history would reveal them. Nevertheless, the ideal historian is not a neutral observer but someone who is personally attuned to moral standards, that is, a sage. I will return to this topic later, but for now we may note that Sima Qian did not want to produce a completely ordered and integrated history. An account of the world that exhibited that degree of control would have seemed more like the perfectly ordered and perfectly dead microcosm of the First Emperor’s tomb. And like the tomb, it would also have been the expression of insufferable arrogance. Sima Qian was very aware of his own limitations as a historian trying to uncover the long-past past. He was not confident that he had recovered everything or that he had discerned all valuable moral patterns. His Shiji is a compilation of what his research had uncovered (even if it is not presented in exactly this way), arranged in a suggestive manner, but he never intended it to be the definitive account of the past. He expected that later historians would continue his efforts, further untangling historical discrepancies and identifying lines of causation, moral and otherwise (though of course, this would have been a nonsensical distinction for him). A microcosmic model might be more effective than rational analysis in revealing the patterns of the universe, for some things cannot be put into words. Some connections are so subtle that they may have escaped the historian, though perceptive readers might still be able to discover them in a microcosmic text. The point is that the Shiji is not simply the sum of Sima’s own opinions, and even if Sima was somewhat coy about fully expressing his ideas, the Shiji is not just a code waiting to be deciphered. By imitating the cosmos, the Shiji contains more than what Sima Qian deliberately placed inside. Sima wanted to discover historical principles, not create them, and because the Shiji ’s accounts are somewhat independent of their author, readers can be assured that the patterns they perceive are inherent in the past itself and are not just the fabrications of the controlling mind of the historian. Finally, Sima’s format forces his readers to become their own historians. A reader of the Shiji is not in a position simply to accept or reject the judgments of the author. He or she is constrained to make connections and

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interpretations, entering into a dialogue with the text, forming tentative hypotheses that may need to be revised upon reading alternative narratives in other chapters, and always keeping an eye open for possible contrasts and parallels. Indeed, this last point may be Sima Qian’s most important contribution, for he was a reader-compiler, and just as important as the facts he amasses is the reading style that he teaches. The structure of any book rewards certain types of reading more than others, and the Shiji both requires and illustrates a particular mode of reading that underlies later Chinese attempts to make sense of the world.

3

MICROCOSMIC READING I

As we grow older, The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. T. S. Eliot, “East Coker”

he notion that the Shiji taken as a whole is a microcosm of the universe may be attractive and may plausibly fit the evidence, but in the end it matters only if this interpretation of form makes a difference in the way we read the Shiji. Since Sima Qian entered his own tomb more than two thousand years ago, any reconstruction of his intentions must be evaluated in terms of usefulness; absolute certainty is forever beyond our grasp. Treating the Shiji as a model of the world meets this requirement, for it remedies a number of discomforts and imbalances in Western readings of Sima Qian. In fact, it forces a renegotiation of the contract between the author and his audience. If Western readers are frustrated or confused by the Shiji, this is partially due to their misplaced expectations. The Shiji is not, like most Western histories, a transcript of the historian lecturing about what he or she has discovered. It is not a representation of a personal reconstruction of the past. Rather, it is a synopsis of the past itself, which, like the actual past but to a lesser degree, is replete with inconsistent evidence and indeterminate meanings. At any point in the Shiji, readers must be prepared to infer connections and to exercise a certain amount of skepticism. These skills are not entirely foreign to Western reading, but they are called on in different degrees and oriented toward different objects. In the following sections, we will address each.

T

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The Web of History Frequently in the Shiji, Sima Qian does not draw explicit connections between events; he simply juxtaposes them in provocative ways, as for instance, in the following passage from the “Hereditary House of the Duke of Zhou at Lu”: In the thirtieth year of Duke Hui (739 b.c.e.), the people of Jin killed their ruler, the marquis Zhao. In the forty-fifth year, the people of Jin again killed their ruler, the marquis Xiao. In the forty-sixth year, Duke Hui died and Xi, the eldest son of his concubine, grasped the kingdom [as an interim sovereign], performed the deeds of a ruler, and in this way became Duke Yin [of Lu]. Earlier, when Duke Hui’s principal wife bore no sons, his lowly concubine Shengzi gave birth to a son, Xi. After Xi had grown older, he was to take a wife from the state of Song, but when the girl arrived she was beautiful, and Duke Hui stole her and married her himself. She gave birth to a son, Yun. The duke elevated the girl from Song to the position of principal wife and made Yun the heir apparent. Because Yun was still very young when Duke Hui died, the people of Lu commissioned Xi to “grasp” the government in the interim, but they did not speak of him as attaining the position of ruler. In the fifth year of Duke Yin [Xi], he observed fishing at Tang. In the eighth year, the state of Zheng traded the village of Beng, which was located near Mount Tai and had been granted by the Son of Heaven, for Lu’s fields of Xu. A gentleman criticized this transaction. In the winter of the eleventh year (712 b.c.e.), Prince Whey addressed Duke Yin with flattering words and said, “When the people have settled on a ruler, the ruler should take that position. I beg permission to kill Prince Yun on your behalf and to be appointed as your chief minister.”1 Duke Yin replied, “He has the mandate from the former ruler, but because I considered Yun to be young, I have grasped [the kingdom] in his stead. Now that Yun has grown older, I am just at the point of building a home in the district Tuqiu where I intend to grow old, so that I can hand over the government to Prince Yun.” Whey was afraid that Prince Yun would hear [of his proposal] and punish him for it, so he reversed course and slandered Duke Yin to Prince Yun, saying, “Duke Yin wishes to establish himself [as ruler] and

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get rid of you; shouldn’t you make plans in response? I beg permission to kill Duke Yin on your behalf.” Prince Yun gave his permission. In the eleventh month, when Duke Yin was going to sacrifice to Zhongwu, he purified himself at Shepu park and lodged with the Wei family. Whey sent men to kill Duke Yin at the Wei’s home, and he established Prince Yun as the ruler. In this way Yun became Duke Huan.2

At this point, readers must stop and ask themselves why Duke Yin was assassinated. Obviously the combination of a regent duke, an unscrupulous crown prince coming of age, and the ambitions of the evil Prince Whey directly led to the murder, but this account includes other provocative details. Are the two cases of regicide in Jin cited in the first paragraph merely to coordinate the calendars of different states, or are these incidents part of the explanation? Is Sima Qian indicating that China was entering a period when the assassination of rulers was more and more common? Is he implying that the examples of neighboring states at least partially inspired the events in Lu? Likewise, we must consider the observation of fishing in the fifth year and the exchange of towns in the eighth. Although references in this account may read like the simple annals created in our Western Middle Ages, they are in fact the end result of a very different historiographical tradition, based on the Spring and Autumn Annals and its commentaries. Throughout the entire Shiji, there is an impulse toward moral analysis. People either deserve their good fortune or their bad ends, which affirms our sense of justice, or else their deeds do not merit what happens to them. Strange as it may seem, this second situation gives rise to another type of readerly enjoyment—the sense of fellow feeling with others who also have suffered unfairly. The details that Sima chooses to include in his accounts are not thrown in at random; most often they tie into conventional codes of behavior and judgment. The Shiji provides a model of the world, but this world has already been shaped by the social prescriptions (li) of the Spring and Autumn Annals, and therefore the Shiji is not an entirely independent account. When Sima Qian mentions fishing and exchanging towns, he is drawing on the Annals and its commentaries, and so in order to ascertain just what he meant by those references, we must turn to his sources. This is apparently what Sima intended, for although our historian notes that “a gentleman criticized this transaction,” the Shiji nowhere includes the details of that rebuke. The “gentleman” in this case seems to be one of the commentators on

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the Annals whose judgments were recorded in the standard commentaries— the Guliang, the Gongyang, and the Zuo zhuan (the Zuo zhuan itself often uses the phrase “a gentleman remarks” to introduce explicit moral interpretations).3 These commentaries all agree in their denunciation of the action. They assert that feudal lords had no right to trade away territories granted by the Son of Heaven and that Zheng’s motive for wanting to do so was its desire to avoid the ritual obligations that had required the granting of the town in the first place.4 Similarly, when the Zuo zhuan records that Duke Yin saw fishing, it includes a lengthy rebuke by a certain Zang Xibo, who accused the duke of neglecting his duty to exemplify ritual correctness in all his interactions with the natural world.5 Sima Qian does not mention this rebuke. He simply assumes that his readers (or at least his skilled readers) will know the story and will recognize that Duke Yin’s action was a transgression of propriety. How, then, are we to understand the assassination of Duke Yin? Was he a long-suffering man who was repeatedly betrayed by those whom he sought to serve loyally (and here we should note that the duke of Zhou, who appears in the title of this hereditary house, was the paragon of a regent who was loyal to his young charge), or was he a man who only feigned such virtue, his real nature being revealed in his frequent ritual transgressions? In the end, did he hold on to power for too long, as regents are wont to do? Sima Qian lets us draw our own conclusions, and our opinions will be based on the particular sets of correspondences and parallels that we choose to emphasize. We can characterize the type of interactive reading that the Shiji calls for in two different ways, each of which has precedents in the major texts of the Confucian tradition. First, reading the Shiji is like reading poetry, with metaphor as the dominant mode. Incidents are set side by side, and it is up to the reader to discern connections, parallels, and contrasts and, from these, to construct the moral meaning of an event as a whole. Just as the images from nature (xing ) that pepper the Classic of Poetry demand to be integrated with the human situations they adjoin, so within the Shiji various actions and events must be connected by the reader.6 Sima Qian deliberately left his history less than completely consolidated, partly for his own protection (he already had enough evidence of the consequences of full and honest disclosure in the court of Emperor Wu) and partly to force readers to become historians themselves, thus separating those who could appreciate his efforts from the rest. The Confucian Analects require a similar style of reading, by which

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we must distill a coherent philosophy and way of life from brief, disconnected aphorisms.7 Once again, this mode of presentation is deliberate. As Confucius noted, “I won’t teach a man who is not anxious to learn, and will not explain to one who is not trying to make things clear to himself. If I hold up one corner of a square and a man cannot come back to me with the other three, I won’t bother to go over the point again.”8 The moral and historical correlation of discrete events is matched by a second type of reading skill, that of identifying broader and more abstract categories to which events belong. We might regard this mental exercise as a form of synecdoche, the association of a part with the whole, but in the Chinese tradition this type of reading is associated more with the Classic of Change than with poetry. Human events were thought to belong to one of the sixty-four basic patterns incorporated in that text, from the “Creative” (no. 1) to “Before Completion” (no. 64). In a similar fashion, Han dynasty scholars devised a number of schemes by which to correlate the phenomena of the human and natural worlds with the regular transformations of yin and yang forces and the Five Phases, symbolized by wood, fire, earth, metal, and water.9 Sima Qian’s official duties as court astrologer included astronomical observation and calendar making as well as divination, so he was professionally inclined to identify patterns and cycles. In his day, this type of analysis was being applied to the Spring and Autumn Annals by prominent scholars like Dong Zhongshu, and in his autobiographical chapter, Sima summarizes some of these ideas as follows: Therefore, for dispersing revolt and turning the people back to the right, none of the other Classics can compare to the Spring and Autumn. The Spring and Autumn consists in all of some ten or twenty thousand words, and its ideas number several thousand. The answers to how all things join and break away are to be found in it. It records thirty-six instances of assassinations of rulers, and fifty-two of kingdoms which perished, and of feudal lords who were forced to flee and could not protect their altars of the soil and grain, the number is too great to be reckoned. If we reflect on how these things happened, we will find in every instance it was because they lost the True Way. Therefore the Classic of Change says, “The error of a fraction of an inch can lead to a difference of a thousand miles.” And it also says, “When a minister assassinates his lord or a son murders his father, this is not something that came about in one morning or evening, but something

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that had built up gradually over a long period.” For this reason one who rules a state cannot afford not to know the Spring And Autumn.10

Here we find evidence of the importance of moral interpretation and political usefulness as well as what we may call “categorical reading.” The type of study that requires readers to make connections and to categorize is exemplified in the canonical commentaries of the Spring and Autumn Annals, which sought to derive meaning from every nuance of phrasing or selection (as in the Guliang and Gongyang ) or from lengthy, but fragmented, chains of morally interpreted causation (as in the Zuo zhuan). These commentaries model a type of overreading, a grasping at the moral meaning that was thought to lie beneath the surface of events. If their incessant and inconsistent interpretations of minutia seem farfetched today, they do demonstrate a way of reading that would have been familiar to Sima Qian, and he would have known that those able to read his own history would likely have been highly skilled practitioners of this interactive art. Indeed, his many casual references to judgments in the Annals’ commentaries show that he expected his readers to be intimately acquainted with them. Accordingly, the most audacious chapter in the Shiji is “The Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords,” which sets out in tabular form the major events of the Spring and Autumn period. Here Sima Qian uses a form very much like the Annals to recount information about events previously described in the Annals. In other words, his account becomes a direct rival to that of the Sage himself. In presenting such a history, Sima goes beyond that task that was assigned to him by his father, who asked him only to “continue the Spring and Autumn Annals,”11 and indeed, few later historians were so bold. Even the Song dynasty historian Sima Guang (1019–1086), who produced a annalistic account of 1,362 years of Chinese history, began his famous Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government with the year 404 b.c.e., that is, well after Confucius’s Annals had ended. In reworking Confucius’s classic, Sima also changes its focus. Early commentators above all sought for meaning in the language of the Annals, in their use of particular titles or terminology. By contrast, the chronological tables of the Shiji appear to steer clear of the kind of linguistic code words and cryptic meanings that were thought to characterize the Annals. Instead, the tables offer brief, straightforward descriptions in ordinary language, and the interpretive weight is shifted to selection, juxtaposition, and correlation with the narratives in other chapters.

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Fortunately, Sima Qian not only asks his readers to make connections, but he also demonstrates how to do so. Here we may return to the reign of Duke Yin, whom we encountered at the beginning of this section, for a detailed examination of how Sima transforms the data from the Spring and Autumn Annals and the Zuo zhuan, the commentary that he relies on most heavily. Sima’s presentation requires readers to keep in mind a great deal of fragmented evidence (a task much easier for those already conversant with the literature of the Annals) and to identify correlations, but readers of the following convoluted pages should bear in mind that Sima’s accounts are much easier to follow and to evaluate than those of his sources. He has done some, though by no means all, of the work for us. We begin with the first of the thirty-six assassinations of rulers recorded in the Spring and Autumn Annals. In the fourth year of Duke Yin (719 b.c.e.), six of the seven Annals notices are related to the turmoil in the state of Wey and its results: 2. On the day wushen, Zhouxu of Wey assassinated his lord Wan (Duke Huan of Wey). 3. In the summer, the duke of Lu and the duke of Song met at Qing. 4. The duke of Song, the marquis of Chen, the people of Cai, and the people of Wey attacked the state of Zheng. 5. In the fall, General Whey’s army (from Lu) joined the duke of Song, the marquis of Chen, the people of Cai, and the people of Wey in attacking Zheng. 6. In the ninth month, the people of Wey killed Zhouxu at Pu (in the state of Chen). 7. In the winter, the twelfth month, the people of Wey enthroned Jin (Duke Xuan of Wey). As usual, the Spring and Autumn entries are brief and cryptic, but the Zuo zhuan explains these (ostensibly) sagely reports by offering extended narrations that provide contexts for these events and allow readers to make connections.12 In the various Zuo zhuan comments appended to these entries, plus one unattached comment from the preceding year, we learn that Zhouxu and Wan were half brothers and that although Wan was in line to become the heir apparent (even though he was not the son of the primary wife), Zhouxu enjoyed great favor from his father, Duke Zhuang. Duke Zhuang

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was warned by his counselor Shi Que that such permissiveness would lead to disaster, but he refused to listen and Shi’s own son became involved with Zhouxu. Eventually Duke Zhuang died and Wan became the new duke, leaving Zhouxu frustrated and resentful. When Zhouxu finally did assassinate Wan (2), the dukes of Lu and Song held a hasty meeting (3), and then Zhouxu convinced the states of Song, Cai, and Chen to join him in attacking Zheng (4). Zhouxu wished to avenge an earlier attack on Wey and gain the support of his people, and the duke of Song wanted to liquidate a rival, Ping, who had fled to Zheng. We also learn of an official in Lu who predicted that Zhouxu’s propensity for violence would prove his undoing. This is perhaps the reason that according to the Zuo zhuan, Duke Yin of Lu refused permission for General Whey to join the attack. Nevertheless, Whey went anyway (5) (and a few years later his rebellious ways reach fruition when he assassinates Duke Yin; yes, this is the same Prince Whey we met at the beginning of this section). This battle with the state of Zheng did not gain for Zhouxu the support of the people, and when his friend Shi Hou asked for advice from his father (none other than Shi Que, the counselor who had warned Duke Zhuang), his father suggested that they go to the state of Chen. Zhouxu and Shi Hou accordingly set out. In the meantime, Shih Que arranged for their arrest and execution in Chen (6). The Zuo zhuan then praises Shi Que for putting loyalty to the state above his feelings for his own son. This judgment is introduced by the common formula “A gentleman remarks.” The Zuo zhuan is, at least in its current form, a commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals. It provides additional information that connects and explains the entries in the Annals. In addition, it also occasionally corrects them. For instance, whereas the Annals state that Zhouxu was killed by the people of Wey, the Zuo zhuan makes it clear that the actual executioner was an agent of Wey acting in the state of Chen. In the Shiji ’s “Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords,” this chain of events is described as follows: 741 b.c.e.

Wey: “The duke loved Zhouxu, the son of his concubine, and Zhouxu liked military affairs.”

735 b.c.e.

Wey: “The queen had no sons, so Duke Huan ascended to the throne.”

734 b.c.e.

Wey: “The first year of Wan, Duke Huan of Wei.”

733 b.c.e.

Wey: “His younger brother Zhouxu was arrogant. Huan demoted him and he fled abroad.”

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719 b.c.e.

Wey: “Zhouxu assassinated the duke and set himself on the throne.”

719 b.c.e.

Chen: “A message came from Shi Que of Wey; for this reason we arrested Zhouxu.”

718 b.c.e.

Wey: “The first year of Jin, Duke Xuan of Wey. Together we enthroned him and punished Zhouxu.”

This sequence of entries captures the basic story, which conforms roughly to the Zuo zhuan account. In particular, the table reflects the Zuo zhuan’s information and even phrasing when it tells us that Zhouxu “liked military affairs,” the queen “had no sons,” and Shi Que sent a “message” that resulted in Zhouxu’s arrest in Chen. However, Sima Qian’s synopsis omits entirely the interstate conflicts and the episodes of rejected counsel that figured so prominently in the Zuo zhuan version. It is in the table, however, that we first learn of Zhouxu’s demotion and flight shortly after Duke Huan’s enthronement.13 Thus Shiji 14 both abridges and augments the Zuo zhuan account. In addition, it makes corrections, since Sima Qian places Zhouxu’s execution in 718, rather than in 719 when both the Annals and the Zuo zhuan report it, and the Shiji expands over a period of twenty-three years what the Zuo zhuan reported in just two.14 This is significant because as we noted earlier, “when a minister assassinates his lord or a son murders his father, this is not something that came about in one morning or evening, but something that had built up gradually over a long period.” Chinese critics have long suggested that the Shiji ’s form is based on the model of the Annals and its commentaries, since the word commentaries (zhuan) is the same as that used by Sima in “categorized biographies” (lie zhuan).15 If the “Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords” presents us with an Annals-like description of events, we must look to the Shiji narratives for its exegesis, in this case to chapter 37, “The Hereditary House of Kangshu of Wei.” There we find the story of Zhouxu narrated in much more detail. The story begins as a paraphrase of the Zuo zhuan account, but the Shiji notes that Shi Que delivered his warning when Duke Zhuang made Zhouxu a general, and the text of that warning differs considerably from the Zuo zhuan version. Zhouxu’s demotion and flight are briefly narrated, and he joins Duan, a prince of the state of Zheng who had fled after an unsuccessful coup attempt (we will see this fellow again in a few pages). Zhouxu gathers about him various disgruntled fugitives from Wey and then assassinates the duke and proclaims himself the ruler. He invites the states of Song,

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Chen, and Cai to join him in attacking Zheng, because his companion Duan wants revenge (this motivation is quite different from the consensus building posited by the Zuo zhuan). The “Hereditary House of Kangshu of Wey” continues by observing that Shi Que pretended to be on good terms with Zhouxu while secretly seeking revenge for the assassination of the duke. Thus Shi went to the outlands of Zheng and plotted with the marquis of Chen. He sent Chou, superintendent on the right, to present food to Zhouxu and kill him at Pu. Thereupon Shi Que invited back Duke Huan’s younger brother Jin and set him on the throne as Duke Xuan. Note that this account differs somewhat from that contained in the Zuo zhuan and in the table (for instance, here there is no mention of Zhouxu’s arrest, and it is Shi Que rather than the people who enthrones Jin).16 The same types of additions, connections, and explanations that characterize the Zuo zhuan’s treatment of the Spring and Autumn Annals are also found in the Shiji narratives’ explication of the information in the table. In this way the Shiji adopts the classic/commentary form prevalent in Han dynasty scholarship as well as the type of detailed, interactive reading that it promoted. In addition, since Sima Qian both reworks and corrects his sources, the whole of the Shiji can be regarded as a complex, extended exegesis of the classics. But this is not the whole story, because the usurpation of Zhouxu shows up in other Shiji chapters as well. In the “Hereditary House of Viscount Wei of Song,” we read: In the first year of Duke Shang [719 b.c.e.], Zhouxu, son of the duke of Wey, assassinated his ruler Wan and set himself on the throne. Because he wished to gain [the support of ] the feudal lords, he sent a message to [the state of ] Song saying “[Prince] Ping is in Zheng and will certainly make trouble. You can attack them with me.” Song agreed to this and together they attacked Zheng. They advanced to the East Gate and then retreated. In the second year, Zheng attacked Song, in order to avenge the raid on the East Gate.17

In the “Hereditary House of Zheng,” we read the same story: “In the 25th year, Zhouxu of Wey assassinated his ruler Duke Huan and set himself on the throne. Together with Song they attack Zheng on account of [Prince] Ping.”18 Note that this account of Wey’s motivation and Song’s attack on Zheng differs from that given in the “Hereditary House of Kangshu of Wey” but agrees with the Zuo zhuan.

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What are we to make of all this? Are the various Shiji versions contradictory? I am not sure that they are strictly incompatible, but what Sima Qian has grasped—and what the innovative structure of his history expresses so well—is that the same event can have different meanings in different contexts and that people often have multiple intentions for single actions. Sima constantly weaves together various causal strands and facts in an effort to find the meaning behind events, and if the raw data of history offer a ripe field for such interpretive efforts, so also does the Shiji itself, as one might expect from a well-designed model. The very structure of the Shiji, with its information broken into discrete but overlapping chapters, challenges readers to identify points of connection and to construe significance. The key question is why various details find their way into some chapters but not into others. In the “Hereditary House of Kangshu of Wey,” the story of Zhouxu’s usurpation is pared down to a cautionary tale about the dangers of confusing the lines of succession. The duke gives special favors to someone other than the designated heir, rejects good counsel, and in the end the state suffers.19 This idea is appropriate to this particular chapter, since the history of the state of Wey is riddled with usurpations by competing family lines and finally reaches its climax in Confucius’s time when a father stages a coup against his own son (Confucius’s disciple Zilu is killed in the process). In his concluding comments to the chapter, Sima Qian notes one case in which a brother acted with proper respect and loyalty and then says, “As for fathers and sons murdering one another, and older and younger brothers destroying each other, how can there be even a single instance of this?”20 The question is a rhetorical expression of abhorrence, since the chapter itself offers several examples of such behavior. Similarly, in the “Hereditary House of Viscount Wei of Song,” the story of Zhouxu fits neatly into the ongoing problems with Zheng over Prince Ping, and in the “Hereditary House of Zheng” the story takes a subsidiary place within a larger narrative of deteriorating relations between Zheng and the royal house in Zhou. There are problems with Zhou; Zhouxu kills his ruler; more conflict with Zhou follows (this time resulting in the exchange of territory with the state of Lu); and Hua Du, an official of Song, murders his ruler; tensions with Zhou increase; and then the forces of Zheng nearly kill the king of Zhou, that is, the Son of Heaven.21 In each chapter, Sima Qian presents the event in a slightly different light, but it is important to note that these editorial decisions reflect his own purposes. They are not imposed by either the event itself or his sources.

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For example, he could still have followed the Zuo zhuan account and, by stressing different facts, transformed the story of Zhouxu into a tribute to Shi Que and the kind of loyalty that the Spring and Autumn era so desperately needed. This is all quite confusing, so let us return to the “Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords.” If we look at the years immediately surrounding Zhouxu’s assassination of his ruler (excluding “first year” notices), we read: 722 b.c.e.

Zheng: “Duan started a rebellion and fled.”

721 b.c.e.

Zheng: “The duke had regrets when he thought of his mother whom he could not see. He dug a tunnel in the earth and they saw each other.” (This is a continuation of Duan’s story.)

720 b.c.e.

Lu: “In the second month, there was an eclipse of the sun.”

720 b.c.e.

Song: “The duke ordered Kongfu to enthrone Duke Shang. Ping fled to Zheng.”

720 b.c.e.

Zheng: “Invaded Zhou and captured grain.”

719 b.c.e.

Wey: “Zhouxu assassinated the duke and set himself on the throne.”

719 b.c.e.

Chen: “A message came from Shi Que of Wey; for this reason we arrested Zhouxu.”

718 b.c.e.

Song: “Zheng attacked us and we attacked Zheng.”

718 b.c.e.

Wey: “The first year of Jin, Duke Xuan of Wey. Together we enthroned him and punished Zhouxu.”

These brief statements serve as a synthesis, or a distillation, of the information in the Spring and Autumn Annals and the Zuo zhuan. Through his drastic editing, Sima Qian is highlighting what he sees as the driving forces in the Spring and Autumn period—proper family relationships and respect for rulers or the lack thereof. In drawing up this table, Sima is implicitly commenting on what is most important; he both reduces and intensifies the Zuo zhuan account. The table itself is somewhat cryptic until one reads the exegesis in the hereditary houses and discovers that these events, though seemingly unrelated, are in fact tied together under the surface. Princes Duan and Ping, the hostility of Song and Zheng, and the escalating tension between Zheng and Zhou all are connected with Zhouxu’s usurpation in various chapters of the Shiji (and if Sima felt that the eclipse

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was also connected, he draws from yet another wellspring of Han thought: eclipses were often considered harbingers of impending misfortune). But just as the Annals is superior to any of its commentaries, so also the table has an advantage over the hereditary houses. Whereas the latter shows only direct lines of causation, the table reveals a web of connections. In terms of graphic chronologies, the table provides a broader historical context that includes both horizontal (intrastate) and vertical (interstate) causation, and it does so on the level of suggestive inclusion. Although some of the subterranean connections can be ascertained from the narratives, much more is simply suggested by the layout of the table itself. The chronological tables provide a “heaven’s-eye view” of human history, with the added advantage that readers can enter into a single slice of time as if it were the present. Narratives also allow readers to enter into the past, but only as accompanied by the narrator; the focus is too narrow, and the line of cause and effect is too tightly woven for adventurous side trips. By contrast, the tables are maps that encourage readers to chart their own pathways, and we are invited to take an active role in making connections and categorizing. The chronological tables are the epitome of Sima Qian’s cosmological vision. Just as the Shiji is a model of the world as a whole, or a commentary on the world as it was represented in the classics (both analogies point toward the function of explanation), so also the narratives of the Shiji explicate the more general, more suggestive, and more worldlike tables. The Shiji condenses the world (and the classics) into a more accessible form, and Sima even demonstrates the kind of interactive reading that he requires, but in the end his project of making sense of the world is deliberately left incomplete. Readers are forced to exercise their own historical judgment, rather than being able to deal with the accounts that Sima presents by means of a simple assent or dissent.

Multiple Narrations If readers of the Shiji are required to form their own interpretations about the events of history, they are also admonished by the Shiji’s form to remain skeptical about the validity of any single reconstruction of events. Unlike Western histories, in which the historian presents his or her best estimate of what actually happened, Sima Qian frequently offers several versions of the same event. These versions may differ only slightly; they may be partial

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accounts that can be added together in the reader’s mind; or they may actually be inconsistent tales, but readers are constantly warned by these multiple narrations that no one version of the past is complete or absolutely reliable. Readers are required to compare and evaluate overlapping accounts, just as they must connect and categorize individual facts. This mode of history contrasts sharply with our own historiographical tradition. Although multiple narrations are not unknown in the West, they are primarily employed by novelists like William Faulkner or Milan Kundera to represent different subjective experiences of the same event (the most famous cinematic use of this device was Rashomon).22 As Hans Kellner has noted, “The rhetorical force of historical prose usually depends upon the single solution, the true presentation of the past, rather than a presentation of a number of competing versions within a single historical account.”23 Yet this is sometimes precisely what Sima Qian does. For instance, in the “Hereditary House of Chancellor Chen,” we learn that when Emperor Wen inherited the throne, Chen Ping (d. 178 b.c.e.) yielded his position as chancellor on the right to Zhou Bo (d. 169 b.c.e.).. A short time later the new chancellor on the right, Zhou Bo, was very embarrassed at not being able to answer the emperor’s specific questions on the administration of the empire. Finally Chen Ping intervened and explained the general managerial nature of the chancellor’s duties. Sima Qian continues: “Because of this, Zhou Bo realized that his abilities were far inferior to Chen Ping’s. A short time later Zhou Bo pleaded illness and asked to be excused from his post, and Chen Ping exercised power as the sole chancellor.”24 By juxtaposing these two sentences, Sima implies a clear causal relationship. In “The Hereditary House of Zhou Bo,” we read that after Emperor Wen ascended the throne, he appointed Zhou Bo as chancellor on the right (with no mention of Chen Ping’s resignation), and a month or so later someone pointed out to Zhou that his unexpected good fortune might lead to disaster (since in Chinese thought, extreme conditions often beget their opposites). Sima continues: “Zhou Bo was frightened and, considering himself in danger, he made excuses and asked to return the seals of office. The emperor allowed this, but when Chen Ping died a little over a year later, he again made Zhou Bo chancellor.”25 These two accounts are quite different. In the first, Chen Ping is the hero, whereas the focus remains on Zhou Bo in the second. But the most important difference is the exact cause of Zhou’s resignation. Was it because Zhou Bo recognized his rival’s superior abilities, or was it because Zhou

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feared the pendulum swings of fortune? Or was it a combination of both? Sima Qian does not say, yet he does not seem embarrassed at offering alternative explanations; in fact, the two accounts occur in consecutive chapters. Sima may have been familiar with two conflicting versions of the story, or he may have stressed different aspects of the decision in the different contexts, but in either case it is obvious that Sima Qian has traced two separate lines of cause and effect for the same event. Also significant is the fact that he did not attempt to combine them or balance one against the other. Apparently, each independently constituted a sufficient cause. The implication is that Sima Qian regarded history as a rich, multifaceted complex of facts and that different but equally valid meanings could be found for the same events, depending on the context of the telling. In other words, Sima seems to have realized that the same facts could be emplotted in different ways. A more extensive example of multiple narrations is provided by the five versions of Wei Bao’s defection in about 205 b.c.e.. I will examine these accounts and then offer some conjectures as to why Sima chose to structure his history in the fragmented, overlapping chapters that give rise to such multiple narrations. Wei Bao belonged to the royal family of the state of Wei, and when Xiang Yu began his revolt against the Qin regime, Wei Bao joined him and was rewarded in 206 b.c.e. with a kingdom. Nevertheless, not long thereafter, Wei allied himself with Gaozu, Xiang Yu’s rival in the current civil war, and at a crucial moment he defected again—he asked Gaozu for permission to visit his sick parents, but when he returned to his kingdom, he blocked the fords across the Yellow River and renewed his relations with Xiang Yu. It is this second defection that offers a clear example of multiple narrations. The incident is mentioned in nine chapters (8, 16, 18, 22, 49, 54, 55, 90, 92) and is recounted in some detail in four. The basic physical action of revolt seems clear enough, but in each account Wei Bao’s motives are different, though as is typical in the Shiji, motivations are usually suggested by the narrative rather than specified by the historian’s direct comments. Version 1, from “The Biography of Wei Bao and Peng Yue”: When the King of Han [Gaozu] returned to conquer the three kingdoms in Qin and crossed the Yellow River at Linjin, King Wei Bao allied his kingdom with Gaozu and joined him in attacking Chu [Xiang Yu’s kingdom] at Pengcheng. Han was defeated, and retreated

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to Xingyang. Wei Bao asked permission to return home to visit his sick parents, but when he arrived at his kingdom, he blocked the fords on the Yellow River, and rebelled (pan 2) against Han.

In this account, a major defeat has caused Wei Bao to reconsider his alliance with Gaozu, and even though the motivation appears to be political calculation, another factor is revealed when Gaozu sends an envoy to try to dissuade Wei Bao from his renewed loyalty to Xiang Yu. Wei refuses, saying: The span of a man’s life is only as long as it takes a white colt to gallop past a crack in a wall. Recently the King of Han has been disdainful and contemptuous of people, cursing the feudal lords and their ministers as if he were only cursing slaves. This is not the proper ceremony between superiors and subordinates. I cannot bear to face him again.26

Clearly, personal animosity must be added to our earlier assessment. Version 2, from the “Annals of Gaozu”: “In the third month [of the second year], the King of Han crossed the Yellow River from Linjin, and King Wei Bao led his troops to follow him.” Then follows accounts of Gaozu’s victories at Henei and Pengcheng and finally his disastrous defeat in a later battle at Pengcheng. “At that time, the feudal lords saw that Chu was strong and Han had been defeated, and when they returned home, they all abandoned (qu) Han and again joined Chu.” Gaozu then regroups his forces, wins over additional allies, defeats Zhang Han, orders his officials to perform imperial sacrifices, recruits more soldiers, and finally defeats the army of Chu near Xingyang. Only at this point do we hear again of Wei Bao: “In the third year [of Gaozu’s reign], King Wei Bao announced that he would return home to visit his sick parents, but when he arrived he blocked the fords on the Yellow River and revolted (fan) to join with Chu.”27 The expanded context changes the story of Wei Bao’s defection. We learn that his troops shared a string of victories with Gaozu’s army before their mutual defeat at Pengcheng, and we may wonder whether these successes should have merited more loyalty on Wei Bao’s part. But more important, whereas version 1 had Wei revolting at a time when Gaozu was weak, version 2 places that desertion after an upswing in Gaozu’s fortunes. This timing might indicate a more principled stand by Wei (it is never seemly to betray a desperate man), but I believe that in this chapter Wei Bao’s defection actually appears less justified and more treacherous, for he has rebelled

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against a man whose miraculous recovery clearly demonstrates that Heaven has chosen him as the next emperor. This interpretation is supported by the reference to the imperial sacrifices, which Sima regarded as extraordinary signs of divine favor, and in fact, these very sacrifices are described in more detail in one of the Shiji’s treatises.28 No mention is made of Gaozu’s obnoxiousness in this account—not surprising, since Sima often portrays individuals in the best light possible in their own biographies29—but when reading versions 1 and 2 together, I would guess that Sima intended readers to see that Wei Bao was misled by his own petty sentiments into opposing the flow of the times and deserting Heaven’s anointed. Certainly, later events (Gaozu founded the Han dynasty and Wei died an ignoble death) bear this out. Version 3, from “The Hereditary House of Families of Empresses”: When the feudal lords rebelled against the Qin regime, Wei Bao was established as the King of Wei, and Madam Wei [a member of the royal clan] brought her daughter to live in the Wei palace. When Madam Wei went to where Xu Fu read faces [a type of fortune telling], he read her daughter Lady Bo’s face and predicted that the girl would someday give birth to a Son of Heaven [an emperor]. Just at this time Xiang Yu and the King of Han were at a standoff at Xingyang [Gaozu had been defeated at Pengcheng and had won a victory near Xingyang but was unable to press his advantage], and the empire was not yet stable. At first Wei Bao had joined Han to attack Chu, but when he heard of Xu Fu’s prophecy, his heart was secretly pleased, and he therefore turned from Han and rebelled (pan 2), taking up a neutral position and gradually working to re-establish friendly relations with Chu.30

Just for the record, Lady Bo eventually did become a consort of Gaozu and later did gave birth to the future Emperor Wen. Whereas version 2 made Wei’s action appear unmotivated and perverse, here a specific motive is assigned. Wei Bao takes a neutral position, hoping to play off Gaozu and Xiang Yu against each other until his lady-in-waiting can give birth to a future emperor, with the clear implication that Wei Bao himself will end up as the master of China. Version 4, from “The Biography of Han Xin,” the general who was dispatched by Gaozu to reconquer the uncooperative Wei Bao. This account describes Gaozu’s defeat at Pengcheng and subsequent victory at Xingyang and then, backtracking a bit chronologically, continues:

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When Han was defeated and withdrew from Pengcheng, King Xin of Sai and King Yi of Di abandoned Han and surrendered to Chu. The kings of Qi and Zhao also revolted (fan) against Han and made peace with Chu. In the sixth month [of the second year], Wei Bao announced that he would return and visit his sick parents, but when he arrived at his kingdom, he blocked the Yellow River Gate, revolted (fan) against Han, and contracted a peace treaty with Chu.31

This account makes Wei Bao’s defection part of a general trend that was mentioned in version 2, and the discrepancy in chronology (second versus third year) suggests that Wei defected before Gaozu’s victory at Xingyang. Version 5, from the “The Table by Months of the Conflict Between Qin and Chu.” This chronological table does not offer a narrative of Wei Bao’s defection, but it does note Gaozu’s defeat at Pengcheng in the fourth month of the second year and Wei Bao’s rebellion (pan 1) in the fifth month, with no intervening victory and no references to other defecting kings.32 This generally supports the timing of versions 1 and 4, both of which assume that Wei’s defection was a direct and immediate result of the defeat at Pengcheng (even though the exact chronology differs from version 4 by a month), and undermines version 3’s dating of the rebellion in the third year (which, however, is supported by two other Shiji references).33 The table gains its status as an alternative version, however, when it records that Wei Bao had first joined Gaozu in the third month of the second year, when Wei Bao had “surrendered” (xiang ) to Gaozu. The wording of all previous versions implied that Wei Bao’s alliance with Gaozu was voluntary, yet here the reader is invited to consider the moral implications of trying to escape from a coerced relationship, which lasted only three months at most. Had Wei Bao really transferred his loyalty to Gaozu, or had he been forced by a defeat to switch sides, after which he resumed his support for Xiang Yu at the first possible moment? If we turn to Sima Qian’s personal comments hoping for adjudication or explanation or information about sources, we will be disappointed, for the only comment that mentions Wei Bao occurs at the end of “The Biography of Wei Bao and Peng Yue,” where Sima notes that both men refused to commit suicide when they found themselves in serious trouble.34 He suggests that this was because Wei Bao and Peng Yue were “superhuman in their ability to lay wise plans” and they “harbored rebellious intentions.” Thus Wei Bao’s rebellious, crafty nature might serve as yet another factor in his defection from Gaozu.

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Over the course of five versions and a personal comment, numerous explanations for Wei Bao’s defection have been advanced. What then are we to make of all this? Did Wei Bao rebel because of (1) political calculation, (2) personal animosity toward Gaozu, (3) sheer perverseness in refusing to recognize a future emperor, (4) a misunderstood prophecy, (5) a widespread pattern of reversed alliances, (6) a desire to escape a coalition imposed by force, or (7) his rebellious and cunning temperament? As is his custom, Sima Qian does not compare or critically evaluate these various motives; he simply relates different stories. Note that he is not providing accounts of his characters’ different, subjective impressions of the same events, and he is not explicitly recording variant traditions, as Herodotus sometimes does. Instead, in the same fragmented, generally impersonal, narrative voice that characterizes the Shiji, Sima recounts separate, quite different tales.35 But which, readers may wonder, was the true cause of Wei Bao’s defection? Or does each of the accounts offer a portion of the truth? Unfortunately, although some of these motives may be regarded as partial causes, they all cannot be comfortably fit together, as several of them are contradictory. Motive 1 was a rational response to Gaozu’s weakness; motive 3 was an irrational response to his growing strength; and motive 4 assumed a condition of rough parity between Gaozu and Xiang Yu. Since these three conditions are mutually exclusive, the motives do not aggregate. Moreover, Wei Bao was either acting against the trend of the day (motive 3), or he was going along with it (motive 5). The weakness of a man who could not bear to be further insulted by Gaozu (motive 2) does not seem to square with “superhuman” cunning (motive 7), and motive 6 mitigates the charge of rebellion that is the foundation of all the other explanations. All this is in addition to the substantial chronological discrepancy in which Wei Bao’s defection and subsequent capture (or some portion of these events) either occurred in the third year of Gaozu’s reign or were all over by the ninth month of the second year, as the table indicates. Some of the contradictions just listed could be resolved with a more exact chronology that specified the timing of Wei Bao’s defection with regard to Gaozu’s victory at Xingyang and the defections of other feudal lords, but the table is not comprehensive enough to provide such information. Here we must assume that Sima Qian found his own sources too ambiguous or imprecise to make a clear judgment, since in other passages he enthusiastically corrects the chronological errors of earlier histories.36

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Despite these internal inconsistencies, the Shiji is not simply a confused mass of descriptions and quotations. Sima Qian provides clues to understanding, but he does so through means that might be considered more literary than analytical. In other words, readers must rely on the correlating and categorizing skills outlined in the preceding section. Events must be interpreted in the contexts of entire chapters, and chapters must be read in clusters. Some incidents are significant primarily for what they reveal about character; biographies may demonstrate patterns of success and disaster; many chapters are clearly written as parallel lives; and some comments are bitterly ironic. Here it will become apparent why I chose to analyze a minor incident in a very limited context. To fully comprehend Wei Bao’s defection, one would need to ask how it fits into his life as a whole, how it affected others who were involved, why his biography is linked with that of Peng Yue, how his experience reflects on Gaozu, how it compares with the lives of his contemporaries (those both loyal and disloyal to Gaozu), and how it ties into larger themes of interest to Sima such as loyalty, private versus public morality, and practical wisdom. For instance, Wei’s desertion plays very different roles in the four chapters with narrative accounts. It is, of course, a crucial event in Wei Bao’s own biography (version 1) since it leads to his death, but Wei’s biography is a dual biography, and his life story is joined with that of Peng Yue, who was his chief minister in Wei. Unfortunately, the chapter never shows them working together, and readers are nudged toward viewing their lives as connected by parallels rather than by direct interaction—certainly, as Sima points out, because both refused to commit suicide but also perhaps because both were treated poorly by Gaozu and executed for suspected treason. In Gaozu’s annals (version 2), Wei’s defection is a minor obstacle on his path to emperorship, but in the story of Lady Bo (version 3), it triggers a series of events that eventually move her into a situation in which she can become the mother of an emperor (the overall theme of this chapter is the unpredictability of Heaven’s will, ming ). Finally, in Han Xin’s biography (version 4), the focus is on Han Xin’s recapture of Wei Bao, an event that confirms Xiao He’s assessment of Han’s tactical abilities, and indeed, this is the only account that provides specific information about strategies and troop movements. As Sima Qian emphasizes particular events and implies certain lines of causation, Wei Bao alternately appears as traitor and victim, as ambitious schemer and passive follower of the times. It seems that through his literary handling of the sources, Sima imposes different meanings on the same set of

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events. And through my own selective quotations and synopses, I, too, have suggested certain meanings. Had I started or ended Wei Bao’s tale at different points, we might have even more options to choose from. It might matter, at least in some tellings, that Wei Bao had been cheated by Xiang Yu in the distribution of kingdoms (though of course, one man’s duplicity may be another’s calculated precaution) or that Wei Bao was forgiven by Gaozu and put in charge of guarding a strategic city (though he was subsequently killed by his comrades, who argued that they could not trust a former traitor). In the next chapter I explain just how Sima Qian’s editing guides our interpretation of his narratives, but here it may be more practical to stop and probe his intentions. Why did Sima organize his history in a manner that produces inconsistent, multiple narrations? Once again, the idea of the Shiji as a model of the world is useful, for Sima Qian’s format allows for a peculiar form of accuracy. Important decisions and significant events usually have multiple causes, even if narratives must emphasize some limited, relatively clear line of causation. If the sources allowed for multiple interpretations of Wei Bao’s actions, Sima Qian’s composition of separate, contrasting accounts would reflect the ambiguity of his evidence in a way that a neat, unified narrative would not. Rather than choosing the most likely version of events, or even constructing an original version (in which some motives are judged insignificant and omitted or relegated to footnotes), Sima Qian is willing to tell different stories in which all the different motivations have full narrative force, even if these tales are not strictly compatible. In short, the Shiji replicates some of the confusions and uncertainties presented by our evidence of the past, rather than creating a new, streamlined version of history. Nonetheless, readers may wonder whether the presence of multiple, conflicting narrations does not undermine Sima’s authority as a historian. The answer is both yes and no. When different versions of the same events appear in the Shiji, they are, of course, competing with one another, and the resulting uncertainty does subvert readers’ confidence in Sima Qian as a historian. They simply cannot be sure which account to believe, and consequently, they must adopt a attitude of wariness. They must learn to weigh variants for themselves, to be flexible in their interpretations of characters and incidents, and to understand that no one of the Shiji’s accounts or comments fully represents the opinions of the author or the complexities of the historical record. The suspicion that Sima Qian invokes in his readers is nevertheless balanced by the increased authority gained by his text. Because he deliberately distances himself from his history and requires the active participation of

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his readers, they can be assured that the lessons they discover between the lines are in fact those presented by the past itself and not by an admittedly limited historian. Sima Qian does not claim to offer the final truth about the past—he can serve only as a useful guide—but readers must agree to keep reading and analyzing. Indeed, this approach is mandated by the fragmented and open-ended format of the Shiji, which does not encourage or reward an orderly, sequential reading. Those who wish to discover the lessons of the past must constantly jump back and forth among annals, tables, and biographies, and those reaching the final chapter will discover there a set of brief evaluative descriptions of each of the preceding chapters, which will arm them with yet another perspective and send them back into the text. Chinese historians have long recognized other advantages of Sima’s hujianfa (technique of complementary viewpoints).37 Zhu Ziqing has noted that the Shiji ’s fragmented structure allows Sima Qian to honor his subjects and yet criticize them and to offer new interpretations without violating cultural constraints.38 For example, Zhu observes that although Gaozu is described as “benevolent and kind to people” in his own annals, which in fact do illustrate instances of this type of behavior, other chapters (including the biography of Wei Bao) offer evidence that would support a very different characterization. Thus Sima honored the founder of the dynasty he lived under while still allowing for indirect criticisms. Zhang Dake adds that by distributing events over various chapters, Sima was free to shape his portraits of individuals within their own biographies while still preserving contrary instances.39 Nevertheless, I imagine that Western readers might still be sensitive on the point of inconsistent, multiple narratives, so here we may turn to Western historiographical theorists, who have also noticed that historians sometimes give conflicting accounts of the same historical events. Louis Mink has argued that historical narratives do not aggregate into unified accounts, that the relationships among events are ambiguous and open to a variety of interpretations, and he has questioned the notion of what constitutes an “event.” Hence there is no one universal story embedded in historical facts, waiting to be discovered and disseminated by historians.40 The same event, under the same description or different descriptions, may belong to different stories, and its particular significance will vary with its place in these different—often very different—narratives. But

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just as “evidence” does not dictate which story is to be constructed, so it does not bear on the preference of one story to another. When it comes to the narrative treatment of an ensemble of interrelationships, we credit the imagination or the sensibility or the insight of the individual historian.41

It is a bit odd to see one historian illustrating these points within a single history, but it appears that Sima Qian has utilized some stable collection of facts to construct a number of narratives, much as one might string beads into several necklaces, one after another. Indeed, it is tempting to see Sima as practicing the kind of emplotment that Hayden White has postulated.42 Wei Bao’s defection is only a minor detail in much larger stories, but it might be possible to interpret the “Basic Annals of Xiang Yu” as a tragedy and the “Basic Annals of Gaozu” as a romance (two of White’s four modes of emplotment), even though the two chapters generally cover the same events. One might even regard the tables as providing the chronicle on which the narratives of the biographies are constructed.43 Inasmuch as the Shiji retells stories from different perspectives, making diverse selections of facts and implying various lines of causation, the constructivist historiography of Mink and White is attractive, but in the end Sima Qian goes too far. Although multiple narratives in the Shiji can often be regarded as presenting different aspects of a singular, stable historical event, in some cases such accounts hinge on irreconcilable assertions, as I tried to show in my discussion of Wei Bao’s defection. Other examples abound: Xiang Yu wounded Gaozu either before Cao Jiu foolishly lost the city of Chenggao or afterward; either Zhang Han committed suicide or Gaozu’s troops killed him; either Jing Ju enthroned himself or was crowned by Qin Jia; and so on.44 When faced with inconsistencies, it is tempting to view the chronological tables as more objective witnesses, but as we saw previously, their evidence is not always complete or persuasive. Since by their nature they require a higher degree of precision, they are in some ways more suspect. They frequently contradict the chronologies and details provided by the narratives without providing adequate explanations, and occasionally there are problems within the tables themselves. For example, the same table has our friend Wei Bao dying in both the eighth month of the third year and the fourth month of the fourth year (another obviously unreconcilable difference!).45 Finally, as I have argued elsewhere, the tables are by no means ideologically naive

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or neutral, as their very structure presupposes particular understandings of political authority and historical change.46 One might appeal to ordinary sorts of explanations for these contradictions—perhaps Sima died before his history was really complete; perhaps his father was responsible for some variants; perhaps interpolations or errors crept in when the text was copied; and so forth. Or one might argue that many of the inconsistencies in the Shiji play at the margins of volition and responsibility—is a suicide in response to overwhelming military disaster really voluntary? Can one compel another to offer a crown? Are some surrenders strategic rather than coerced? All these considerations are important to interpreting the Shiji, but they fail to account for either the pervasiveness of discrepancies or the curious fact that Sima does not seem overly concerned by them.47 Perhaps even more attractive is a reading that envisions Sima Qian as a collector of preexisting narratives that came down to him already emplotted around various characters and shaped by the attitudes of their original authors. Sima may have regularized some of the language and resolved the grossest discrepancies, but he also was interested in preserving the integrity of his sources as much as he could, even if it meant tolerating a certain number of contradictions. This hypothesis fits much of the evidence of the Shiji, and Sima Qian clearly saw himself as a conservator of the Chinese heritage, but it sits uncomfortably with other aspects of the text. What about the passages that might lead one to see the Shiji as an outstanding model of a pioneering, critical history? We cannot argue that Sima was indifferent to truth claims, for his personal comments often manifest a keen commitment to accuracy. As we saw in the last chapter, he corrects popular tales and chronologies that he knows to be wrong; he refuses to speculate when his data are insufficient; he carefully identifies his sources, both written and oral; he tries to verify accounts through extensive travel and the interviewing of eyewitnesses; he can be critical of the Confucian classics and even of his own subjective impressions; and the very fact that he undertook the laborious task of synchronizing dozens of local calendars into the tables is impressive, even if his correlation of them was inconclusive. Here our portrait of Sima Qian and his Shiji becomes quite contradictory itself. Does Sima Qian care about accuracy, or does he callously ignore its requirement of consistency? But this question is too stark. Sima was obviously willing to accept a certain level of looseness in his history, and although his editing and writing may have highlighted particular causes or

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characterizations in various chapters, I doubt that he deliberately invented factual discrepancies. Rather, these came from his sources. A better question to ask is whether he saw this diversity of details and perspectives as a necessary evil or a virtue, and this requires us to look more closely how Sima shapes his history on a larger level.

4

MICROCOSMIC READING II

He chose to include the things That in each other are included, the whole, The complicate, the amassing harmony. Wallace Stevens, “Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction”

n the latter half of the first century c.e., Ban Gu wrote the Han shu, a history that imitated and continued the Shiji (it became the second of the Standard Histories). Ban’s history used the same basic structure of annals, tables, treatises, and biographies (hereditary houses were omitted, since all the feudal lords had disappeared), and he directly adapted a number of Shiji chapters. But instead of writing a history of the world from the beginning, he focused exclusively on the Former Han dynasty. There is, however, one curious chapter that departs from this conception—the “Table of Ancient and Modern Persons” (Han shu 20). Here Ban Gu (or, more probably, his sister Ban Zhao) compiled a list of some 1,955 prominent men and women, from legendary times to the founding of the Han dynasty in 206 b.c.e., and then carefully arranged them into nine moral categories, with “sage” (sheng ren) at the top and “ignoramus” (yu ren) at the bottom (these terms, however, reflect the moral condition of the subject more than his or her mental abilities; that is, ignoramuses are often fiendishly clever, but they are ignorant of moral values).1 The table is a tribute to the author’s erudition and historical judgment, by which he organizes all the major figures of pre-Han history into a moral hierarchy, and it is not surprising that this bold effort suddenly comes to an

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end with the beginning of the Han. A catalog that really lived up to its title and included “modern persons” would have been politically dangerous. How could one criticize the founders of one’s dynasty, some of whose descendants still wielded considerable power? So in this one chapter, the Han shu covers ground that belonged more appropriately to the Shiji, but Ban Gu’s table differs from Sima Qian’s book in at least two important respects. First, Sima Qian rarely offered clear, precise judgments of his subjects. As we have seen, he preferred to present history in a provocative but ambiguous fashion. Second, although the Shiji in many respects does arrange the world into categories of hierarchical significance, the Shiji is more than just a catalog. Sima Qian created not just a model of the world but a working model, which identifies the connections between various individuals and historical events. Things happen in the Shiji, and for specific reasons. In this chapter we gradually shift our attention from minor incidents to largescale history, culminating in an examination of one of the most important, and most puzzling, events in Chinese history—the founding of the Han dynasty. In so doing, we need to confront two crucial issues. First, in a sprawling, fragmented work like the Shiji, how does Sima Qian signal the significance of the events he describes? To a large extent, the answer depends on identifying the ways in which incidents fit into larger narratives. Second, how are we to choose among the diverse historical explanations suggested at various passages in the text? Once again, evaluating narrative is the key to understanding Sima’s view of history. In reading the Shiji as a model of the world, historical interpretation is intimately connected to literary criticism.

The Significance of Events The First Emperor died suddenly in 210 b.c.e. at the age of forty-nine. His unscrupulous ministers quickly shifted the succession to a younger, more easily manipulated son, and the imperial structures decayed rapidly. The coercive social engineering, onerous labor services, and harsh laws strained the subjects’ loyalty, and less than a year after the death of the First Emperor, the first rebellion broke out. According to Sima Qian, the immediate cause of this revolt was rain. A party of conscript laborers was delayed when a great thunderstorm rendered the road impassable, and their leader, Chen She, realizing that the penalty for arriving late was death, convinced the men that since they all were guilty of a capital crime anyway, they had nothing to lose by rebelling. Chen She’s appeal was strengthened by the cynical use of

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manufactured omens and the conscripts’ realization that labor service itself was often tantamount to a death sentence. Within the next few months, similar revolts broke out all over China. Some were led by peasants like Gaozu, Qing Bu, and Peng Yue, each of whom had earlier escaped the constraints of imperial law by becoming bandits (Gaozu and Qing had, in fact, escaped from labor service at the First Emperor’s mausoleum). Other rebellions were led by scions of the old noble families, such as Xiang Yu and Zhang Liang, whose ancestors had served the ancient states of Chu and Hann for generations. The various revolts gradually coalesced around two leaders—Xiang Yu and Gaozu. Some twenty Shiji chapters describe at least some facet of the struggle between these two men to dominate China, and much of the interest of these sections lies in the fact that the two men, though very different from each other, were actually fairly evenly matched (they enjoy equivalent positions in the basic annals). On numerous occasions, power could have decisively shifted one way or the other, although all readers of the Shiji would have recognized Gaozu as the eventual winner, the founder of the Han dynasty. What, then, was the cause of Gaozu’s success and Xiang Yu’s defeat? Taking our cue from the structure of the Shiji, it is clear that Sima Qian saw the decisions and actions of individuals as the primary driving force of history. Each of the twenty chapters (with the exception of Shiji 16, the chronological table that covers this time period) focuses on one or perhaps two people who played some role in the larger story, and to a certain degree that larger story can be discerned only through the limited perspectives of these men. The fullest account, of course, is provided by the basic annals of the two protagonists themselves—chapters 7 and 8 of the Shiji. It is indicative of the importance that Sima assigns to the founding of the dynasty that we get two contrasting versions of these years in adjoining chapters. Indeed, this situation is unique in the annals, in which usually only the ends and beginnings overlap. It is immediately apparent from Sima Qian’s account that both Xiang Yu and Gaozu were vigorous, talented men. At crucial junctures they took actions that irrevocably changed the course of their lives and also the course of Chinese history. For instance, Xiang Yu’s career as a rebel was launched when he assassinated the governor of Kuaiji. As happened so often in these chaotic times, the action was not the result of long and careful planning. Rather, the governor, realizing that the Qin dynasty was at its end, summoned Xiang Yu and his uncle Xiang Liang to organize the official revolt. He argued that “those who act first govern men, but those who act

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later are governed by others.”2 The Xiangs, taking him at his word, killed him and minutes later were wearing his seals of office and commanding his troops. Likewise, Xiang Yu’s decisions to assassinate general Song Yi, to forgive Gaozu for blocking off the captured Qin capital, and to return east after his victory all dramatically changed the future by opening up certain possibilities and closing off others. Gaozu’s life was similarly filled with critical decisions, many of which were related to those of Xiang Yu. Gaozu himself became a bandit rather suddenly, became the leader of the revolt by taking action when others hesitated, fought Xiang Yu’s troops to keep them out of the capital, begged for forgiveness, and rebelled against Xiang Yu after he had marched east. The two men began on very different courses, but gradually more and more of their decisions affected each other directly. Their lives became intertwined as they tried to preempt and react to each other. And like the smaller fibers that twist around the main strands of a rope, the actions of numerous minor characters—generals, statesmen, and scholars—affected and mediated the larger bipolar relationship. But a simple record of actions (as in the chronological tables) is not yet history. For that we must determine the relative importance of events, their significance, and how they are related to one another. What makes an action “significant”? There are at least five answers to this question. First, significance can be measured by how many direct consequences a particular act has. That is, if one were to imagine lines of cause and effect, a significant action would be one that gave rise to many courses of events (though a complete construction would look more like a web, since complex events usually have numerous causes and numerous effects; indeed, a relatively complete construction might look something like the Shiji). Particularly significant are the occasions when one lives rather than dies. For example, windstorms are often fearsome events, but sometimes, as in the fourth month of 205 b.c.e., they can drastically change the course of history. Xiang Yu, with 30,000 men, had defeated Gaozu’s vast army of 560,000, and Gaozu himself was surrounded by three rings of Xiang’s troops. Suddenly a violent wind blew in from the northwest, and Gaozu was able to escape in the ensuing confusion, thus managing to stay alive and eventually found a dynasty.3 Note that in this definition, significance is not intrinsic to the event itself. Obviously, certain types of occurrences are likely to have numerous far-reaching consequences—wars, migrations, natural disasters, changes of government, and so forth—but sometimes seemingly trivial events can also

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influence history. In fact, our definition of “event” needs to be amended here, since nonevents can also have substantial consequences, such as when Xiang Yu ignored Chen Ping’s advice, thereby encouraging him to defect to Gaozu and become one of his chief strategists, or when the future chancellor Zhang Cang’s plump white physique saved him from execution (an attending official, impressed by Zhang’s healthy appearance, halted the proceedings), or when Zhang Er acted on his mistaken belief that his best friend Chen Yu had betrayed him (Chen Yu eventually turned against Xiang Yu and was executed by Gaozu’s troops in the complicated aftermath of this misunderstanding). Often people react not to events but to their perceptions of events or conditions. It also follows that different events have different significance for different people. For instance, Han Xin’s treacherous invasion of Qi after its ruler had already agreed to an alliance with Han’s commander, Gaozu, does not make it into the chronological table at all. It is noted in passing in the “Basic Annals of Gaozu,” but it receives much more attention in Han Xin’s own biography. The most extensive account of this event, which focuses on the soon-tobe-annulled diplomacy, is in the biography of the diplomat Li Yiji, who was killed by the king of Qi when his assurances of Han Xin’s cooperation proved groundless. To Li, this decision by Han Xin was all-important, and his chapter reflects this. Part of the complexity of the Shiji is due to the fact that Sima Qian never establishes an overriding point of view. Significance is ultimately dependent on the questions one is trying to answer. One chooses a particular event— say the victory of Gaozu over Xiang Yu—and then works backward. But the Shiji does not answer specific questions. Sima Qian notes in his letter to Ren An that in writing his history, he “investigated the principles of success and failure, rises and falls,” but this is a vague description. Factors that are significant to the rise of individuals may or may not be significant to the fall of a dynasty. In one instance Sima mentions that he is omitting details because “they don’t concern the survival or destruction of the empire,” but this is hardly a consistent point of view.4 If anything, his structure implies a concern with persons. A second way in which events can be significant is that they can reveal larger, behind-the-scenes processes and patterns. For instance, many of the chapters of the Shiji begin with anecdotes whose major function seems to be to reveal character or personality (these generalized attributes are themselves simply a shorthand method of summarizing numerous actions, attitudes, and predilections).5 Let us label this symbolic significance, as opposed to the

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direct significance just described. For example, the annals of both Xiang Yu and Gaozu begin with anecdotes that have few direct consequences. As a boy Xiang Yu told his uncle Xiang Liang that he was interested in studying strategy rather than swordsmanship, because armed with the latter he could defeat thousands of enemies. His uncle instructed him (a possible cause for many later developments), but Sima notes that once Xiang Yu had grasped the main ideas, he was not willing to study the details. A bit later Xiang Yu saw the First Emperor on one of his official tours and remarked, “This one could be captured and replaced.” Xiang Liang clapped his hand over Yu’s mouth and warned him against speaking recklessly, but thereafter, according to Sima, he considered his nephew to be extraordinary. In a parallel account, Gaozu as a young man also saw the First Emperor and exclaimed with a sigh, “Ah, a great man ought to be like this.” We also read about how he chased down an old beggar who had predicted great fortune for Gaozu’s family, in order to get an opinion on himself as well (it was favorable, of course).6 What are we to make of these stories? Or in a twist on the question of significance, why did Sima Qian choose to include them? Sima does not offer explicit justifications, and readers are left to make their own connections (this is the admission price of entering Sima Qian’s bamboo world), but some guesses might be hazarded. It seems reasonable to assume that these stories indicate great ambition from early on for both these men. But even though ambition is obviously a key factor in the narratives that follow, are there any more specific, more insightful meanings to be gleaned from these tales? One might compare the two men and note that Xiang Yu seems more aggressively and impetuously ambitious, whereas Gaozu’s desires seem softer, more romantic, and wishful. Could these tendencies explain later actions? Did Gaozu change during the next few years?7 Sima’s method of historical exposition forces readers into a hermeneutical relationship with the text, constantly rereading and comparing, testing hypotheses and changing interpretations. The most general interpretations seem the safest, and specific explications of symbolic tales quickly run into culture-specific modes of interpreting behavior. Whether a given anecdote reveals recklessness or courage, selfishness or foresight, loyalty or moral blindness depends on accepted social norms. For example, Ying-shih Yü has argued that at the famous Hongmen banquet, where Gaozu was very nearly killed by Xiang Yu for blocking off the pass that led to the capital of Qin, the meaning of the seating arrangement is at least as important as anything that was actually said.8 Likewise, when Gaozu treats his advisers with disrespect, the associations with the behavior of wicked

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last kings of former dynasties influence how readers interpret these passages. Whether or not Gaozu’s relationship with his counselors suffers as a result, these episodes tie him to larger, transcendent patterns of cause and effect (fortunately, he usually changes his attitude before the end of the interview). Portents should be read in a similar manner. Although as portents, they are not direct effects of historical causes, they are nevertheless indications of how a person is aligned with the moral order of the cosmos. And of course, portents themselves—or, rather, people’s perceptions of them—can function as direct causes of later actions. Another example of symbolic significance occurs early in Xiang Yu’s annals, with the introduction of Chen Ying. This former scribe somewhat unwillingly became the leader of a band of twenty thousand rebels. When they wanted to make him a king, his mother warned that such a swift change of fortune might bring bad luck in its wake, and so he declined in favor of Xiang Liang, who, after all, had come from a noble family. Shortly thereafter, Chen accepted a position as the chief minister of Chu. This is essentially the extent of his role in the Shiji. We learn from a table that he survived long enough to inherit a fief in the Han dynasty, but his actions are not recorded in connection with other events surrounding the founding of the Han dynasty.9 Once again, despite the lack of a direct connection to the matters at the heart of the Shiji, Sima Qian has chosen to memorialize him because he provides an illustration of larger moral patterns. He is a fine example of two cultural values: filial piety and modesty (in accordance with the ancient Chinese belief that extreme good fortune brings its opposite). Or was it the fine advice of his mother that deserved to be passed down to future generations? This type of interpretation must always be cautious, for books like the Shiji often create cultural norms as well as reflect them. Sima Qian’s work draws on a long tradition of argument through historical precedent, and the Shiji itself functions as the foundation for an even longer tradition. There is another type of incident whose importance straddles the categories of direct significance and symbolic significance. These are trigger events, that is, occurrences that have consequences much greater than one would expect because they work in conjunction with more important, longterm conditions. Chen She’s uprising was such an event. His revolt did not directly cause the other rebellions that broke out all over China, but when others saw his actions, they were emboldened themselves to address the long-standing problems of living under the Qin regime. Sima Qian was interested in these types of events, and in his concluding comments to chapters concerning more contemporary events, he calls attention to them.

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For example, “The Marquis of Wuan relied on his aristocratic status and loved power, but a single cup of wine gave rise to enmity, and he brought down these two worthy men; alas, how sad,” and “The origins of [relations with] the Southern Yi were the sighting of ju berry sauce at Panyu and the people of Daxia’s using canes made of bamboo from Qiong.”10 The fourth category of significance involves actions that are significant not because they are connected to the ongoing narrative but simply because they are interesting reflections of the human condition.11 For example, when Gaozu’s royal secretary Zhou Ke was captured, Xiang offered him a generalship and a fief of thirty thousand households. In response, Zhou reviled Xiang Yu and said, “If you do not hasten to surrender to the King of Han, he will take you prisoner today, for you are in no way equal to the King of Han!” Xiang Yu, angered by this unexpected response, had Zhou Ke boiled alive.12 Because Zhou Ke is actually a minor figure in the Shiji and his last words had no discernible effect on the course of history, we must ask why Sima Qian choose to include them (twice). They may reveal something about Xiang Yu’s character, but by this point in the narrative we have already seen numerous, even more graphic examples of his anger and brutality. I believe that Sima recorded the anecdote primarily because Zhou Ke’s response was so unexpected and willful (Sima has a weak spot for men who act courageously against impossible odds, as can be seen in his chapter on assassin-retainers). The story also makes readers wonder how Gaozu could have inspired such loyalty (or should we wonder how Xiang Yu inspired such revulsion?), and from this perspective it also has symbolic significance. The final category of significance is terminal significance, such as when Sima records an event because it brings an earlier narrative line to a satisfying conclusion. For instance, most of the hereditary houses close with information about the descendants of the main characters. These comments complete the story and also allow the Shiji to fulfill its function as a microcosmic record of almost everything. It should be noted, however, that in some chapters the death of the main character is never mentioned (for example, “The Biography of Tian Dan,” chap. 82),13 and in some instances the final fate of a particular person may help us interpret his life. Thus accounts of Wei Bao’s assassination may have been included in the Shiji in order to demonstrate that betrayal does not pay.14 We are now ready to apply these categories to an actual event. Courses of cause and effect must always be intercepted in mid-flight,15 and here we will focus on the tap of a foot in a story taken from the “Biography of the Marquis of Huaiyin [Han Xin]”:

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In the fourth year of the Han (203 b.c.e.), [Han Xin] achieved the complete submission and pacification of the region of Qi and then sent an envoy to report to the king of Han [Gaozu], saying, “Qi is a false, deceitful, always shifting, traitorous country. Since it borders Chu on the south, if an ‘acting king’ is not appointed to keep it under control (zhen), conditions there will remain unsettled. I therefore request that I be made ‘acting king.’ ” At this time, the Chu army [under Xiang Yu] had put the king of Han in extreme danger by surrounding him at Xingyang, and when the envoy from Han Xin arrived and the letter was opened, the king of Han was absolutely furious. He cursed and said “I’m in serious trouble at this point, day and night I look for him to come and rescue me, and now he wants to make himself a king?” But Zhang Liang and Chen Ping stepped on his foot, and leaning close to his ear said, “You are now at a disadvantage. How could you prevent Han Xin from becoming a king? The best thing would be to go ahead and appoint him. Deal with this gracefully and [take the initiative] yourself to make it a fief. Otherwise you will be giving birth to treachery.” The king of Han realized the situation, and began to curse again, saying, “When one of my officers conquers a feudal lord, I make him a full king. What is this ‘acting king’ business?” Thereupon he sent Zhang Liang to appoint Han Xin the king of Qi and summon his troops to attack Chu.16

This is a fairly straightforward story, yet even here the web of cause and effect is complex. In this telling the direct cause of Han Xin’s being named the king of Qi was Zhang Liang’s and Chen Ping’s stepping on Gaozu’s foot, offering advice, and his taking it. This primary course of events, however, occurs in the context of Han Xin’s military successes and the immediate threat of Xiang Yu (note that Qi’s proximity to Xiang’s stronghold Chu was a key element of Han Xin’s request). In addition, many of these actions fit into patterns of individual behavior, which give them symbolic significance. Personality in the Shiji is usually illustrated rather than described, and although decisions can be explained to some extent by past tendencies, each new incident also serves to strengthen reader’s perceptions of these tendencies. Character traits that play a role in this tale include Han Xin’s ambition, Zhang Liang’s and Chen Ping’s political savvy and good counsel, and Gaozu’s rudeness and cunning, as well as Gaozu’s ability to take advice,

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grasp a situation, and modify his behavior accordingly. These attributes are dominant characteristics illustrated again and again in each person’s biography. Additional information in Han Xin’s biography confirms some of these causes and suggests others. For instance, the chapter reports that shortly before this incident, Xiang Yu, being quite concerned about Han Xin’s successes in Qi, dispatched one of his crack generals, Long Ju, who was thereupon defeated soundly and killed. More worried than ever, Xiang Yu sent an envoy to cut a deal with Han Xin. Since this man arrived just after Han Xin had been made a king, Han Xin did not swerve from his loyalty to Gaozu, but as Zhang Liang had foreseen, this was a real possibility at the time. Or at least this is the interpretation suggested by Sima Qian’s sequence of narration. What Han Xin actually said was that he could not betray Gaozu because of the many personal kindnesses (attention, sharing of food and clothing, and the like) that he had received from Gaozu. Readers of Han Xin’s biography are also prepared to see his request for a kingdom as reasonable, since only two months earlier Gaozu had appointed Han’s close associate Zhang Er as the king of Zhao in order “to keep under control (zhen) and stabilize” that region.17 The Shiji chapters that narrate the founding of the Han dynasty frequently describe the same events from a variety of perspectives. In Zhang Liang’s biography, we learn that in the previous year Zhang had suggested that Gaozu grant territory to Han Xin in order to ensure his loyalty. This strategy was not implemented at the time, but it is possible to construct another line of cause and effect in which Zhang’s earlier plan was the main cause and Han Xin’s impertinent request simply gave Zhang an excuse to push once again for his proposal.18 Chen Ping’s biography offers a slightly different version of the story, in which Han Xin, having already made himself king of Qi, sends an envoy to Gaozu to have this title confirmed. Gaozu is enraged, but when Chen Ping steps on his foot, he apparently sizes up the situation on his own and tempers his reaction.19 If this later reconstruction of events is more accurate, then Han Xin’s request for a kingdom is less similar to Zhang Er’s than it is to a number of other self-crownings, which themselves constitute a pattern. Accordingly, ever since Chen She’s first rebellion, generals who pacified border territories tended to declare themselves kings over those regions. Chen She made himself a king and then sent Wu Chen to seize Zhao. Wu Chen quickly assumed the title of king of Zhao and in turn sent Han Guang to take Yan. Of course, Yan itself soon celebrated the ascension of King Han Guang,

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all three coronations having taken place during three successive months.20 These ceremonial power grabs may constitute a direct cause (since later would-be kings were inspired by earlier self-crowned generals) or an indirect cause (as an indication of the general chaos and disloyalty of the times or perhaps these individuals’ reckless ambition), or they may have narrative significance (there is a sort of poetic justice to the sequence). At any rate, Han Xin was probably aware of these precedents, and in each case the furious, beleaguered dispatching king found himself as unable to retaliate against Gaozu. The basic characteristics of the actors in the drama of the steppedon foot are reaffirmed in a similar situation the next year, just before Xiang Yu’s final defeat. Gaozu is hard-pressed and angry at Han Xin’s noncooperation (he had failed to send troops). Zhang Liang suggests that Han’s loyalty might be boosted by an official proclamation of the exact territory that would be his when China was reunified, and Gaozu accordingly promises him the land “from Chen east all the way to the sea,” which included his birthplace in Chu (Zhang noted that Han was especially anxious to obtain his native city).21 Finally, the mention of Chu may be of symbolic significance, given the pattern noted by Sima Qian in his concluding remarks to chapter 118: “The people of Jing and Chu are easily provoked and quick to violence; they love to create disorder [or “to rebel”]. This has been the witness of records since ancient times.”22 This tendency (or even the popular perception of it) might partially explain both Han Xin’s rebellious self-crowning and Gaozu’s caution in dealing with Han Xin. Even a relatively minor episode like the stepped-on foot presents readers with a multitude of possible causes and interpretations, and larger processes such as Gaozu’s rise to power and Xiang Yu’s decline are made up of dozens and dozens of such incidents. How are readers to evaluate the significance or the morality of these events? Sima Qian, as usual, is hard to pin down. For crucial questions such as the defeat of Xiang Yu, it is not that he does not provide answers; rather, he offers far too many, and he stubbornly refuses to impose a final, omniscient viewpoint. However, even without a sustained narrative voice, Sima Qian is able to suggest interpretation through a number of literary techniques. 1. Direct comments. Sima regularly offers personal comments at the conclusion of chapters; he provides brief summaries of all 130 chapters in the last chapter of the Shiji; and sometimes (though rarely) he comments within the narrative itself.

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2. Indirect comments. More frequently, Sima quotes characters in the Shiji when they offer their own opinions of other characters or events. At least a dozen characters offer interpretations of why Gaozu overcame Xiang Yu. 3. Selection. People and events that Sima Qian saw fit to include in the Shiji seem to have possessed at least some significance for Sima Qian. 4. Repetition. Events that are significant to many people are often referred to in more than one chapter and are sometimes described at length in more than one place. Opinions, too, are sometimes repeated by more than one character. 5. Narrative texture. Incidents of greater importance tend to be told in greater detail, at least once. Occasionally Sima refers his readers to fuller versions of stories. 6. Parallels. Patterns are established (or at least implied) through the repetition of similar or opposite situations. For example, if one person respects his parents and prospers because of it, another’s disrespect and failure can reinforce the pattern almost as well as can additional examples of filial success. 7. Context. Sima Qian uses placement to undermine the credibility of certain opinions or to highlight certain courses of cause and effect. For instance, the words of a man who has just been portrayed as taking a bribe strike readers as less than trustworthy, and juxtaposing events makes them seem related. This method is particularly suited to Sima’s fragmented presentation, since he can move intervening details to other chapters in order to present certain events in close proximity. 8. Revealing consequences. We often know how to interpret actions only after we see how they turn out. Thus advice can be wise if it leads to success, and even courageous, self-sacrificing actions will be judged harshly if they lead to disaster. Often it is necessary to read several chapters before the full consequences of a given action can be assessed.23 Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), Sima Qian’s fragmented presentation forces each reader to become his or her own historian, for Sima offers no privileged narrative voice. Readers must work their way through the various chapters dealing with the founding of the Han and piece together their own conceptions of what happened and how these events were related to one another. None of the preceding literary techniques offers a final, conclusive interpretation, however, since each has particular problems:

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1. Direct comments. Sima Qian’s personal opinions sometimes contradict one another, occasionally contradict what has been clearly established by the narrative, and are subject to politically expedient self-censorship.24 2. Indirect comments. Indirect comments are also, as may be expected, frequently contradictory, and moreover, nearly all of them are biased in some fashion. Sima helps by providing the contexts for each opinion so that we have something by which to gauge its credibility and motivation, but this game is often uncertain. Do not liars sometimes tell the truth? Are not wicked men sometimes very astute? Relying on characters to interpret the story in progress is often like interpreting a dream while one is still dreaming. 3. Selection. Everything in the Shiji may have some significance, but Sima Qian also seems driven to achieve a certain comprehensiveness. This is especially evident in the tables. Sometimes people or events seem to have been included simply because Sima did not want them forgotten, not because they play a significant role in the stories at hand. There may also be a certain magic in simply knowing the names or an element of ancestral respect. For instance, when Xiang Yu’s body was torn apart in the scramble to claim a reward, Sima Qian duly notes the names of the five men who got a limb or the head. These men never again appear in the narrative portions of the Shiji (although they do appear, along with their fiefs, in the sixth chronological table). 4. Repetition. Repetition may indicate a commonly held misconception, or events may be referred to in several chapters simply to provide a common chronological reference point. 5. Narrative texture. It is possible that Sima offers more extensive treatment when his sources are more detailed or perhaps when his own aesthetic sense has been aroused. In the Later Han dynasty, Yang Xiong accused Sima Qian of “loving the extraordinary.”25 6. Parallels. It often is difficult to determine how much similarity constitutes a parallel, and we cannot be sure exactly what Sima Qian intended as parallels (though I doubt that he would have considered authorial intention to be a requisite for finding patterns; patterns in history may have been unintentionally reproduced in the microcosmic Shiji ).

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7. Context. Context may be even harder to judge than parallels. Often, there are simply too many variables, and the meanings of particular actions themselves may be difficult to interpret. 8. Revealing consequences. Nearly any prior event is a possible cause for something later, and most Shiji characters perform numerous actions. Accordingly, it often is difficult to attribute a particular consequence, good or bad, to a particular previous action. This, however, does not stop the characters themselves from trying to correlate causes and effects, but then we are back to the difficulties described in item 2. In addition, it is dangerous to equate morality and expediency; what works may not always be what is right, and Sima Qian is very concerned with moral principles. Even though these techniques may offer clues, their interpretation is by no means certain, which may be one reason that the Shiji has proved endlessly fascinating to common readers and critics alike. Armed with these extensive caveats, we are now almost ready to tackle the mystery of Gaozu’s rise and Xiang Yu’s downfall, but first we must discuss a special case, the chronological table that covers these years, the “Table by Months of the Conflict Between Qin and Chu” (chap. 16). This table begins by following the major events in seven regions month by month, starting with Chen She’s rebellion in 209 b.c.e. In addition, Sima also includes rows for Xiang Yu and Gaozu, a decision that confuses the distinction between people and places. After Xiang Yu unifies the empire in 206 b.c.e., the table splits into twenty rows, one for each of the nineteen feudal lords he established (including himself ) plus one for the figurehead “Righteous Emperor,” and this time each ruler is closely connected with a specific kingdom. Then gradually, most rows become blank as various lords are assassinated or deposed and kingdoms are taken over by one another. The chronology is quite complex, since not all these kings started at the same time. Xiang Yu commissioned some who had already been ruling, and sometimes new kings were appointed to replace those who had perished. The entire situation was so volatile that reigns are measured by months rather than by the years that characterize the rest of the Shiji tables. The table finally ends with the close of the year in which Xiang Yu died. For each region each month, there is a space on the grid. Most spaces are blank, but many have brief notices of changes of rulers or other significant events, usually written in official, neutral language (exceptions are “Xiang

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Liang had an arrogant demeanor,” and “At Xin’an Xiang Yu treacherously massacred the 200,000 Qin troops who had surrendered”).26 The table is extremely useful in trying to determine exactly what happened when, and it is tempting to regard this as the objective version, but there are problems even with these apparently raw data. There is usually no explanation of the relationship among various recorded events, and all seem to have equal importance. History requires analysis and valuation in addition to bare statements of fact. Although we might assume that mere inclusion in the table represents Sima Qian’s judgment of significance, difficulties arise when we compare the table with the narrative chapters. Some of the events included in the table do not seem very important. For instance, one entry records the death of Gongsun Qing, who is mentioned in only one other passage in the whole of the Shiji.27 The table also notes that “Yan sent General Zang Tu to rescue Zhao” in the tenth month of 207 b.c.e., but this event is never discussed anywhere else in the Shiji.28 One might argue that the table records events that were significant to the empire as a whole, but discrepancies such as these two make that theory doubtful, as does the fact that some extremely important events, according to the narratives, are omitted from the table. For example, Xiang Yu’s and Gaozu’s dramatic confrontation at Guangwu, where Gaozu was shot with a crossbow and nearly killed, finds no mention in the table. And as useful as the table is for establishing chronologies and tracing troop movements, indirect causes such as morale and personality do not lend themselves to tabular form. The form of the “Table of the Conflict Between Qin and Chu” also encompasses several competing systems of significance. In the Shiji’s tables, the uppermost row is usually occupied by the state or person who has the greatest symbolic claim to power. Thus at the beginning of this table, the ruler of the Qin dynasty holds this position, and after Xiang Yu’s victory, the Righteous Emperor is at the top. It makes no difference that the Qin emperor was a fool who let his evil minister actually run things or that the Righteous Emperor had been promoted from shepherd to sovereign (he was the grandson of the last Chu king) as a figurehead ruler who could legitimize Xiang Yu’s own quest for power. Vertical order still implies hierarchical superiority, just as when the nearly powerless state of Zhou still held the uppermost position in the table during the Spring and Autumn era. The fact that Xiang Yu’s row is above Gaozu’s probably argues for some kind of precedence (note that Gaozu was appointed king of Han by Xiang Yu).

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Another hierarchy is implied by the calendar. The usual notation for the first month of a new year is yi yue (“first month”), but there are two exceptions to this rule. In the Qin row, before Xiang Yu’s unification, and in Gaozu’s row, after unification, first months are indicated by the special term zheng yue (“correct month”).29 This expression dates back to the Spring and Autumn Annals, where it is used some ninety-six times in the phrase wang zheng yue (“the king’s correct month”), referring to the power of the king of Zhou. The implication is that Qin and then Gaozu enjoyed the same legitimacy that the Zhou rulers did (this, of course, matches the traditional list of dynasties). Then again, the only portent in the table occurs in the seventh month of 208 b.c.e. in Xiang Yu’s row: “There were great rainstorms in the heavens, and for three months the stars were not visible.”30 For the chronological table of the Spring and Autumn era, heavenly portents were noted mainly in the row of Lu, a small state that nevertheless enjoyed considerable prestige as the native state of Confucius, and during the Warring States era, such portents were mostly confined to the row of Qin, the next dynastic power.31 Since most of the recorded phenomena were eclipses and comets, which would have been visible in a number of states, why did Sima place them where he did? He may have simply been following his sources—the Spring and Autumn Annals, which frequently mention such things, were, after all, annals of the state of Lu—but given the importance of portents in his day (and we should bear in mind his position as a court astrologer), it seems plausible that he regarded them as particularly important to these two states.32 By analogy, perhaps Sima is implying with this notice that Xiang Yu enjoyed a special dispensation from Heaven during the civil war years after the fall of the Qin. Note that the title of the table refers to the “conflict between Qin and Chu [Xiang Yu’s kingdom]” rather than “Qin and Han,” as one might expect [Gaozu’s kingdom was Han].33 Was this lone portent related to the sudden death of the overconfident Xiang Liang (same row, two months later)? It is difficult to say, since this miraculous darkening of the heavens is not mentioned elsewhere in the Shiji. These types of questions perplexed Han dynasty students of the Spring and Autumn Annals, but since Sima Qian, like Confucius, left no clear key for deciphering the hierarchies of the tables, we are simply guessing. Valuable as the chronological tables are, they do not offer final, conclusive judgments of historical causation or significance. The narratives, as we will see, do not either, but now it is time to turn there for clues. We begin with the easiest of Sima’s ordering devices, direct and indirect comments.

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Assessing Generalizations Why did Xiang Yu fail and Gaozu succeed? Sima Qian offers several answers in various direct editorial comments, which we can assess and interpret by comparing them with other comments and also narrative accounts. Most of the explanations set up an implicit contrast between Xiang Yu and Gaozu.34 A. Xiang Yu was treacherous and could not be trusted. He broke his promise to appoint as the ruler of Qin the first rebel general to enter that region (it should have been Gaozu);35 he executed the surrendered soldiers of Zhang Han and the last Qin ruler Ziying after assuring them of their safety; and he had the figurehead Righteous Emperor assassinated. Xiang Yu’s treachery is perhaps the most frequently advanced explanation for his fall, occurring, for example, in Sima’s brief description of the annals of Xiang Yu: “When he killed Qing [Song Yi] and rescued Zhao, the feudal lords made him their leader, but when he executed Ziying and betrayed Huai [the Righteous Emperor], the whole world rejected him.”36 This judgment is repeated in Sima’s comments at the end of the chapter and is echoed by Sui He (in his attempt to convince Qing Bu to revolt against Xiang Yu), by Li Yiji (when he persuades Tian Guang to side with Gaozu), by Lu Jia (in a warning to Zhao Tuo), and by Han Xin (persuading Gaozu himself to revolt against Xiang Yu).37 In addition, this accusation figured in Gaozu’s call to other feudal lords to join in his rebellion against Xiang Yu in 205 b.c.e. and in seven of the ten charges Gaozu shouted across the ravine at Guangwu.38 How reliable is this explanation? Xiang Yu was certainly guilty of the actions of which he was accused, for they are described in detail in various chapters, but the significance of these events is arguable. Four of the assessments are presented not as historical appraisals but as arguments to persuade others to revolt from Xiang Yu. That is, the opinions themselves function as historical causes in the course of events that they intend to explain. Was Xiang Yu defeated because of his own treachery or because Gaozu and his allies created the impression that Xiang Yu’s betrayals made him a loser?39 Propaganda is often crucial to warfare, but it needs to be handled cautiously. Several factors discourage readers of the Shiji from giving undue credence to the importance of Xiang Yu’s betrayals. First, there is something inherently suspicious about generals who use Xiang Yu’s alleged propensity for betrayal as an excuse for their own betrayals. In several cases, the narrative implies that these arguments were later justifications. Gaozu had already taken over several kingdoms by the time he “wailed loudly” for the Righteous Emperor and issued his summons to

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revolt. Second, in two of the speeches just cited, Gaozu’s troops are referred to as “soldiers of righteousness” (yi bing ), a phrase that lacks credibility given its earlier use in descriptions of the Qin First Emperor’s army.40 And readers who have spent much time with the Shiji will have already seen many cases in which claims of righteous indignation are used to cloak personal ambition. Third, in order for Xiang Yu’s treachery to function as a convincing cause of his defeat, there must be an implicit contrast with Gaozu. That is, Xiang lost because he was treacherous and Gaozu was not, even though the Shiji narratives provide plenty of examples of Gaozu’s own disloyalty and deceit. For example, Gaozu brutally attacked a Qin army whose general had already agreed to surrender; he entirely misrepresented his intentions and loyalties when Xiang Yu demanded to know why his own army had been blocked from entering Qin’s capital; his general Zhang Liang assured Xiang Yu that Gaozu would not proceed west after consolidating the region of Qin’s capital, even though plans to control all of China had already been laid; and he broke his agreement to split China amicably with Xiang Yu within days.41 Gaozu also used deceitful strategies in warfare, including decoys, dummy armies, misinformation, and clever tricks designed to sow distrust among his enemies. Perhaps Sunzi was right when he declared that “military matters are based on deception,” and perhaps such strategies were regarded as acceptable or even admirable in military affairs, but rebellion itself had to be justified in terms of the traditional Mandate of Heaven.42 It was easy enough to argue that the harshness of the Qin dynasty necessitated a treason based on higher principles, but Gaozu also worked hard to portray Xiang Yu as another ruthless, corrupt sovereign worthy of removal by any means. B. “Xiang Yu was violent and cruel, while Gaozu acted with merit and virtue.” This is a quotation from Sima Qian’s brief description of the annals of Gaozu, and the sentiment is echoed by the Righteous Emperor’s counselors, Han Xin, Gaozu, and Sima himself in the introduction to the chronological table of this period.43 There can be no doubt that Xiang Yu fit this characterization to a degree, for he was often impetuously brutal, but once again, the significance of his actions can be debated. At times, Xiang’s violence was offset by his kindness. For example, despite the warnings of his counselors, he graciously forgave Gaozu for blocking his entrance into Qin’s capital; he was moved by a thirteen-year-old boy to cancel his intended massacre of the inhabitants of Waihuang; and he spared Gaozu’s father, whom he was about to boil alive.44 It is true that in the last two cases, Xiang was dissuaded by pragmatic arguments, but many of Gaozu’s famous

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kindnesses were no less calculated. His mild treatment of the former capital of Qin seems to have been inspired more by a desire to gain the support of the inhabitants than by any sympathy for their long-borne sufferings.45 In fact, Gaozu himself was quite capable of violence, such as when he, in conjunction with Xiang Yu, slaughtered the defenders of Chengyang. And lest it be thought that Xiang Yu merely brought out the worst in him, Gaozu on his own massacred the inhabitants of Yingyang.46 In addition, Gaozu was notoriously callous toward his own family. He pushed his children out of his carriage when he was fleeing for his life, and when Xiang Yu threatened to boil his father, Gaozu told him to go ahead but send him some of the soup.47 The crucial distinction between Xiang Yu and Gaozu seems to be timing rather then temperament. Both men were by turns brutal and kind, but Gaozu managed to show compassion in cases when it turned to his long-term benefit, whereas Xiang did just the opposite. One might even argue, as did Xiang Yu’s advisers Fan Zeng and Wu She, that Xiang lost because he was not ruthless enough, but once again this simply means that he was tenderhearted at precisely the wrong moments.48 In any case, some of Xiang Yu’s violence had immediate unfortunate consequences. C. Xiang Yu was defeated because he lost the support of the common people. This explanation, like the previous one, carries strong overtones of Mandate of Heaven theorizing, but it is nevertheless true in very practical ways. Gaozu’s base of power was the resource-rich Land in the Passes—the capital of the Qin dynasty—that Xiang had alienated with his brutality and Gaozu had won over with his kindness.49 In addition, Sima Qian explicitly notes that Xiang Yu’s conquest of the perpetually troublesome region of Qi in 205 b.c.e. was so harsh that it provoked revolts that kept him in Qi when he should have been fighting Gaozu elsewhere.50 Xiang’s shortsighted ruthlessness was unfortunate, especially since the Shiji hints that things could have been otherwise. In the biography of Qing Bu, a certain Sui He recounts Xiang’s conquest of Qi from a slightly different perspective, noting that “when Xiang Yu marched against Qi, he bore upon his own shoulders the boards and hammers for his fortifications, and led the way before all his men.”51 Clearly, Xiang had the capacity for strong leadership (especially given the fact that he almost never lost a military engagement), yet the loyalties of the world went against him. A couple years earlier, Han Xin had observed that Xiang Yu “lost the hearts of the empire” because of his harshness but also that “when Xiang Yu sees people he is respectful and kind, he speaks with gentle words, and if a person is

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injured or sick, Xiang Yu weeps for him and shares his own food and drink” (Han Xin derided this sort of compassion as “womanish benevolence”).52 We can find a few other hints of the importance of mass psychology in the Shiji. Sima Qian notes that Qing Bu’s astonishing military successes were instrumental in persuading leaders to join with Xiang Yu and that Gaozu was able to attack so soon after Xiang’s unification because all his soldiers were homesick and wanted to return to the East.53 There could also be rapid shifts as the pendulum of power swung first one way and then another. For example, Xiang Yu’s impressive victory over Gaozu at Pengcheng in 205 b.c.e. (30,000 troops put to rout an army of more than 560,000) resulted in numerous defections of feudal lords to Xiang Yu’s camp.54 D. Xiang Yu did not know how to reward followers and assign territory. Perhaps more important than his treatment of the common people was Xiang’s handling of his military subordinates. Again and again, Gaozu and his envoys argued to wavering kings and generals that Xiang Yu was not the kind of man whom it would pay to serve (indeed, this is the often unspoken implication of those who expounded explanation A). The precise arguments take two mutually exclusive forms, depending on the audience (logical consistency, then and now, is not always a diplomatic virtue): 1. Xiang Yu did not respect the old aristocratic families. When Xiang finally gained control of all of China in 206 b.c.e., he divided it into nineteen kingdoms, thirteen of which were given to commoners. Of the six noble sovereigns, the three who had already been ruling as allies of Xiang Yu were moved to smaller kingdoms, and the last was Xiang Yu himself, who, some argued, had claimed more territory than he deserved.55 Tian Rong, an aristocratic general who had been entirely cut out of the spoils, revolted immediately and was soon joined by Chen Yu, who argued that Xiang Yu had unfairly placed “the old kings in only the most despicable territories, while he has enthroned his various ministers and generals in the choicest places.”56 Han Xin also pointed out that Xiang had divided the kingdoms according to his own preferences rather than by aristocratic hierarchy.57 The dispossession of aristocrats was a fact—as Xiang Yu himself had conceded when kingdoms were first assigned—but the peasant Gaozu made an unlikely hero of the upper classes.58 Nevertheless, this did not prevent his supporters from making the argument. Li Yiji tried to convince Tian Guang, the king of Qi, that Gaozu had systematically set up the heirs of the old feudal lords as he was revolting against Xiang Yu, but this claim reflects either Li’s duplicity or his wishful thinking. In fact, when Li had

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suggested just this course of action only a few months earlier, Gaozu, on Zhang Liang’s advice, had angrily rejected it.59 Xiang Yu, though an aristocrat, was not of royal blood, and his setting himself up as a king could be seen by Shiji readers as replaying a dangerous precedent, that of Chen She. Chen, a commoner, had expressed an interest in becoming king early in his revolt against Qin. His advisers strongly urged otherwise, contending that he could gain the support of the nobility and the people only by reestablishing the heirs of the old feudal lords. Chen She, who had rallied his men with the slogan “What does birth have to do with being a king, a lord, a general, or a minister?” ignored their advice, proclaimed himself the king of Chu, and was murdered six months later.60 Similarly, when Xiang Yu and his uncle Xiang Liang began their own rebellion, Fan Zeng urged them to seek out and enthrone an heir of the old king of Chu, specifically citing Chen She’s foolish example. They did so, but after Xiang Yu had conquered China, he pushed aside this man, the Righteous Emperor, and ruled himself.61 A counterexample was provided just a page or two earlier by a certain Chen Ying, the ex-official turned rebel who refused the kingship on the advice of his mother. Unlike Chen She and Xiang Yu, Chen Ying survived and was eventually awarded a fief in the Han dynasty. Indeed, his inclusion in the Shiji may be mainly for the sake of this counterexample. His story is told in the annals of Xiang Yu, and other than that he rates only three very brief references, two of which are in chronological tables.62 But if the pattern of failed usurping self-proclaimed kings helps explain Xiang Yu’s defeat, it certainly offers no explanation for Gaozu’s startling success. 2. Xiang Yu did not reward his followers appropriately. Note that this and the first explanation are contradictory. Xiang Yu could have given his subordinates kingdoms only by dispossessing aristocrats and vice versa. If anything, he favored his own followers disproportionately in the division of territory. Nonetheless, this argument is among those most frequently used by Gaozu’s advocates and surrogates. Chen Ping and Li Yiji complained that Xiang Yu did not trust anyone except his close relatives, and Xiang is twice described (by Gaozu’s allies) as being so wary of sharing power that “though he has the seals of enfeoffment carved to award to others, he will fiddle with them in his hands until they are worn smooth before he can bear to present them to anyone.”63 Narratives in the Shiji give direct evidence of Xiang Yu’s jealous and suspicious nature, such as when he dismissed his most astute adviser, Fan Zeng, on account of a flimsy ploy by Gaozu, and this unwillingness to share power by granting titles and territory does seem to have been a major factor in his defeat.64

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Although this accusation put Xiang in the same category as the leader of the hated Qin regime, who had the unnerving habit of rewarding particularly capable generals by executing them for the slightest mishap, the moral implications of Xiang Yu’s distrust are complex.65 Several of Gaozu’s advocates distinguish between personal and administrative morality. For example, shortly after the defeat of Xiang Yu, Gaozu gathered his counselors and asked them for a frank explanation of why he had won and Xiang Yu had lost. Gao Qi and Wang Ling answered: Your Majesty is arrogant and insulting to others, while Xiang Yu was kind and loving. But when you send someone to attack a city or seize a region, you award him the spoils of the victory, sharing your gains with the whole world. Xiang Yu was jealous of worth and ability, hating those who had achieved merit and suspecting anyone who displayed his wisdom. No matter what victories were achieved in battle, he gave his men no reward; no matter what lands they won, he never shared with them the spoils. That is why he lost possession of the world.66

There is no question that Gaozu was rude and uncultured. He was not particularly ashamed of such traits, and they became legendary, as when he whipped off the cap of a Confucian scholar and urinated into it to show his contempt for philosophy. He insulted Wei Bao, Qing Bu, Sui He, and Li Yiji, among others, but by and large his allies and subordinates stayed with him because his long-term generosity outweighed his personal impoliteness (only Wei Bao turned to Xiang Yu because of Gaozu’s arrogance).67 Gaozu was also quite capable of admitting his mistakes and changing. Thus when he humiliated Li Yiji by interviewing him with inappropriate casualness, he quickly took a more formal demeanor when Li reprimanded him.68 Gaozu could be loyal to his subordinates, and he was willing to give credit to others. His reply to Gao Qi and Wang Ling was that they had only gotten half of it right. But rather than disputing their descriptions of his rudeness, he objected that they had neglected the contributions of Xiao He, his prime minister back in the region of Qin; Zhang Liang, his chief strategist; and Han Xin, his commanding general; all of whose particular skills were superior to Gaozu’s (as Han Xin once noted, Gaozu knew how to command generals, not how to command troops).69 In fact, when it came time to reward his followers, Gaozu made sure that Xiao He got what he deserved, despite the complaints of his military men that he was honoring a civilian above them.70

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Gaozu’s talent in distributing material rewards had its moral dangers, however, as Chen Ping pointed out: Xiang Yu is by nature respectful and thoughtful of others. Hence the gentlemen of honor and integrity and the lovers of propriety all flock to his side. But when it comes to rewarding the achievements of others and conferring fiefs, he is too stingy, and for this reason there are some men who will not stay with him. Your Majesty, on the other hand, is arrogant and unmindful of propriety, and therefore gentlemen of honor and integrity do not come to you. But because you are willing to enrich men with grants of territory, the dull and unscrupulous, the lovers of gain and the shameless all rush to your side. If only each of you could lay aside his shortcomings and build up his strong points, then the leadership of the world might be settled once for all. But because Your Majesty is so willful and insulting to others, it is impossible to win over men of honor and integrity.71

Chen then outlined a plan to win over the most temptable of Xiang Yu’s associates, and in fact he does so, at the same time playing on Xiang’s suspicious nature. Successful as his analysis is, it is still somewhat disturbing to note that Gaozu depended for his success on attracting avaricious and disreputable fellows. Xiang Yu was personally kind but stingy with material rewards, whereas Gaozu was obnoxious but knew how to repay his followers. I have characterized this as a distinction between personal and administrative morality, but one might see it as a difference between conventional and practical morality. Traditional Chinese morality, especially as espoused by Confucius, was very much a matter of individual cultivation and demeanor; it was an aristocratic virtue that Confucius argued could be adopted by everyone. Gaozu pursued a much more calculating, Machiavellian sort of policy, but it is clear to readers of Sima Qian which man was more successful in the long run. E. Xiang Yu could not take good advice. This also seems to have been a crucial factor, according to the narratives. Time and again we see Xiang either not taking advice and suffering because of it72 or taking bad advice.73 Xiang Yu was too often obstinate and trusted too much in his own judgment. A good example of this was his response to an anonymous counselor who advised him to stay in the strategically advantageous regions of the West:

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When King Xiang looked around at the Qin palaces which had all been burned, plundered, and destroyed, his heart was filled with longing and he desired to return to the East. He said, “To become rich and powerful and then not return to your old home is like putting on fancy clothes for a stroll in the dark; who is going to know about it?”74

When the adviser criticized him for his stubbornness, he had the man boiled alive. Eventually, he even dismissed his most astute counselor, Fan Zeng. Gaozu, on the other, almost never takes a step without consulting his advisers, and most of his successful actions were suggested by others. He was capable of taking criticism, changing his course of action, and recognizing and rewarding men who could give him good advice. Thus he plucked Han Xin and Chen Ping from obscurity, gave them impressive positions, and benefited from their counsel (both of these men had earlier been in the service of Xiang Yu, who had not recognized their worth). Gaozu’s assessment of Xiang Yu and himself was that these three men [Zhang Liang, Xiao He, and Han Xin] were all extraordinary individuals. I was able to make use of them, and because of this I was able to gain control of the whole world. Xiang Yu had his one Fan Zeng, but he was not able to use him, and because of this he became my prey.75

Of course, in order to determine whether a particular bit of advice should have been followed or rejected, we must distinguish between useful and dangerous counsel, which can sometimes be difficult. Most often we can assess the quality of advice by noting its effects for good or ill, but when recommendations are not taken or consequences are ambiguous, it may be difficult to judge. Clearly, Xiang Yu would have benefited from heeding Fan Zeng and doing in Gaozu when he had the chance, but what about the acts of mercy referred to in explanation B? Xiang Yu spared Gaozu’s father and the inhabitants of Waihuang, in both cases at the suggestion of others, yet in the end these moral deeds did him no good. And would the story have turned out differently if Xiang Yu had crossed the river Wu and continued his flight (as the village head of that area urged) rather than resigning himself to his fate?76 F. Gaozu enjoyed the Mandate of Heaven. At various times, both Gaozu’s friends and his enemies offer this as an explanation. Fan Zeng notes that the multicolored clouds that hang over Gaozu’s camp are a sign

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of the Son of Heaven and urges Xiang Yu to attack at once (such was the respect for authority at the time, but Xiang Yu, that paragon of illtimed virtue, refrains).77 Lord Gan offers an astrological justification to persuade Zhang Er to join Gaozu against Xiang Yu.78 Zhang Liang’s belief that Gaozu was about to be assisted by Heaven puts him on Gaozu’s side.79 Li Yiji attributes Gaozu’s successes to Heaven when he is trying to persuade the king of Qi to join with Gaozu.80 After Gaozu has become emperor, Lu Jia informs the rebellious Zhao Tuo that it was due to Heaven’s favor.81 Han Xin tells Gaozu, “Your Majesty is what people call ‘the one Heaven aids’; [your achievements] are not the result of human effort,” and Gaozu himself, on his deathbed, credits Heaven’s Mandate (tianming ) for his triumphs.82 These interpretations probably meant different things to the people who expressed them,83 but Sima Qian also cites the favor of Heaven as an explanation, and his definition is both more important and more problematic. In Sima Qian’s citations, Heaven’s blessings are not quite equivalent to the classical Confucian Mandate of Heaven. To the Confucians, the Mandate was the response of Heaven to true human virtue, yet Gaozu seems to have Heaven’s favor from the very beginning. Sima relates the miraculous signs that accompanied Gaozu’s birth and early adulthood (dreams, visions, weather signs, bodily marks, and encounters with supernatural beings) before he had a chance to display true virtue (but then again, perhaps he never displays true Confucian-style virtue). Neither did he have the family background that could have allowed him to claim an inherited mandate.84 Sima explicitly notes that Gaozu did not acquire the empire in the way that the legendary sages of old did, that Gaozu’s acquisition was faster and more morally ambiguous.85 Heavenly portents offer a particularly troublesome area of interpretation in the Shiji. As a court astrologer, Sima used and believed in them (for example, he often includes them in annals and tables),86 but at the same time he can be quite skeptical of claims of omens (as befits, perhaps, a professional expert). Thus in the “Hereditary House of Chen She,” he freely relates tales of pseudoportents manufactured by ambitious, scheming men.87 Similarly, he describes how, after Gaozu took command of the rebellion, people suddenly remembered all kinds of miraculous signs and how Kuai Tong used a false omen as a ruse to get Han Xin to listen to rational arguments.88 In addition, when Xiang Yu interprets his own defeat as the work of Heaven, Sima dismisses this as nonsense and cites the mundane factors of treachery, obstinacy, and self-importance as the real causes.89

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This presents a dilemma. If Xiang Yu cannot blame Heaven for his defeat, how can Sima attribute Gaozu’s success to Heaven? But this is precisely what he does in several passages. For example, in his introduction to the chronological table of this period, Sima writes: Therefore Gaozu’s fervor shot forth among the valiant men of the world, even though he was not a king and held no territory. Is he not a modern example of the so-called “Great Sages”? How could this not be the work of Heaven? How could this not be the work of Heaven? If not a great sage, who would have been able at that time to receive the Mandate and become emperor?90

Sima Qian also gives Heaven credit for Zhang Liang’s nearly miraculous ability to get Gaozu out of dangerous situations.91 Was all this merely Sima Qian’s circumspect way of stating that he really could not explain how someone like Gaozu became emperor? Is this talk of Heaven simply luck personified or perhaps fate (as with the wondrous windstorm that suddenly came up and saved Gaozu at a crucial moment)? I think that it may be a bit more. In retrospect, Xiang Yu and Gaozu seem evenly matched—each had talents and faults. It is tempting to see their struggles as the conflict between conventional and practical morality, but rational analysis is inadequate to explain why what happened did happen. Over the long run, Gaozu’s ability to act decisively at the right times and in the right ways seems uncanny. He recognized talent, he took advice, he showed mercy, he disseminated propaganda, he gauged the strengths and weaknesses of others, and he rewarded his followers, all in just the right way, a way that transcends what is humanly, rationally possible, and in so doing he gained the loyalty of talented men and the common people and won the empire itself. Perhaps the only explanation for this superhuman judgment is that Heaven had chosen him for reasons that are as inexplicable as Calvinist election. G. Miscellaneous explanations. Various figures in these chapters, as well as Sima Qian himself, occasionally suggest reasons for Gaozu’s success or Xiang Yu’s downfall that are not explained in detail or taken up in other chapters. Nevertheless, several of these are instructive. 1. Xiang Yu and Gaozu by turns took advantage of the opportunities of the times. Xiang was in the right place when conditions made the rebellions against the Qin inevitable,92 and their oppression and policies played into his and Gaozu’s hands. Gaozu was willing to move decisively

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when an opportunity arose.93 There is also a suggestion that other men, given extraordinary conditions, might have achieved similar feats.94 2. Gaozu had superior resources. Xiang Yu had superior troops,95 but Gaozu enjoyed the resources of the capital of Qin. When Gaozu was defeated, Xiao He managed to recruit another army, his supplies of food were regular, and his domain was safe from attack. He was also aided by Xiao He’s snatching of the Qin imperial records.96 One of Xiang’s greatest mistakes was not listening to the adviser who counseled him to remain in Qin and make his capital there. 3. Gaozu fit the cycles of history. In his comment at the end of the “Basic Annals of Gaozu,” Sima Qian suggests that the dynastic cycle was characterized by a pattern of sincerity (Xia dynasty), followed by reverence (Shang dynasty), followed by refinement (Zhou dynasty) and that what was needed after the decline of the Zhou was a return to sincerity. Gaozu was successful because he was able to instill this quality into the age.97 This theory is not elaborated elsewhere in the Shiji. 4. Gaozu was aided at crucial times by certain individuals. In various passages, certain figures are said to have played an indispensable role in Gaozu’s success. For example, Luan Bu once stated: At that time, it came down to one look from King Peng: had he joined with Chu then Han would have been defeated, had he joined with Han then Chu would have been defeated. Moreover, with regard to the massing of troops at Gaixia, if it were not for King Peng, Xiang Yu would not have been destroyed.98

Similarly, Gaozu proclaimed, “When Lord Ding was a subject of Xiang Yu he was not loyal [because he once allowed Gaozu to escape]; therefore Lord Ding was the one who caused Xiang Yu to lose the empire.” Then he had Lord Ding executed as a warning to his own subjects (so much for gratitude!).99 Sima Qian himself wrote, “In the end, Xiang Yu’s defeat was the work of these three men [Qing Bu, Peng Yue, and Han Xin].”100 Here we are dealing with necessary rather than sufficient causes (although it may be true that Gaozu would not have won without Lord Ding’s aid, that help is by no means the whole explanation of his success), but it is significant that Sima Qian was willing to include these sorts of explanations as well as more comprehensive causes. All these explanations for Gaozu’s victory were offered by various characters in the Shiji or by Sima Qian himself, and Sima leaves to his readers the

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task of comparing, analyzing, and assessing these assertions. We have made a start here, but the process is far from over and the results will be far from conclusive (and we have not even begun to consider additional factors such as institutional weaknesses, economic shifts, or class conflict). Rather than trying to pin down specific causes, Sima is interested in presenting the multifarious strands of history in their frustrating and fascinating complexity. Nathan Sivin has borrowed Joseph Needham’s concept of “organicism” and applied it to Chinese approaches to history: The general tendency was to consider the widest possible range of contributing factors and to concentrate on their interrelations rather than on eliminating as many as possible [as in the Western historiographical attempt to identify efficient causes]. The world view in back of this effort was what Needham has called organismic. It considered the cosmos not as an assemblage of discrete things in occasional impact but as a congeries of entities universally interlinked by their characteristic functions, so that a change at one point would necessarily reverberate and produce readjustment throughout.101

Everything in the Shiji is at least potentially connected—if not by direct historical causation, then by the resonances that infuse all the cosmos. Yet it is up to us readers to find similarities, to categorize, and to draw appropriate conclusions. Nevertheless, Sima Qian does not leave us completely at the mercy of mind-numbing complexity; instead, he uses literary devices to shape his account and guide our perceptions and understanding. Remember that the Shiji itself was designed to produce reverberations and readjustments of the cosmos. In both these functions, Sima Qian was following the example set by Confucius in the Spring and Autumn Annals, as the next three chapters show.

5

SHAPING THE WORLD

the word is the making of the world, The buzzing world and lisping firmament. Wallace Stevens, “Description Without Place”

n the West, the consolidation of the world under the Roman Empire led to the rise of universal histories, the prime example of which was the Universal Library by Diodorus of Sicily (late first century b.c.e.).1 Like Sima Qian, Diodorus tried to recount all of human history from legendary times to his own age, and he provided a year-by-year record of datable events from 1184 to 59 b.c.e. in forty books (fifteen of which are still extant). Diodorus prefaces his history by explaining that

I

it is fitting that all men should ever accord great gratitude to those writers who have composed universal histories, since they have aspired to help by their individual labors human society as a whole; for by offering a schooling, which entails no danger, in what is advantageous they provide their readers, through such a presentation of events, with a most excellent kind of experience.2

Then he gives an account of “failures and successes” that is both comprehensive and useful. Unfortunately, his historical method never won much praise, for as James Thompson complained, “He quoted copiously from his sources—too copiously. He could not assimilate all that he read, but his method of composition makes Diodorus a mine of information on many

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ancient Greek historians who are otherwise unknown.”3 In other words, the standard judgment on Diodorus echoes the assessment of the Shiji made by many Western scholars. Nevertheless, it would be a mistake to apply to Sima Qian the secondclass rating routinely granted to Diodorus, for his history is much more than the compendium that Western critics often posit. I have argued that the Shiji represents the world and its history in miniature and that the form of Sima’s history is as important as the content. Chinese scholars have long espoused this last point, and in contrast to Western readers, they have from the beginning been critical of the tacit judgments that they perceived in Sima’s organization of his material. But then they had the advantage of placing the Shiji in the Confucian tradition of historiography, which assumed that the best historians would communicate their moral insights through the subtle “praise and blame” (baobian) implicit in their narratives.

Judgmental History Although Ban Gu (c.e. 32–92), the author of the second of the Standard Histories, accused Sima Qian of Daoist sympathies, most Chinese scholars have recognized the obvious stamp of Confucius on the Shiji.4 It is true that Sima’s autobiography includes an essay by his father, Sima Tan, comparing the philosophical schools of the day and that only the section on Daoists appears without any discussion of the weaknesses of their position. But that same father is later portrayed as outlining his son’s duties in the most Confucian terms, holding up the ideal of filial piety and the example of the duke of Zhou, and encouraging his son to follow the example of Confucius himself: After You and Li [two wicked Zhou kings], the Kingly Way disintegrated and the rituals and the music dwindled. Confucius repaired what was ancient and restored what had been discarded. He compiled the Classic of Poetry and the Classic of Documents, and created the Spring and Autumn Annals. Thus scholars down to the present day have followed his example. But it has now been over four hundred years since the capture of the unicorn [which marked the end of Confucius’s labors], and though the feudal lords have been brought together [under the Han dynasty], the records of the scribes are scattered and fragmented.5

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As in Rome, so also in Han China political unification seemed to demand a consolidation of records and culture, and Sima Tan thought that his son was just the man for this Confucian task. The last sentence of the preceding quotation is especially telling, for Tan had in mind the theory of Mencius that a true king would arise every five hundred years. In Mencius 7B.38, Confucius is named as the last of the true, once-in-every-five-hundredyears sovereigns (though with Confucius, the position has obviously become moral rather than political), and Sima Tan evidently wanted his son to be the next in line.6 In fact, as Pei Yin pointed out some fifteen hundred years ago, Sima Tan was so eager to connect his son to Confucius that he cheated on the dates; it had actually been only 371 years since the capture of the unicorn.7 This interpretation is confirmed by Sima Qian’s postscript to the scene: The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks: My father used to say, “Five hundred years after the death of the Duke of Zhou there was Confucius. From Confucius’s death until now has been five hundred years, but who is there who can perpetuate the enlightened age by correcting the commentaries on the Classic of Change, continuing the Spring and Autumn Annals, and inquiring into the basic connections between the Classic of Poetry, the Classic of Documents, the music, and the rituals?” Was not this his intention? Was not this his intention? How could I, his son, dare to shrink from this?8

Clearly, Sima Tan wanted his son to continue the labors of Confucius, and it appears that Sima Qian accepted his father’s charge. The image of Confucius haunts the pages of the Shiji like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, leading Sima Qian forward, challenging his opinions, and inspiring him to act. Although Sima is eclectic in his methods and refrains from slavishly following any of the rival Confucian schools, one can nevertheless sense his desire to fulfill the role that his father had envisioned for him. Confucius is quoted in sixteen personal comment sections, and his example is cited in thirteen more.9 This means that nearly one-fourth of Sima’s personal comments refer directly to Confucius, and if we also count references to texts ascribed in some way to the Sage, the total climbs to almost one-third.10 By contrast, the next most quoted authority is Laozi, who is cited in just three comments.11 Confucius would have been an obvious model for anyone in the Han dynasty who found value in the past and sought to recover and preserve it.

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This was in fact an important task of the age, for the establishment of the imperial system had placed two burdens on intellectual life. First, all the old aristocratic traditions and the philosophies that had challenged or supported them during the Warring States era had been rendered equally irrelevant, and the search was under way for some type of ideological system that would justify and give meaning to the current political order. Second, the physical traces of the traditions themselves had very nearly been obliterated, first by the notorious burning of the books instituted by the First Emperor and then by the even more destructive burning of the Qin capital (where copies had been preserved in the imperial archives) during the civil wars that had preceded the founding of the Han dynasty.12 After the proscription against books was lifted in 196 b.c.e., there was an intensive effort to recover what had been lost. Old scholars who had committed texts to memory were sought out and debriefed, and alternative versions of valued texts (as well as forgeries) came to light during the renovation of houses where they had been hastily walled up. Sima Qian saw his own labors in this context: When the Way of Zhou came to an end, the Qin suppressed and eliminated the old writings. They burned and destroyed the Classic of Poetry and the Classic of Documents, and consequently the charts and records of the Bright Hall, the stone rooms, the metal boxes, and the jade tablets became scattered and confused. Then the Han arose and Xiao He put in order the laws and commands, Han Xin elaborated the military code, Zhang Cang fashioned the calendar and measures, and Shusun Tong established the rites and ceremonies. Therefore the study of literature became refined and made a little progress, and the gaps in the Poetry and the Documents became more and more obvious. From the time that Cao Can set forth Lord Gai’s teachings of Huang-Lao doctrines, and Master Jia and Chao Cuo made clear [the Legalist ideas of ] Shen Buhai and Lord Shang, and Gongsun Hong used Confucianism to make his points, that is, for the space of one hundred years, the extant writings and ancient stories of the world were without exception collected by the Grand Astrologers.13

Sima Qian’s description of this literary renaissance is decidedly eclectic, but Confucius was in his own way eclectic as well. In his day, the rites, music, and history that he collected were the common heritage of the Chinese people; only later did his collections become associated with a

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particular school of philosophy—Confucianism—and even then, one of the Confucian classics, the Classic of Change, was never exclusively the domain of the Confucians. In addition to being an eclectic collection, the Shiji also follows Confucius’s example by providing a synthesis. In chapter 126, Sima quoted Confucius as asserting that “with regard to the principles of government, all six of the classics function as one: use the Rites to regulate people, the Music to express harmony, the Documents to recount events, the Poetry to convey intention, the Change to sacralize transformations, and the Annals to promote righteousness.”14 Elsewhere, Sima observed that Confucius “set forth his writings so as to constitute the regulations, ceremonies, and rules for the whole world, and they have come down to later generations in the comprehensive records of the Six Classics.”15 Impressive as Confucius’s synthesis was, Sima Qian attempted to go beyond his efforts by not only “harmonizing the different traditions of the Six Classics” but also “correcting and organizing the miscellaneous sayings of the hundred schools of philosophy.”16 Sima Qian explored Confucius’s life and influence in a hereditary house devoted to the sage (chap. 47) and two group biographies describing his disciples and commentators (chaps. 67, 121). Sima Qian was aware that his own historical labors of gathering, restoring, and preserving replicated those attributed to Confucius by Sima Tan and others, but the focus of Sima Qian’s relationship to Confucius was the Spring and Autumn Annals. The form and much of the content of the Shiji were adapted from that classic text and its commentaries, but it was the mode of the Annals’ production that most fascinated Sima Qian. After briefly mentioning his own misfortune in the Li Ling affair, Sima includes the Annals in a list of literary works that directly inspired him: “When Confucius encountered difficulties between Chen and Cai he created the Spring and Autumn Annals.”17 Sima continues by observing that all these works were written by men who were “frustrated in their ambitions and were not able to communicate their Ways; therefore with future generations in mind they transmitted past events.”18 These sentiments are echoed in Sima’s letter to Ren An when he confides: The reason I have not refused to bear these ills and have continued to live, dwelling in vileness and disgrace without taking my leave [in suicide], is that I grieve that I have things in my heart which I have not been able to express fully, and I am shamed to think that after I am gone my writings will not be known to posterity.19

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Sima Qian identified several instances of the “literature of frustration,” but Confucius was the prime exemplar. The standard Han dynasty view of Confucius, which Sima both accepted and helped promote, saw him as a wise and virtuous man who was frustrated by his inability to gain the employment that would allow him to put his ideas into practice. Spurned by the rulers of his day, Confucius retired to teaching, and when even that failed to produce the desired results, he sat down and encoded his insights into the selection and phrasing of the Spring and Autumn Annals to await a later, more appreciative generation. By some accounts, the disappointments of a lifetime reached a climax when he and a few of his disciples were trapped between two jealous states, Chen and Cai, without adequate provisions, and it appeared that the entire party might expire. At that moment, Confucius began his history. In another version of events, near the end of his life Confucius received word of an untimely appearance of a unicorn (lin). He was so dismayed by this news that he wrote the Annals as a last-ditch effort to fend off fate. As we by now have learned to expect, Sima Qian included both versions in the Shiji.20 Sima Qian was similarly frustrated in his ambitions, and his cruel treatment from Emperor Wu convinced him that he was living in a time when his talents and efforts would be wasted. Like Confucius, he wrote history to preserve his ideas, and Sima Qian’s emulation of Confucius reaches near identification in three Shiji passages.21 In his conclusion to the Shiji, Sima notes that he will deposit the original text in a famous mountain and a second copy in the capital “where they will await the sages and gentlemen of later generations.”22 Here he is paraphrasing the Gongyang commentary of the Annals, which also ends by saying that Confucius “established the [principles of ] righteousness in the Annals to await later sages and so that gentlemen might also take pleasure in them.”23 The second passage occurs at the conclusion of the list of the Shiji’s literary precedents, which Sima Qian ends with the words, “Therefore I have at last transmitted a history which spans from Emperor Yao to the capturing of the unicorn.”24 A unicorn was reported to have been captured during the reign of Emperor Wu, but numerous commentators have pointed out that Sima’s statement does not fit the Shiji, which begins with the Yellow Emperor—long before Emperor Yao—and ends many years after the capture of the unicorn in 122 b.c.e. Several explanations have been advanced to reconcile the discrepancies, but the passage is really intelligible only as an allusion to the impetus for Confucius’s writing the Spring and Autumn Annals.25

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The last comes at the conclusion of Confucius’s biography: The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks: In the Classic of Poetry it says, “The tall mountain, I look up to it; the high path, I try to follow it.” Although I cannot attain it, still my heart bids me on. When I read the writings of Confucius, I try to picture in my mind what sort of person he was. I traveled to the state of Lu, and there I saw the temple of Confucius with his carriage, clothes, and sacrificial vessels. Scholars often go there to study ritual at his house, and I wandered about awestruck, unable to leave.”26

Confucius is gone, and though we may yearn for his company or his moral clarity or his sagely judgments, he is forever beyond our grasp. We can only write him back into our presence, through a kind of literary necromancy. A sense of loss permeates the Shiji, a yearning for what once was. In writing, Sima mourns a deceased father, a ruined reputation, a oncefirm sense of order, and a world that has now disappeared. He conjures up Confucius from a combination of imagination and observation, and even this insubstantial shade is enough to expose his own inadequacies. Nevertheless, all Han scholars could hope that they were part of the audience for whom Confucius composed the Annals—the sages and gentlemen of later generations. They wanted to be among those who finally understood the encoded judgments, and Sima Qian goes beyond even this to join with the Sage in his labor of interpreting the past for the benefit of future readers.27 When Han dynasty readers recognized the connection between Sima Qian and the Spring and Autumn Annals, they knew exactly what to look for in the Shiji, because their long years of literary training had conditioned them to search for hidden, critical judgments in works of history. Sima Qian himself defined this type of reading and writing in his descriptions of the Annals. In the “Hereditary House of Confucius,” Sima explains: Confucius said, “Alas! Alas! A gentleman is distressed when he leaves this world without a praiseworthy reputation. Since my teachings are not advancing, how can I manifest myself to future generations?” Thereupon, he drew on the records of the scribes and created the Spring and Autumn Annals, beginning with Duke Yin [of the state of Lu] and ending with Duke Ai’s fourteenth year, twelve dukes in all. He gave prominence to the state of Lu, he offered filial deference to

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the state of Zhou, he sought for causes in Yin [the Shang dynasty], and he examined the successions of the Three Dynasties. He arranged its language to give it broad implications. For example, although the rulers of the states of Wu and Chu called themselves “kings,” the Annals criticized them by referring to them as “viscounts.” The Son of Heaven (the king of Zhou) was actually summoned to the assembly at Jiantu, but the Annals concealed this fact with the entry “The King of Heaven went hunting at Heyang.” Confucius employed these sorts of devices to regulate his own generation. As for his principles of criticism and condemnation, future kings should uphold and extend them. When the principles of the Spring and Autumn Annals advance, then rebellious subjects and usurping sons everywhere take fright. When Confucius judged law cases as an official, his language was such as is common to people; there was nothing distinctive in it. But when he edited the Annals, he included and excluded very deliberately, so that the followers of Zixia [a disciple] were not able to improve a single phrase. When his disciples received the Annals, Confucius said, “In future generations, those who know me will do so because of the Annals, and those who condemn me will do so because of the Annals.”28

In recording a fictitious hunting trip for the “King of Heaven” (that is, the king of Zhou), Confucius was practicing the principle of “avoidance” (hui), which, according to the Gongyang commentary, meant that Confucius deliberately omitted references to the faults of those who were honorable or virtuous or were his close associates.29 It was improper for a mere duke to summon the King of Heaven, and in this case Confucius pointedly avoided referring to the weakness of the king of Zhou who, because of his position, deserved to be honored. This odd misrepresentation was so impressive to Sima Qian that he referred to it twice more in the Shiji and duplicated the avoidance in his own chronological table.30 Another instance of Confucius’s elevating moral principles over historical reality occurred when he heard of a scribe, Dong Hu, who in his record had labeled an official as a murderer because this official had allowed the actual killer to escape. Confucius is said to have praised this dubious entry, and Sima Qian duly recounts Confucius’s complicity in distorting the historical record.31 A lengthy portion of Sima Qian’s autobiography is taken up by a discussion of the Annals, which emphasizes its interpretive nature, its ability to distinguish right and wrong, its discernment of truth from appearance

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(especially in the first stages), its identification of historical patterns and fundamental principles, and its usefulness as a guide to appropriate behavior, especially in government. In short, Sima repeats the extravagant claims for the Annals by scholars who specialized in that text. All this would seem to imply that the Shiji is filled with the covert negative judgments for which the Annals was famous, but Sima ends his discussion with an explicit denial that his own Shiji is similar to the Annals: “As for my ‘transmitting’ (shu) ancient events, it is only putting in order their popular traditions. It does not count as an act of ‘creation’ (zuo), and you are mistaken if you compare [my history] to the Spring and Autumn Annals.”32 The political expediency of this disavowal and the evidence of numerous, barely concealed negative judgments in the rest of the Shiji make it difficult to take Sima’s denial at face value, especially when he echoes Confucius by claiming that he is “transmitting” and not “creating” a record.33 Han scholars thought of Confucius’s work as “creating,” but Confucius himself was more modest, merely claiming that he “transmitted without creating” (shu er bu zuo).34 Therefore, once one adopts the wary, interpretive style of reading associated with the Annals, Sima Qian’s disclaimer can actually be seen as affirming his emulation of Confucius and his methods.35 Actually, the Shiji does not seem to manifest the same fastidious concern with terminology and avoidance that was thought to have characterized the Annals. For instance, the murder of Duke Yin of Lu that was the culmination of the events sketched out in the first half of the last chapter is never mentioned in the Annals—a strange omission for a record that presents itself as a history of the state of Lu. The Annals does note the duke’s death, but according to the commentaries, readers should understand that he was assassinated, that the assassin went unpunished, and that Confucius vehemently disapproved of these events, all because no mention is made of Duke Yin’s burial. Conversely, in the Shiji, the assassination is clearly described in the hereditary house devoted to Lu as well as in the corresponding chronological table. And even when Sima repeats Confucius’s obscure judgments, he is careful to separate what actually happened from what Confucius supposedly wrote.36 The Shiji is thus both like and unlike the Annals. If Sima Qian exposes and then disavows the use of specialized, cryptic terminology, he nevertheless retains at least some elements of Confucius’s high moral seriousness and technique. As we have already noted, the “Grand Historian remarks” sections that conclude Shiji chapters seem to have been based on the eighty-four “Gentleman remarks” comments in the Zuo zhuan.

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In that same text, Confucius himself is directly credited with many more judgmental pronouncements on historical and contemporary events (as he is in the Analects). In the Shiji, Sima Qian emulates the whole of the Annals tradition—the classic plus its explicating commentaries—by offering a few direct comments, providing broad historical contexts for specific events (as in the Zuo zhuan), allowing multiple interpretations (such as might be found in the Gongyang, Guliang, and Zuo zhuan), and creating a text that rewarded careful, comparative, repeated readings. Yet at the same time, Sima transformed the annals/commentary format into something much more flexible and provocative. Sima Qian’s narratives are so complex and open-ended, and he obviously had so much motivation for criticizing the rulers of his time, that early readers discovered hidden critical judgments throughout the Shiji. Emperor Ming (r. c.e. 58–75) complained that Sima Qian wrote a book, establishing the discourse of a school of thought, and distinguished his name in later generations. But because he fell into misfortune and punishment, he turned to veiled words for criticism and condemnation, and so disparaged and censured his own age. He was not an upright scholar.37

Later, the statesman Wang Yun (c.e. 137–192) asserted that “Emperor Wu did not kill Sima Qian and thus allowed him to write a libelous book, which was passed on to later generations.”38 According to this view, Sima Qian wrote the Shiji in order to take revenge on his enemies at court, especially Emperor Wu, and as a result his history is riddled with slanderous distortions. Most Chinese critics, however, have taken a more moderate approach that acknowledges Sima’s concern for accuracy while at the same time allowing for judgments in the arrangement of his material. The most famous examples of this occur when chapters seem to be placed in the wrong sections. Thus Xiang Yu and Empress Lü, who never officially reigned as emperors, are given chapters in the annals section (chaps. 7 and 9). Similarly, an account of Qin is located in the annals (chap. 5) rather than in the hereditary houses with the rest of the state histories. Confucius and Chen She (who first began the rebellion against Qin) receive hereditary houses rather than mere biographies (chaps. 47 and 48), and the narratives of the kings of Huainan and Hengshan, both of whom rebelled against the Han dynasty, are demoted from their expected hereditary house status to the biographical section (chap. 118).39 Other scholars, as we have

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seen, have analyzed Sima’s technique of “complementary viewpoints” as a method that allowed him to criticize while still preserving accuracy. Older Western critics acknowledged some degree of Annals-like interpretation in Sima’s organization of his history, but by and large this topic made them nervous, for it threatened to undermine their view of Sima Qian as an objective, neutral, detached historian. Some, like Burton Watson, vigorously denied that Sima intended to follow the morally judgmental example of Confucius: Fortunately, as I have said, Sima Qian did not attempt to imitate the perversions, the suppressions, the deliberate distortions of fact, that the commentaries attribute to the labors of Confucius. Such an effort would have been both presumptuous and absurd. For Sima Qian felt that the facts of history, recorded just as he found them, told a story sufficiently interesting and instructive. It is the first principle I have noted in the Spring and Autumn Annals, the tradition of Confucius’ care and honesty in the handling of his sources, that Sima Qian set himself to emulate.40

Yet the evidence concerning the relationship between the Shiji and the Annals seriously weakens such a one-sided reading. More recent scholars such as Wai-yee Li, Stephen Durrant, and VivianLee Nyitray have called attention to the complicated relationship between Sima Qian and his text. Their studies of Sima as editor, narrator, cultural critic, and filial son underscore his creative handling of his material. Although the literary sophistication of the Shiji is remarkable, I am wary of overemphasizing Sima’s literary ambitions and achievements. The Shiji is clearly a work of history, and historical assessments of its accuracy and faithfulness to evidence are essential. What, then, are we to make of the Shiji? Is it a serious attempt to recover the events of the past, or is it, instead, a vehicle for Sima Qian’s own ideas? Does he try to represent the world impartially, or does he attempt to shape it according to his biases? Although it may seem contradictory to us, Sima Qian intended to follow both aspects of Confucius’s historical program: he wanted to produce a history that was as accurate as possible while at the same time writing in a didactic fashion that emphasized moral lessons. Of course, the events of history do not always illustrate moral lessons adequately, and thus there is a discrepancy between actual and ideal history. In Western thinking (especially since David Hume demonstrated the fundamental gulf between

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“is” and “ought”), historians must choose either accuracy or didacticism, for one value can be obtained only at the expense of the other. But Sima Qian saw the two approaches as complementary, and although he was sensitive to the fact that history and morality often seem opposed, he nevertheless found both theoretical and practical resolutions to the contradiction. At this point it may be useful to return to our notion of the Shiji as a model of the world. If we ask whether the maker of a model is representing an object or shaping our perceptions of it, the answer is obviously both. A model is a tool whose utility lies in its correspondence to the real world, as well as in its ability to simplify or highlight certain features of its subject. Its effectiveness is directly related to the skill of the designer, but this is not to say that the model builder is in perfect control. Models may be used for discovery as well as teaching, as in computer modeling of weather patterns or star formation. The Shiji is a model designed to help us discover moral principles. It had to be as accurate as possible, for anything less might cause us to infer false, possibly dangerous, lessons. Yet at the same time it had to illustrate morality more clearly than the raw data of history usually do. Sima Qian works cautiously, for he wants to discover the lessons of history, not create them. Writing the Shiji was a way of ordering history, a way of making sense of the Confucian tradition, which focused on the moral interpretation of human actions. But the Shiji is not simply an exemplar history in which Sima Qian points to good and bad examples from the past and illustrates their respective consequences. There is a genuine tension between actual and ideal history, which Sima’s new mode of historical writing must accommodate. This, in fact, is the real subject of the first of the biographies, which is not a biography at all but, rather, a sustained meditation on historiographical issues. Shiji 61 is ostensibly about Bo Yi and his brother Shu Qi, two hermits who chose to starve to death rather than acknowledge the legitimacy of a new dynasty (in the Confucian tradition, this was viewed as admirable).41 Sima Qian begins by lamenting the omissions and contradictions in his sources (the story of Bo Yi and Shu Qi is briefly recounted here), and then suddenly he launches into another train of thought with the following observation: Some people say “The Way of Heaven is without favorites; it always rewards the virtuous.” But if this is so, can we say that Bo Yi and Shu Qi were virtuous or not? They cultivated goodness and purified their actions, as we have seen, and then they starved to death.42

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Sima Qian contrasts the examples of Yan Hui, Confucius’s favorite disciple, who lived in constant poverty and then died at an early age, and the robber Zhi, a thoroughly evil and vile fellow who nonetheless lived out his long life contentedly unpunished. Sima continues by noting that even in recent times, some people break all the rules and live immoral lives of happiness, success, and prosperity, while it is impossible to number those who are always careful to do the right things and yet meet calamity and disaster. He confesses, “I am very confused by all this; is the so-called Way of Heaven true or false?”43 This was indeed a distressing issue to Sima Qian, since he believed that we live in a moral universe where the good generally prosper and the wicked eventually suffer. He accepted the Confucian tradition of didactic history whose primary function was the teaching of moral principles. History without morals, or history that was false to moral reality, would have been meaningless.44 Sima was honest enough as a historian, however, to acknowledge that injustices of this kind were pervasive, and indeed, they show up often in the Shiji. Sima Qian goes on to contend that although individual justice is often impossible within a person’s own lifetime, the hardships a virtuous man must endure enable the sages of later generations to recognize him and justify his life through history, thus rescuing him from obscurity or an undeserved evil reputation (this is the same process to which Sima entrusted his own reputation). So also does the sage-historian render evil to the evil. Sima Qian’s prototype in this endeavor was Confucius, who rescued Bo Yi and Shu Qi from historical oblivion: “Confucius set the lives of the benevolent, sagely, and virtuous people of ancient times in their proper order, as in his categorization and explication of Duke Tai Bo of Wu and Bo Yi.”45 Therefore, although the short-term perspective makes the Way of Heaven, which “always rewards the virtuous,” look ridiculous, over a long enough period of time, history does indeed validate the Way of Heaven, for Bo Yi and Yan Hui have been justified, and the name of Robber Zhi has become a proverbial symbol of wanton wickedness. The implication is that given enough time, history adequately demonstrates all true moral principles. But this solution depends on the continuing efforts of wise historians. In the first biography (which serves as an introduction to the entire biographical section), therefore, Sima Qian confronts the issue of moral injustice and raises the possibility of eventual justification through history. The historian is seen as an active participant in this moral endeavor, and Confucius is taken as the exemplar. By now it should be apparent that the

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Western notion of a dichotomy between objectivity and interpretation is inadequate for the Shiji. Sima believed that moral principles were woven into the fabric of the universe and that ethical violations had repercussions in both the human and natural worlds. For example, a political leader might fall because of his arrogance, inability to heed counsel, or oppression of the common people, and similarly, drought and other disasters were regarded as Heaven’s natural responses to gross immorality in the human world.46 This belief in natural, moral causation dissolves the distinction between objective accuracy and moral interpretation, since a completely accurate account would fully demonstrate natural moral principles. One could thus, at least theoretically, pursue both didacticism and objectivity at the same time. Sima Qian was acutely aware that the historical records did not always demonstrate the natural correlation between morality and human success. He was perplexed by situations that seemed to subvert the doctrine that the good should prosper while the wicked suffer, but the key word here is seemed, for he believed that contrary instances are often due to our incomplete grasp of the situation. A perfect knowledge of historical facts would validate all natural principles, including those of a moral nature, and ideally, an objective delineation of cause and effect always demonstrates the “Way of Heaven.” Historical injustices are often only apparent, and the remedy is either more accurate history or a more accurate grasp of the moral principles involved. Again, it requires the efforts of a sagely historian to make this clear, for despite Watson’s protestations, the facts of history, recorded just as Sima found them, did not tell “a story sufficiently interesting and instructive.”47

The Shiji as a Hermeneutical Tool How does Sima Qian reconcile the facts of history with his ethical vision? How does he improve on Confucius’s efforts (since he not only continues the Annals but also entirely reworks the Spring and Autumn era)? It seems to me that Sima adopts a flexible hermeneutic in which he sometimes refines his moral theories in light of historical actualities, whereas in other passages he redacts texts containing historical data according to his understanding of natural morality. The goal of both processes is to bring historical and moral causation into their expected alignment. Sima’s Qian’s editing is the key to his historiographical method, and it turns out that he is shaping his material to a considerable degree. As Ronald Egan has written with regard

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to the Zuo zhuan, one of Sima’s primary sources, “As the author removes himself from overt control and interpretation of his material, his covert manipulation must increase—that is, if his narratives are to be shaped in a meaningful and aesthetically pleasing manner.”48 Likewise, the apparent distancing of the Shiji ’s author from his material that we noted in previous chapters should not blind us to the fact that behind the scenes, Sima Qian is a very active editor. We begin by noting the balancing of interpretation and fact in the personal comment sections and then proceed to some of Sima’s less obvious shaping. Although Sima Qian has the broad notion that the good should prosper and the wicked suffer, the specifics of this rule, especially as they involve particular virtues and vices, are not clear to him.49 He does not want to affirm historical laws so much as discover them, and his direct comments reveal that he was constantly probing various aspects of the past. There is a tentative nature to Sima’s comments in Shiji. As I noted earlier, his comments are quite heterogeneous. Sometimes they express moral judgments or interpretations (not always about the central events of the chapter), but at other times they deal with historiographical issues or simply express a personal reaction to the narrative. Sima Qian may highlight different connections and themes, but he does not write like a man who is sure of what he is after. Not every chapter makes a moral point, and many obvious injustices go by unremarked. Furthermore, Sima offers contradictory explanations, proposes theories only to drop them later, and often admits perplexity and wonder. He is obviously moved by the circumstances he recounts, but he is struggling to make sense of them. We see this, for example, in Sima’s comments concerning Gaozu’s startling rise to power. Unlike other early Chinese rulers, Gaozu was a commoner, and his ascension as the first emperor of the Han dynasty came as a surprise to many, especially to his former companions in arms who wracked the early dynasty with their revolts. In some comments, Sima suggests that Gaozu’s fellow rebel and rival, Xiang Yu, alienated the feudal lords and turned them to Gaozu who, by comparison, was kind and just. But elsewhere, Sima notes the policies of the oppressive Qin government that played into Gaozu’s hands, and the critical contributions made by Gaozu’s generals and advisers. Sometimes Sima despairs of a rational explanation and concludes that it must have simply been the will of Heaven. Finally, in the comment concluding Gaozu’s own annals, Sima presents a cyclical model of dynastic evolution in which a dynasty characterized by good faith declines and is replaced by a dynasty of piety, which in turn gives way to

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a refined dynasty, which is then superseded by another good-faith regime. Gaozu obviously succeeded because he conformed to this pattern.50 Which of these explanations is right? Which is even Sima Qian’s best guess? We have no way of knowing, for Sima offers no final summation.51 However, the last explanation, that of cyclical history, is particularly revealing. It has occasionally been quoted as Sima Qian’s grand theory of history, but Sima himself never mentions it again.52 Nor does he attempt to fit his history to this particular cyclical pattern. Sima’s approach here differs from that taken by most of his contemporaries. The political and philosophical theorists of his day used historical examples copiously, but they began with their theories and arranged historical facts to illustrate their points. Sima, however, starts with historical facts and tries to make sense of them. His culture has provided a basic moral orientation, but he is willing to entertain a variety of specific explanations and expects other historians to refine and continue his work. In other words, Sima Qian’s refusal to draw definite conclusions, which I described at length in the last two chapters, can be interpreted as evidence of his commitment to continuing inquiry and his willingness to learn from history. Besides modifying his interpretations, Sima Qian also reconciles history and ethics by carefully adjusting his presentation of the facts to fit his moral ideals. This is not as pernicious as it sounds. As noted earlier, Sima felt that apparent injustices in history could often be attributed to incomplete knowledge, so the solution is often simply more data. Thus in many of his direct comments, he rights seeming injustices by directing our attention to overlooked but crucial facts that significantly modify the original situation. For example, he sometimes notes genealogical details (in the belief that moral virtue and its rewards may be inherited), posthumous influence, close attention to beginnings and ends (events may have a different significance in a broader context), and unfavorable times (which reduced one’s opportunities for brilliant, Confucian government service), or he offers revised assessments of famous figures (who actually may not have been as evil as most people believe).53 Although these justifying comments are symptomatic of Sima’s interpretive biases, they are only a minor sideshow, a method of tying up a few loose ends. His real interpretive work is going on at a deeper level and is much more subtle, refined, and constant. Sima Qian’s genius was the invention of a historical form that allowed both fidelity to his sources and a minimum of direct authorial intrusion and yet at the same time retained a remarkable capacity for interpretation and the delineation of

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cause and effect (including moral causes). The Shiji’s organization combined the readability of narrative histories with the extensive historical context provided by annalistic histories, but I believe that Sima’s primary purpose was to continue and refine the moral historiography of Confucius. Chinese critics were on the right track in their identification of arrangement as a mode of interpretation in the Shiji. As Fernand Braudel wrote in the introduction to his study of the Mediterranean, “To draw a boundary around anything is to define, analyse, and reconstruct it, in this case select, indeed adopt, a philosophy of history.”54 When Sima Qian distributes his accounts of various individuals among the five major sections of the Shiji ; arranges people in single, dual, or group biographies; and decides whether to narrate certain events more than once, he is making judgments about significance and connection. The meaning of some of this organization is obvious—clearly, no one would be flattered to appear in the “Biographies of Cruel Officials,” and it would be even worse to be among those named at the end of the chapter whom Sima considered too despicable for fuller treatment—yet Sima’s form allows for a number of subtle variations, each of which may carry interpretive significance. It is difficult to know exactly why some individuals have been forever joined in a single biographical chapter or why particular details appear in some chapters but not others. Nonetheless, it is a mistake to read the Shiji as a compendium of explicit criticisms waiting to be deciphered. If anything, the arrangement of the Shiji contains too many systems of valuation, some of which are in direct competition with one another. In his own terms, Sima Qian wants to transmit the world rather than create it, and he protects the integrity of his model through overinterpretation. As with the multiple narrations, the Shiji provides so many inconsistent organizational clues that in the end we realize that Sima himself is trying to understand history, that he is willing to be provocative without being definitive. Once again readers must exercise caution and draw conclusions for themselves. The ways in which Sima Qian signals the significance of his material include the following: 1. Inclusion or exclusion. H. D. F. Kitto once wrote of Thucydides that given the amount of source material available to him, “one of his chief preoccupations must have been to leave things out.”55 Even in a history the size of the Shiji, Sima must have drastically cut most of what was available to him, for as he notes, “Of the extant writings and ancient stories of the world, there is none which was not collected by the Grand Astrologers.”56 It was a mark of singular distinction even to be mentioned in the Shiji, and

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to have one’s life narrated in a chapter was a privilege accorded to only a very few.57 2. Placement among the five major sections. Sima sets up a hierarchical system in which the annals are first and fewest in number (twelve), and their royal protagonists were the most powerful individuals of their times. Next we have the hereditary houses, which are thirty in number and whose protagonists were intimately connected with the ruler and a powerful family. Finally there are the seventy biographies, whose protagonists do not necessarily wield power in the empire or in a noble family but who are included solely on the basis of their own accomplishments. It is presumably most difficult and most prestigious to get one’s biography into the annals section, a little easier and less prestigious to have one’s life recorded in the hereditary houses, and so on. Finally, as Zhao Yi long ago observed, men whose accomplishments were significant but not extraordinary enough to earn them a place in the biographies are memorialized by the brief notices of the chronological tables, which contain names and titles not mentioned elsewhere in the Shiji.58 3. Placement within a section. The basic principle of arrangement within sections is chronological, so we assume that any divergences from this pattern are deliberate. For instance, biographies that join individuals of different time periods demand careful scrutiny. In addition, the order of state histories in the hereditary house section seems to be significant. The first chapter is the “Hereditary House of Tai Bo of Wu,” even though Wu was the last of the major feudal states to be enfeoffed (in 585 b.c.e.). This unexpected placement may reflect the judgment of Confucius, who praised Tai Bo extravagantly—“Tai Bo can most certainly be called a man of the highest virtue: three times he refused the kingdom, and the people had no opportunity to praise him for it,” an assessment that Sima quotes in his concluding comment.59 Also note that the order of states in the “Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords” (chap. 14) does not match the order of the hereditary houses and that the sequencing of the table has both ideological and historical significance. The states of Zhou (the dynastic house) and Lu (the birthplace of Confucius) assume positions at the head of the table that outweigh their actual political strength, whereas the next five states are those of the five hegemons who one after another gained de facto control of China.60 4. Type of biography. A Shiji chapter can be devoted to a single individual; it can include the lives of two or more persons (which may be combined or narrated sequentially); or it can describe a group of people, a state, or a

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tribe. The more important a person is, the more likely that he or she will receive exclusive attention. 5. Placement within a chapter. In a dual biography in which the two lives are narrated separately, it may matter which is recounted first, which receives more space, and which is perceived as the dominant figure in the chapter. Many Shiji chapters also include brief sketches of individuals tacked onto the end. In the hereditary houses, these often are minor descendants, but in the biographical section, the relationship is not always so clear. 6. Extent of biography. The lives of some Shiji figures are narrated in great detail; others are represented by only a few anecdotes; and some people are mentioned only in passing in the biographies of others. The formal marker of a separate biographical treatment is usually an introductory sentence stating a person’s courtesy name (zi) and native region. Not all Shiji biographies continue their narration to the subject’s death. 7. Title of chapter. This item is related to the type of biography, but the two criteria are not the same. Chapters with a single name in the title may in fact narrate the lives of several individuals, and the persons named in the title may actually be only lightly treated. For instance, in the “Hereditary House of King Daohui of Qi” (chap. 52), King Daohui dies after only ten sentences, and the reign of King Yuan of Chu is disposed of in two sentences in the hereditary house supposedly devoted to him (chap. 50). Similarly, the state of Qii gets no more than about a page in the “Hereditary Houses of Chen and Qii” (chap. 36). Going strictly by titles, the Shiji includes the following: Fifty chapters on single, named individuals. Twenty-seven chapters on two named individuals. Two chapters on three or four named individuals. Three chapters on numbered persons (the Five Emperors, for example). Ten chapters on single states. Two chapters on two states. Six chapters on barbarian peoples. Twelve chapters on groups identified by profession or temperament or relationship to the emperor. In addition, the Shiji contains eight treatises and twelve tables, although these chapters also occasionally pose problems. The “Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords” (chap. 14) actually traces the history of thirteen feudal lords (plus the royal house of Zhou), just as the “Table by Years of the Six

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States” (chap. 15) accounts for seven kingdoms. It is difficult to know exactly how much information constitutes a complete biography, but Liu Weimin has counted twelve Shiji biographies that offer extended accounts of thirtythree individuals not listed in chapter titles, and this phenomenon may reflect implicit judgments by Sima Qian.61 8. Form of name in title. Liu Weimin has observed that the naming of individuals in the titles of Shiji chapters can take a number of forms, including full name, family name only, popular nickname, courtesy name (zi ), literary name (hao), posthumous name, honorifics (such as zi or sheng ), government position (for example, Chancellor of State Xiao), degree of nobility (marquis of Huaiyin), and fief (lord of Pingyuan). Unfortunately, Liu declined to guess the interpretive meaning of these differences, but they are suggestive.62 9. Form of name in narrative. Most of the people in the Shiji have more than one name (as may be evident from the preceding item), and it may matter which form Sima uses in various places in his history. For instance, the first emperor of the Han dynasty is referred in various passages as Liu Bang, Liu Ji, the lord of Pei, the marquis of Wuan, the king of Han, and Gaozu (his imperial title, which means “High Ancestor”). I have consistently used this last title for convenience, but it may be significant that Sima sometimes uses one name and sometimes another. For example, Liu is frequently designated by his imperial title even before he becomes emperor.63 10. Chronological systems. Until the founding of the Han dynasty in 202 b.c.e., each state had its own calendar, but some of these were apparently more important than others. As we noted in the last chapter, the “Table by Months of the Conflict Between Qin and Chu” (chap. 16) gives the top row to the much weakened state of Qin.64 Very few events are recorded in this row, but it does have a slightly expanded calendar form. Nine regions are represented in the table, with months counted from the ascension of each local ruler, but only the Qin calendar includes the word month (yue ) with every entry. When the Second Emperor of Qin dies, the calendar count does not begin anew with his successor, as was the custom, and when this new ruler dies just a few months later in 206 b.c.e., the expanded calendar form shifts to Gaozu’s row. This means that during the period of civil war and instability that preceded the founding of the Han, the primary calendar system belongs to Gaozu. It is a way of highlighting his imperial stature, and even in the narrative of the “Basic Annals of Xiang Yu,” all the dates are given in terms of Gaozu’s ascension as the king of Han. This does not bode well for Xiang Yu, who eventually loses the conflict.

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11. Special features of the chronological tables. Many of the events and individuals of the Shiji appear somewhere in the tables, which are by nature a highly structured mode of representing information. In these chapters we frequently encounter additional evidence of how Sima Qian judged his data. For instance, after the end of the Qin dynasty in the “Table by Months of the Conflict Between Qin and Chu” (chap. 16), the top row is given to the “Righteous Emperor” (a suggestive title in itself ). But his authority is apparently merely moral or traditional, for about the only thing that he manages to accomplish in his reign of less than a year is to get himself murdered. His prominent position in the table may, however, reflect Sima’s evaluation of his imperial claims. Other features noted in my summary of the chronological tables in chapter 2 may have hierarchical or interpretive meaning, from the ordering of the fiefs in the sixth table (chap. 18), to the upside-down entries, to the way in which notices of various states are merged with others. I observed earlier that when Sima shifts from the fourteen rows of chapter 14 to the seven rows in chapter 15, he continues the histories of states that were eventually destroyed in the rows of their future conquerors. What is strange is that two of these continued, subordinate states (Lu and Wei) actually lasted longer than the state with its own row that was finished off first (Zhou). That is, Zhou’s row comes to an end in 256 b.c.e., but Lu (hidden in Chu’s row) continues until 249 b.c.e., and Wey (incorporated into Wei’s row) lasts until 220 b.c.e. The obvious question here is why Zhou got an independent row and Lu and Wey did not. Finally, one row in the last table is labeled “Record of Great Events.” This row provides a list of significant incidents from 206 to 20 b.c.e. that do not always match those highlighted in the basic annals for those years, and thus this row offers a competing view of which occurrences were truly important. 12. Notices of ritually significant actions. In the chronological tables, and occasionally in other chapters as well, Sima Qian sometimes inserts brief comments on ritual performances. At times he pronounces an action as “not in accordance with ritual,” but elsewhere he simply reports an event, assuming that his readers are familiar enough with Confucian ritual lore to interpret its meaning. For example, in the “Basic Annals of Qin” he writes, “Duke Xiang thereupon began his kingdom, and with the other feudal lords participated in the rituals of diplomacy, marriage, and feasting. He used red horses with a black manes, yellow oxen, and rams (three of each) and sacrificed to the Lord on High [Shangdi] at the Western Altar.”65 Modern readers may miss the import of this entry until they get to the

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introduction of the “Table by Years of the Six Kingdoms,” in which Sima observes that when Duke Xiang of Qin was first enfeoffed, he built the Western Altar, which he used to serve the Lord on High. This impinged on the prerogatives of the king of Zhou, and Sima notes, “Here is the first sign of usurpation. . . . [Qin] held the position of an enfeoffed subject, and yet it imitated the suburban sacrifice of the Son of Heaven. Such behavior is enough to fill a gentleman with fear!”66 All these organizing principles were the result of conscious choices that Sima Qian made as he was writing and editing the Shiji. Although he may have used some of these devices to encode specific critical judgments, there is no one meaning of the Shiji waiting to be deciphered, and scholars are never likely to reach a consensus on exactly what Sima Qian intended to communicate. There are simply too many competing systems of valuation, employed too sporadically. Instead, the best way to interpret the structure of Sima’s history is to see these overlapping hierarchical principles as the various ways in which Sima Qian strives to make sense of his material, to give it (or to discern) order and meaning. Through the arrangement of the Shiji, Sima shapes history and our perception of it, but his organization is a flexible one. It was meant to be emulated rather than deciphered, and it is always tentative. Sima Qian is, above all, a reader of history, and by learning to read the Shiji perceptively—observing the way it selects and categorizes, entering into a dialogue with its author over the whys and wherefores—we can learn to read history for ourselves. The gross manipulation of data at the structural level is matched by a finer shaping in the realm of narrative. Here the techniques are fewer, but the effects of their usage are more subtle and profound. These are taken up in the next chapter and include selection, juxtaposition, repetition, parallels and contrasts, and contextualization.67 The fragmented format of the Shiji allows Sima Qian to shift details, to include and exclude, to indicate importance, and to imply causal connections, all without explicitly taking control of his material. Some chapters reveal more shaping than others do, but there always seems to be an intelligent mind at work, predigesting raw historical data for fledgling readers. The Shiji’s microcosmic nature invites readers to think along with Sima Qian by extending his categories, guessing at his rationales, improving on his ordering, and discovering new patterns. As we have noted, the type of reading called for is similar to that required of skilled readers of the Spring and Autumn Annals, and Sima hoped that his work would, in some measure, reproduce the effects of Confucius’s classic text.

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Transforming the World In his discussions of the Spring and Autumn Annals, Sima Qian treats it as a model of the world that has several functions: instructive, since it communicates Confucius’s sagely judgments; exemplary, as it teaches us to make sense of the world ourselves; and diagnostic, in that it aids us in discerning what is wrong and adjusting our actions accordingly. Sima’s own history operates in similar ways. Although I would argue that Sima was more interested in demonstrating a certain flexible mode of reading history than in offering specific judgments, the Shiji is nevertheless very much like the Han dynasty perception of the Annals. But another aspect of the Shiji’s model-nature is less familiar to Western readers. Sima Qian worked hard to shape his model, to make it an accessible and useful representation of the world, but he also expected that his model would, in turn, exert an influence on the cosmos. We sometimes speak of “books that changed history,” but the Shiji, like its prototype the Annals, goes beyond this notion of power through persuasion. Let us return to Sima’s description of the Annals in chapter 130: The Annals on the one hand illuminates the Way of the Three Kings, and on the other hand differentiates the patterns of human affairs. It distinguishes what is doubtful and what is fixed; it illuminates right and wrong; it determines what should be planned and what should be expected; it labels the good as good and the evil as evil; it honors the honorable and demeans those who fall short; it preserves defunct states and continues terminated genealogical lines; it repairs what has been damaged and restores what has been discarded. It is the magnifier of the Kingly Way.68

In this view, the Annals itself acts as an agent in the human world. Obviously, it was written by someone and must be read to have an effect, but its uncanny influence approaches that ascribed in the West to objects with magical powers. It is the Annals itself that can reform the world, that accomplishes the “restoration of extinguished states and the continuation of terminated genealogical lines” that Confucius identified as key elements of moral government.69 As Mencius wrote, “When Confucius completed the Spring and Autumn Annals, rebellious ministers and murderous sons took fright.”70

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The idea behind all this is that the world can be refashioned by the proper use of names. If rebellion and murder were clearly labeled as such (with the censure that these terms naturally convey), such behavior would disappear. Such a social transformation does not depend on the strict application of laws and punishments. It is, rather, the result of the transforming power of li, ritual behavior, which can coordinate the organization of society through a magical, unforced harmony.71 As Confucius asserted, “Guide them by edicts, keep them in line with punishments, and the common people will stay out of trouble but have no sense of shame. Guide them by virtue, keep them in line with rites [li], and they will, besides having a sense of shame, reform themselves.”72 The term li encompasses not only the religious and political ceremonies that we think of as “ritual” but also conventional behavior that we might term etiquette or decorum. In addition, proper speech is regulated by the conventions of li, and when words are inappropriately employed, confusion and moral chaos are the result. The Analects of Confucius contain two passages that refer to Confucius’s famous program of the “rectification of names.” In the first, he states that if invited to administer the state of Wei, his first priority would be the rectification of names (zhengming ). When his interlocutor expresses surprise at this plan, Confucius explains that improper naming will result in the decline of ritual, which will in turn lead to the misapplication of punishments.73 In the second passage, Duke Jing of Qi asks Confucius about government, and his reply is, “Let the ruler be a ruler, the ministers be ministers, fathers fathers and sons sons.”74 In other words, Confucius is arguing that the smooth functioning of society—which is the purpose of government in Chinese thought—depends on people’s correctly fulfilling their prescribed roles. Because we are used to thinking of words as arbitrary conventions only, with no innate moral value, correcting names may seem an unlikely scheme for the reformation of society. Yet Confucius’s word magic actually draws on a powerful function of language. Herbert Fingarette was the first to notice the connection between Confucius’s views of language and the ideas of J. L. Austin, who formulated the concept of “performative utterances.”75 These statements, which are more common than we might at first suppose, are words that do not describe a situation but, rather, create it. For instance, when one pronounces the syllables I do under the appropriate ritual circumstances, one becomes married. Similarly, the

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phrases I apologize and I promise are examples of actions that are performed by their being spoken. Language is learned by imitating the utterances of mature speakers, and when Confucius uses the term father to refer only to those who are acting as “real” fathers, he is showing that the concept of “father” has both a moral and a biological dimension. Presumably, a real father is one who is concerned for his offspring, who supports them materially, who teaches and disciplines them. Confucius’s usage depends to some degree on traditional norms, but by choosing his wording carefully, he also shapes the concept. As David Hall and Roger Ames have suggested, “The performative force of language entails the consequence that to interpret the world through language is to impel it toward a certain realization, to make it known in a certain way.”76 Note that it is nearly impossible to come up with a definitive list of the minimum qualifications of a “real father.” To do so would invite the kind of legalistic wrangling that Confucius considered detrimental to social harmony. Instead, we listen as the sage names this and that, and we try to imitate his usages.77 Han scholars believed that they could still hear the voice of Confucius in the Spring and Autumn Annals, and they eagerly scoured the text for evidence of how Confucius used proper terms to comment on the events of history. Thus in the discussion of the Annals in his autobiography, Sima Qian writes that rulers, ministers, fathers, and sons all must study the Annals so that they can properly fulfill their roles and avoid the calamity that will surely attend misperformance. He continues: “Not understanding the principles of ritual and righteousness [contained in the Annals] will lead to rulers who are not rulers, ministers who are not ministers, fathers who are not fathers, and sons who are not sons.”78 Sima’s language in this passage clearly refers to Confucius’s doctrine of the rectification of names, and when he suggests that his book is modeled on the Annals, his implication is that the Shiji is continuing Confucius’s program of reforming the world through language. We have already seen one instance of this process in Sima Qian’s notion of historical justification. Although the facts of history may not adequately demonstrate the “Way of Heaven,” which rewards the virtuous and punishes the wicked, historians themselves can increase the cumulative amount of justice in the cosmos by identifying worthy but forgotten individuals and by censuring those whose good reputations are belied by their deeds. In this way, historians can validate the Way of Heaven through their own labors.79 It may seem hopelessly circular for historians

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to fulfill themselves the processes that they seek to discover, but Sima Qian never assumed that the position of a historian was only that of a neutral, objective observer. Rather, from the beginning he believed that historians play a crucial role in the smooth functioning of the universe. Their sagely use of language parallels the cosmos-maintaining rituals performed by the Son of Heaven, as well as the political naming involved in granting titles, establishing governmental departments, and appointing successors. One might expect that the fact that both emperors and historians were dedicated to shaping the world through ritual language would lead to a competitive situation, and so it did (as we shall see in chapter 7), but before we continue, three points should be reemphasized. First, Confucius’s emphasis on proper speech and ritual did not result in a slavish following of past precedents. He recognized that ritual was an evolving set of mores, and he made choices among the different ritual forms offered by the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties.80 Likewise, rectifying names is not a matter of applying fixed, traditional standards to contemporary life. It requires the cultivation of careful judgment and refined sensibility. Second, in the West since the time of the Greek sophists, we have distinguished between what is natural (physis) and what is conventional (nomos) or man-made. But this distinction does not hold in China, where philosophers routinely acknowledged that the rituals ordering the cosmos were invented by men rather than being revealed from above or even discovered. The efficacy of traditional ceremonial was guaranteed by the fact that the inventors were sages who had clear insight into the workings of the universe and human nature and brought the two into harmony. As the “Treatise on Ceremonial” (significantly the first of the Shiji treatises) asserts: “The rites are based on human nature.”81 Thus human creations can be natural and historians can assign moral judgments based on tradition that themselves have a basis in the objective universe. The consequences of ritually correct words and actions affected the entire cosmos. In the same “Treatise on Ceremonial,” Sima Qian quotes the Confucian philosopher Xunzi as saying: Through rites Heaven and earth join in harmony, the sun and moon shine, the four seasons proceed in order, the stars and constellations march, the rivers flow, and all things flourish; men’s likes and dislikes are regulated and their joys and hates made appropriate. Those below are obedient, those above are enlightened.82

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At this point, Sima interrupts his quotation to add, “The Grand Astrologer remarks: It is wonderful indeed!”83 Once again we encounter the conjunction of the heavens, the earth’s topography, and human life that we saw in the First Emperor’s tomb and in the Shiji itself. The difference, of course, is that the Shiji is held together and given form by the mysterious power of ritual language rather than by the coerced toil of thousands of convict-laborers. Third, as I have noted before, we should not be misled into seeing the Shiji as a compendium of veiled judgments. Sima Qian’s method is too impersonal and ambiguous. He organizes his history, sets up parallels, and occasionally makes provocative comments. But the Shiji is a hermeneutical tool, not an encoding device. I suspect that Sima Qian would have shared his father’s frustration with commentaries on the Confucian classics that multiplied out of all proportion until “several generations would not be sufficient to penetrate their scholarship.”84 Certainly he was suspicious of the finely discriminated legal contortions that accompanied political infighting at the court of Emperor Wu. Even though the Shiji does not seem to invite Gongyang -style commentaries on the hidden meaning of every word and phrase, Sima’s shaping of text and narrative does facilitate a certain kind of literary perception that is not entirely foreign to the Annals. The type of reading recommended by the Shiji was part of the Confucian program, which included the rectification of names, the study of history as a means to self-cultivation and social transformation, and a cosmology that assumed a natural moral order. Historical knowledge was a skill rather than a set of propositions, and it required informed categorizing—being able to distinguish between just and unjust, higher and lower, superior and subordinate, ritually proper and ritually improper, and cause and effect.85 I believe that Sima Qian intended his Shiji to be read in a fashion similar to how Confucians were supposed to read the Classic of Poetry, a process aptly described by David Hall and Roger Ames: For Confucius, the Songs [Classic of Poetry] is not simply a repository of historical information to be learned, it is a primary source of creative reflection. It stimulates one to pursue personal cultivation, to exercise one’s creative imagination, to ascend to levels of heightened awareness, and to develop a deepened sense of sociability. The Songs is not to be read as a linear, sequential explanation of ethical imperatives, imitated in order to reproduce the moral man. Rather it constitutes an authoritative structure of personal, social, and political experiences, which,

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given creative adaptation, can serve as a framework for constituting a harmonious community in the present. The main project of the Songs is practical: not simply to identify, define, and inform, but to engage and ultimately transform.86

In the case of the Shiji, Sima Qian intended his work to transform not only studious, like-minded individuals but also the world itself.

6

CONFUCIAN READING I

The Master is good at leading one on step by step. He broadens me with culture and brings me back to essentials by means of the rites. I cannot give up even if I wanted to, but, having done all I can, it seems to rise sheer above me and I have no way of going after it, however much I may want to.1 Yan Hui, Analects 9.11

t is now time to turn our attention from Sima Qian’s more obvious methods of interpreting and fashioning his data—concluding personal comments and the arrangement of chapters—to the more sustained and subtle literary shaping of his narrative. As noted previously, the devices that we will be examining are selection, juxtaposition, repetition, parallels and contrasts, and contextualization. I begin with examples from various chapters and then take up one of the most important narratives in the Shiji, the “Hereditary House of Confucius.”

I

Guiding Interpretation The Shiji chapters contain a good deal of overlapping material, since events and individuals may figure in more than one biography, and this feature gives Sima Qian narrative (and interpretive) options not available to writers of earlier histories. Although all historians must make decisions about what to include and what to omit, Sima’s format is unusual in that many excluded details do not simply disappear from his record, nor are they relegated to footnotes. Instead, they appear in other chapters,

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where they are granted full descriptive and explanatory status. Thus, the biographies of Lord Mengchang and Prince Wuji of Wei (chaps. 75 and 77) are filled with anecdotes about the ability of these officials to gather followers and recognize men of talent. Indeed, these are the qualities that Sima comments on in his concluding remarks. Yet these men were historically significant for other reasons, and other chapters include the stories of how Mengchang dangerously overextended Qi in its attacks on Chu and how Prince Wuji tried to advise the king of Wei.2 By shifting such details into other chapters, Sima Qian can focus our attention on particular characteristics of individuals while still providing a more complete perspective. This is an example of how Sima uses selection to guide readers toward perceiving various themes and patterns. Another type of focusing is manifest in one of the earliest biographies, that of Wu Zixu (ca. 500 b.c.e.).3 Toward the end of Wu Zixu’s life, a new king ascends the throne, and Wu warns him that before all else he must deal decisively with the hostile state of Yue. The king ignores this advice and makes peace with Yue. Later Wu Zixu repeats his counsel, which is again ignored as the king directs an attack on Qi. When Wu’s pleas are rejected yet a third time, he in desperation sends his son to another state to avoid the impending disaster. Wu is denounced by an old enemy for this act of supposed disloyalty, and in the end Wu receives a royal suicide order, which he carries out after prophesying one last time of future catastrophe. Twelve years later, his state is indeed destroyed by Yue. Sima Qian narrates all this in about fifty sentences, offering little else besides the thrice-repeated warning and death of Wu Zixu, with only seven sentences separating Wu’s death and the destruction of his state.4 In actuality, Wu Zixu’s three warnings were given over a period of nine years, during which there were other important events and developments, several of which involved Wu Zixu (some of these are related in chap. 41, the “Hereditary House of Goujian, King of Yue”). Likewise, the twelve years between Wu’s death and the fulfillment of his grim prophecy were filled with significant factors and persons, all unmentioned in this chapter (chap. 31, the “Hereditary House of Wu Taibo,” provides more information, as does chap. 14, the chronological table that covers this period). By omitting many details and shifting others into different chapters, Sima Qian has telescoped the facts into a cohesive, unified, powerful narrative. In addition, he has highlighted a particular chain of cause and effect—Wu Zixu’s state was destroyed because it rejected his counsel. Such editorial shaping would have been awkward or impossible in a history based on strict chronology, and

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this is precisely where Sima Qian’s creation surpasses Confucius’s original model of the Spring and Autumn Annals, as well as the Zuo zhuan. The editing techniques of selection, significant juxtapositions, and implied causation can also be found in Sima Qian’s chapters on contemporary figures, such as the “Biographies of Ji An and Zheng Dangshi” (chap. 120).5 This chapter delineates its subjects through a series of parallel stories, as follows: 1. Opening identification of Ji An (including courtesy name, birthplace, and ancestors). 2. Two stories illustrating his wisdom. 3. Two general descriptions (one of his Daoism and the other of his outspoken uprightness). 4. Two stories illustrating his strict uprightness (the first reports his actions, and the second recounts his speech as he directly criticized the emperor). 5. Two stories illustrating the emperor’s respect for Ji An (the first reports a remark by the emperor, and the second reports his behavior). 6. Three conflict stories (in each of which Ji An rebukes a high government official for his harshness in applying the law). 7. A transfer to another post (initiated by Gongsun Hong, his opponent in the last of the three preceding stories). 8. Two stories illustrating Ji An’s political acumen. 9. Three direct criticisms of the emperor (in each of which the response is described with the identical phrase: “the emperor remained silent,” shang mo ran). 10. Dismissal from government (due to a minor legal infraction). 11. Recall. 12. Warning to a fellow official (including a prediction that eventually comes true). 13. Final promotion and death. 14. Postscript (short notices of the careers of various officials who were either related to Ji An or came from the same region). 15. Opening identification of Zheng Dangshi (including courtesy name, birthplace, and ancestors).

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16. Two descriptions (of Zheng’s love of friends and Daoism). 17. Career and demeanor (general descriptions, with one specific story of an encounter with the emperor). 18. Downfall and reappointment. 19. A comparison of Ji An and Zheng Dangshi (noting that both were upright, lost their positions in middle age, were abandoned by friends, and finally died in the provinces). 20. Sima’s personal comments (on the inconstancy of friends). In this chapter, the anecdotes are carefully arranged into literary patterns, replete with parallels, repetitions, contrasts, and increasing tensions. These are especially evident in Ji An’s biography, but Zheng Dangshi’s life, with his congenial, popular style, provides both a contrast to Ji An’s blunt criticisms and a parallel, as Sima explicitly points out. The chapter on Ji An and Zheng Dangshi is obviously a polished literary piece in which Sima Qian has highlighted certain characteristics and themes, but the structure of the Shiji allows him to do this without sacrificing his commitment to historical accuracy. The anecdotes concerning Ji An are recounted in chronological order, despite their parallel arrangement, because Sima has shifted other stories into different chapters.6 Even more telling, the one detail that would have disturbed the literary unity of the chapter, namely, the fact that Ji An and his rival Gongsun Hong had earlier worked together very effectively, is placed in Gongsun’s biography.7 A few observations may be in order. First, despite the explicit explanation of how Ji An and Zheng Dangshi were alike, Sima Qian generally prefers to let his readers discern parallels and contrasts on their own. In fact, the Shiji’s form, which includes numerous dual and group biographies, seems at least partially designed to encourage this type of reading and analysis. Sima Qian’s reluctance to comment directly is also borne out by his tendency to quote other people’s judgments on the subjects of his biographies. In chapter 120 we read opinions of Ji An’s character voiced by Zhuang Zhu, the emperor, and the king of Huainan, and we are forced to evaluate the reliability and implications of these remarks without comment from Sima.8 Second, Sima Qian is often interested in themes that relate to his own life. The arrangement of the historical data in chapter 120 highlights the issue of how to advise an emperor honestly, effectively, and safely. Sima was fascinated by Ji An’s life because Ji, unlike Sima himself, was successful in directly criticizing the emperor. And this emperor was none other than

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Emperor Wu, the same ruler who ordered Sima’s punishment when he offered a forthright criticism. Finally, Sima’s wide latitude in selecting and arranging information allows him to use contexts to suggest the significance or causation of historical events. For example, in Ji An’s biography, his demotion in section 10 was officially ascribed to a legal problem, but Sima’s placement of the story suggests that Ji was actually dismissed as a direct result of his deteriorating relationship with the emperor. In addition, the structure of the chapter itself hints at Sima’s own judgments. Zheng Dangshi’s style of diplomatic accommodation contrasted strongly with Ji An’s brash, perilous outspokenness, and the fact that both men’s careers followed the same general path would seem to indicate that both styles were acceptable or that direct criticism was a least no more dangerous than mild deference. Yet Sima Qian’s granting much more space and detail to Ji An betrays a preference for strict admonishment. The preference is particularly apparent given the political importance of the two men: Zheng Dangshi was probably the senior of the two (judging from the fact that he gained high office six years before Ji An did), and he held the higher position.9 These patterns hold throughout the Shiji, where Sima’s narration is almost always sparse; chapters focus on issues such as loyalty, suicide, and literary creation; and our reading is guided by a flexible, complex, multilayered structure. But Sima’s touch is light; the Shiji does not go in for heavy-handed didacticism. Rather, it appears that Sima is demonstrating a method of reading history, making connections, and discovering meaning.10 He does not often insist on a particular interpretation but invites his readers to think and rethink along with him. As a result, it is frequently difficult to ascertain just what he may have intended by a particular presentation or how much liberty he has taken in his arrangement. Fortunately, the Shiji provides two types of tests by which we can more accurately determine the relationship between historical facts and literary presentation: parallel accounts and restructured sources. As we have seen, Sima Qian frequently distributes his material on a particular individual over several chapters. Sometimes the same incident is recounted more than once, and these passages reveal just how much flexibility Sima’s conception of history allows him in his editing and writing. It turns out that these stories are sometimes retold from different perspectives, with different meanings. For example, the story of Helü’s coup in the state of Wu in 515 b.c.e. is related in three separate chapters, and the different contexts help readers

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perceive the same event in different ways. In chapter 66, the “Biography of Wu Zixu,” the coup appears to be an opportunistic move by a treacherous man (and we are not surprised to see his younger brother try the same feat later).11 Yet the fuller details of court politics in chapter 31, the “Hereditary House of Wu Taibo,” provide Helü with a deeper motivation as the loser in an irregular succession, and his deeds seem more justifiable.12 Finally, chapter 86, the “Biographies of Assassin-Retainers,” describes Helü’s coup in the greatest detail. The account is based on the Zuo zhuan, and it is compatible with the previous two tellings. Nevertheless, the fact that this tale is included in a chapter devoted to heroes such as Yu Rang and Jing Ke encourages readers to see Helü’s coup as an example of bold, decisive action, and from this perspective, it appears worthy of admiration.13 In conjunction with differing contexts, Sima’s selective inclusion and placement of details also affect the way we understand events. An example from Han foreign relations illustrates this. Zhao Tuo (d. 137 b.c.e.) was a magistrate and military commander during the Qin dynasty, but when the uprisings began, he took advantage of his position and conquered the barbarian nation of Southern Yue, setting himself up as king. Although Zhao Tuo eventually agreed to give allegiance to the Han ruling house, he still entertained great ambitions and arrogated to himself the title of emperor, the imperial carriage style, and the term edicts for his proclamations (in this way, he intended to prove himself the equal of the Han emperor). In the “Basic Annals of Emperor Wen,” we learn how Wen responded to this affront with kindness and leniency, with the result that Zhao Tuo was shamed into renouncing his pretensions.14 Then in chapter 97, the “Biographies of Master Li and Lu Jia,” we learn that it was actually Lu Jia who, as ambassador to Southern Yue, persuaded Zhao Tuo to give up his arrogant ways.15 In both chapters, Zhao’s repentance is used to illustrate the virtues of the protagonist—Emperor Wen’s gentleness and high morality and Lu Jia’s diplomatic abilities. What Sima Qian neglected to mention was that Zhao Tuo’s change of heart was more apparent than real. We learn in chapter 113, the “Biography of Southern Yue,” that in the privacy of his own kingdom Zhao Tuo continued to carry on just as before.16 Sima has edited his accounts to make certain points or to give specific impressions, yet it is not a question of deliberate deceit. After the brief notice of Lu Jia’s diplomacy in chapter 97, Sima openly refers his readers to the fuller account in chapter 113.17 This is simply another case of Sima Qian’s balancing of accuracy and interpretation, and

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the form of his history, combined with his active editing, allows him to fulfill both ideals. This interpretation of Sima Qian’s historiography implies a rather sophisticated view of history, but I believe that Sima’s explicit comments at the end of chapters bear this out. His remarks expressing his skeptical approach to sources and his desire to provide a foundation for future scholars indicate that he did not believe that the Shiji would provide a final account of the past. In addition, Sima often draws on the Intrigues of the Warring States and its tradition of proving political arguments through citations of history. Thus in chapter 79, the “Biographies of Fan Ju and Cai Ze,” Cai attempted to persuade Fan to resign from his position as the chancellor of Qin by citing the examples of Lord Shang, Wu Qi, and Daifu Zhong, all of whom conscientiously advised their rulers and then were executed. However, in Sima’s telling of this incident (which is taken directly from the Intrigues, with little variation), Fan, “realizing that Cai Ze wished to trap him by argument,” discussed each of these figures in turn and showed that taken as a whole, their lives were indeed worthy of emulation. In reply, Cai referred again to these three men to argue for his original position, and whatever the merits of their respective arguments, it is clear that Sima understood that the same historical data could be used to support very different conclusions.18 Another illustration of Sima’s sophistication in his use of contexts comes from chapter 76, the “Biographies of Lord Pingyuan and Yu Qing.” The king of Zhao asked advice from a certain Lou Huan. Lou’s counsel was to surrender cities to the state of Qin but having just returned from Qin, he was afraid that his motives would be misunderstood. So he reminded the king of Gongfu Wenbo’s mother, who criticized her son for caring more about women than about sagely gentlemen. Lou continued, “This spoken from a mother’s lips makes her seem righteous; but if it had come from a wife, she would be merely a jealous wife. In truth the words would be the same but when the speaker is different, the attitude of the listener is changed.”19 This observation about the importance of context in interpretation could be applied throughout the Shiji. The second major test by which we can gauge Sima Qian’s freedom in balancing historical facts and literary presentation is to compare the Shiji’s accounts with their sources wherever Sima relied on already existing documents. There are some obvious difficulties with this approach. Sima may have used sources that are no longer extant, or the form of his sources may have differed from our modern versions of these works.20 It is often difficult to determine whether Sima is paraphrasing a known source or is

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simply quoting another, no longer extant, text. Another problem is the transmission of the Shiji itself. Nevertheless, I believe this comparative approach is useful, even if the results are always tentative. Let us return to a subplot of Wu Zixu’s biography (chap. 66) for an example of how Sima Qian refashioned his sources. First the original, from the Zuo zhuan. This story occurs at the end of the Spring and Autumn era, a time of intense political and military competition, and takes the form of a tragedy, relating the sorry tale of how a man sowed the seeds of his own destruction.21 Zixi (d. 479 b.c.e.), a minister of the state of Chu, wished to invite back Sheng, the son of a persecuted prince who had fled the state. The lord of She warned Zixi that Sheng was a scheming, hotheaded young man and predicted that disaster would come of his return. Zixi ignored this advice and recalled Sheng, who returned to Chu and immediately began laying plans to avenge his father’s death in the state of Zheng. After several delays, Sheng obtained permission to attack Zheng, but before he could do so, the state of Jin attacked Zheng first, whereupon Chu rescued Zheng and signed a treaty. Sheng was furious and declared that he intended to kill Zixi, the minister who had overseen this treaty and whom Sheng now regarded as his true enemy. When Zixi heard of this, he exclaimed, “Sheng is like an egg which I have hatched; I have brought him up under my wings,” and he refused to believe ill of him.22 A few years later Sheng did murder Zixi and attempted a coup that was finally suppressed by the lord of She. In the Shiji, however, although the plot is the same, the focus is entirely different. Whereas the Zuo zhuan told the story of Zixi—how he rejected good counsel, recalled Sheng, and later met death at his hands—the Shiji now transforms the same events into the story of Sheng. Sima Qian does this with three major changes. First, according to chapter 66, it was King Hui of Chu, rather than Zixi, who invited Sheng to return. Two other Shiji chapters correctly identify Zixi as the initiator of the recall, but this change is not necessarily a direct contradiction.23 Perhaps it was Zixi’s idea to bring Sheng back, but King Hui issued the formal invitation. Second, Sima makes this tale less a family affair by omitting the fact that the one who heard Sheng’s threat and reported it to Zixi was Zixi’s own nephew. Third, Sima Qian modified the sense of Zixi’s retort. According to chapter 66, when Zixi heard of Sheng’s threat, “he laughed and said, ‘Sheng is like a mere egg; what can he do?’ ”24 This emphasis on Sheng’s youthfulness and weakness blunts the Zuo zhuan’s original point that Zixi himself was responsible for his own troubles.25

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We should note here that despite the common Western conception of the Shiji, Sima Qian is not directly quoting from an earlier account; he is paraphrasing it. He relates the same events in the same order with many of the same phrases, so that we can identify the Zuo zhuan as his primary source, but he leaves out a number of details, alters the wording, and adds explanatory material. This sort of usage is typical of how the Shiji employs the Zuo zhuan; apparently the language of the Zuo zhuan needed to be updated for Han dynasty audiences.26 Nevertheless, it is remarkable how much freedom this allows Sima to transform his sources. In particular, he apparently felt free to modify direct discourse in order to condense, clarify, or better tailor a quotation to the narrative. (Since Sima is dealing with ancient history, he probably had no illusions about preserving the ipsissima verba. As in Thucydides, speeches are a literary device, though accuracy is not irrelevant.)27 On the whole, the Shiji account is shorter, smoother, and more meaningful than its Zuo zhuan predecessor. It also is a different story. Sima Qian has transformed a tale of self-destruction into a story of misdirected father avenging, which fits the overall theme of chapter 66. In fact, the context contributes to this metamorphosis. Shiji 66 is constructed around two other instances of father avenging: Wu Zixu performs this duty faithfully, whereas Fu Cha fails in his responsibility. These two earlier examples prepare the reader to recognize Sheng’s tale as a parallel case.28 Sima Qian also employs a chronological disjunction to reinforce his emplotments. Sheng actually dies before Wu Zixu’s state is destroyed by Yue, but Sima narrates Wu’s story to its conclusion before beginning Sheng’s tale at a point three years before Wu’s execution (Sima notes this disjunction explicitly).29 Sima Qian keeps the two stories separate because if he had given Sheng’s biography within the framework of Wu Zixu’s life and prophecy, the coherence, unity, and power of the latter episode would have been lost. Despite Sima Qian’s relative freedom in handling the Zuo zhuan, when he uses texts whose language is closer to his own Han dynasty dialect, he often quotes them almost exactly. This is characteristic of his use of materials that were later gathered into the Intrigues of the Warring States. But even with these sources, modifications or additions can transform stories. We see an example of this in chapter 86, the “Biographies of Assassin-Retainers.” This is the story of Nie Zheng (d. 397 b.c.e.), where after a new introduction and two omitted quotations, the Shiji account follows the Intrigues with only minor variations.30 Nie agreed to assassinate the chief minister of Hann for Yan Zhongzi, a man who had shown him and his mother kindness

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when Nie was merely a butcher in the market. After his mother’s death, Nie tells himself, “I am ready to be of use to the man who truly knows me” (identical in both versions). Despite some differences between the accounts of the assassination itself (the Shiji omits a couple of sentences about how Marquis Ai was also stabbed,31 and the location of the slaying is different), the interesting variations begin with the treatment of Nie Zheng’s body, which before committing suicide, Nie himself had mutilated so as not to be identifiable. Intrigues: The ruler of Hann had Nie Zheng’s corpse taken and exposed in the market, and he hung up a reward of a thousand pieces of gold. But a long time passed and no one knew who he was. Shiji : The ruler of Hann had Nie Zheng’s corpse taken and exposed in the market, offering a reward for information, but no one knew his identity. Thereupon, the ruler of Hann hung up the reward, offering to give a thousand pieces of gold to anyone who was able to say who had assassinated Prime Minister Xialei. But a long time passed and no one knew who he was.

The differences are minor, but Sima Qian’s added explanations clearly emphasize identity, and this theme becomes even more prominent as the story progresses. Intrigues: Zheng’s elder sister heard of it and said, “My younger brother was a man of perfect virtue. I cannot spare myself and allow my brother’s name to be forgotten. This was not his intention.” Thereupon she went to Hann. When she saw him, she said, “How courageous! What an abundance of spirit and modesty! In this he excels Ben and Yu and towers over Cheng Jing. Now he has died without leaving a reputation. His father and mother are already dead, and he has no other brothers. This is why I came. If I did not promote my brother’s name because I feared for myself, I could not bear it.” Then she embraced the corpse and cried over it, saying, “This was my younger brother Nie Zheng of Deepwell village in Zhi,” and she killed herself on his corpse. When the people of Jin, Chu, Qi, and Wey heard it, they said, “Zheng was not the only one with ability; his sister was also an exemplary woman.” The reason that Nie Zheng’s name has been passed on to later generations is because his sister risked being cut to pieces in order to promote his name.

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Shiji : Zheng’s elder sister Rong heard that someone had assassinated the prime minister of Hann, but the murderer had not been dealt with because no one in the kingdom knew his name, even though they had exposed his body and hung up a thousand pieces of gold. In tears she said, “Isn’t this my younger brother? Ah, Yan Zhongzi truly knew my brother.” Then she got up and went to Hann. She entered the market and the dead man was indeed Zheng. She threw herself on his body and wept with surpassing grief, saying, “This man was called Nie Zheng of Deepwell village in Zhi.” . . . [Rong said] “Yan Zhongzi discovered and honored my brother while he was still in lowly difficulties. He befriended him and showered him with generosity. What else could my brother do? Surely a gentleman will die for one who truly knows him.” . . . Finally, sobbing with sorrow and grief, she died next to Zheng. When the people of Jin, Chu, Qi, and Wey heard it, they all said, “Zheng was not the only one with ability; his sister was also an exemplary woman. If Zheng had truly known his sister’s determination not to merely stand by, not to mind the tragedy of exposing his bones, but rather to travel a thousand miles of terrible hardships in order to exalt his name, so that sister and brother both died in the market of Hann, he certainly would not have dared to promise to serve Yan Zhongzi with his life. Of Yan Zhongzi it can be said that he truly knew men, and was able to obtain noble followers.”

The Shiji ’s account of Nie Zheng’s sister differs markedly from the that of the Intrigues, particularly in the speeches, and we cannot know whether Sima Qian has rewritten the tale or whether he has quoted another, nonextant source. Even so, the differences are significant. In the Intrigues, Nie Zheng’s sister is concerned about her brother’s fame, but in the Shiji version, the emphasis is on Yan Zhongzi’s ability to recognize a man of talent or, in other words, to truly know someone. I suspect that Sima has deliberately edited the account in some fashion (by either modifying directly or interpolating another source) in order to highlight this theme, since it was obviously of interest to him, and the final quotation seems to represent Sima’s own judgment.32 In fact, it adds another dimension to the theme because it suggests that Nie Zheng himself had not truly known his sister.33 Even when Sima Qian does not modify the language of his sources, a slight change in sequence may change the meaning. For example, in chapter 75, the “Biography of Lord Mengchang” (ca. 300 b.c.), we read how Mengchang encouraged the state of Qin to attack Qi. The passage is

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quite similar to an account in the Intrigues of the Warring States, but whereas the Intrigues identifies Lord Mengchang as a representative of Wei, the Shiji places this story before Lord Mengchang fled to Wei.34 That is, the Shiji indicates that he was still a general of Qi at the very time he was inviting its enemies to attack and hoping for Qi’s defeat. In fact, the Shiji specifically notes that Lord Mengchang adopted this course of action because of his personal difficulties with Lü Li, the current prime minister of Qi. This chronological shift significantly changes the story. What in the Intrigues had been simply another tale of diplomatic maneuvering now becomes a tale of expedient treason. Slight chronological discrepancies among the Shiji ’s annals, tables, hereditary houses, and biographies are quite numerous, and most probably have no interpretive meaning.35 Rather, they are the result of Sima’s reliance on sparse and confused sources, or Sima might have died before he had truly completed his historical labors. But this particular modification seems to be deliberate because it fits into one of the chapter’s themes. The last story in the same biography returns to the theme of expedient treason when it relates the tale of Lord Mengchang’s return to Qi after he had been dismissed from his post and then recalled. He was angry with his retainers who had abandoned him, but a certain Feng Xuan convinced him that it was simply human nature to base one’s loyalty on expediency, and Feng urged him to forgive his old followers and accept their services once again. Apparently Mengchang did just that, because in his comment Sima Qian notes that in his own day, the descendants of these retainers were still very numerous in the district that had once belonged to Lord Mengchang.36

Chronicling the Sage Given Sima Qian’s relationship to Confucius and his works, the question of what place Sima would give to Confucius in the Shiji is significant. Everyone who has written on the subject has noted that the life of Confucius does not appear in the biographies, where we might expect it, but, rather, among the hereditary houses, even though Confucius was in no way a feudal lord. Various explanations have been offered—sacrifices to his spirit continued to be made; his descendants were given imperial titles; he was the spiritual progenitor of a lasting tradition; and so forth—but it does seem clear that this placement was a way of honoring Confucius.37 We might also note that Sima’s respect for Confucius is further confirmed by some of

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the organizational principles outlined in the last chapter: Confucius has his own chapter; he is referred to by an honorific; and he is the philosopher whose life is followed most closely in the chronological tables.38 By contrast, Guan Zhong and Yanzi share a biography (chap. 62), as do Laozi, Zhuangzi, Hanfeizi, and Shenzi (chap. 63), Sunzi and Wu Qi (chap. 65), and Mencius, Zou Yan, Shen Dao, Xun Qing, and Mo Di (chap. 74).39 Yet when we actually read the “Hereditary House of Confucius,” it comes as something of a surprise, for Confucius is not portrayed as a transcendent sage but as an (almost) ordinary man whose life is generally a sad succession of failures, betrayals, and disappointments. Sima Qian was the first historian to write a coherent narrative of Confucius’s life, and the results of his efforts have been controversial. In many ways, Sima Qian found himself in a position similar to that of the author of the first Gospel of Jesus. He had access to a large body of tradition, most of which consisted of single anecdotes or sayings, and from these he selected the ones he felt were the most important, trustworthy, and revealing. Then he created a biography out of them (he probably also gave special consideration to those stories that included some geographical or temporal reference, since these were crucial to reconstructing Confucius’s physical movements). Unfortunately, the “Hereditary House of Confucius” often reads just as one might expect, as a somewhat loose collection of independent, contradictory tales. Moreover, many of these stories are highly critical of Confucius and seem to have come from Daoist or Legalist sources. Needless to say, many Confucians were not at all pleased with the biography, and some modern scholars have expressed bewilderment as well. H. G. Creel wondered, “Why is this biography so bad?” and suspected that it was written as a criticism of Confucius. He went on to suggest that even the celebrated elevation of Confucius’s biography to the status of a hereditary house was a subtle rebuke.40 It is true that the Shiji is quite eclectic, and Sima Qian is hard to categorize as a pure Confucian, as Ban Gu recognized in the first century c.e.41 But it should be recognized that our modern classification of Zhou philosophical schools is too rigid to reflect the actual state of philosophy in the early Han. For example, in the “Bibliographical Treatise” of the Han shu , Ban Biao’s introduction to the works of the Daoists states: “There are many Daoists, and in general the movement arose from the official scribes who analyzed and recorded the ways of success and failure, of preservation and destruction, and of disaster and fortune in both ancient and modern times.”42 This sounds much like Sima’s own description of the Shiji, although the “Biographical

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Treatise” places Sima’s history in the Spring and Autumn Annals category (where I think it belongs).43 Sima Qian’s biography of Confucius is not what we might expect from a strict Confucian (if there was such a thing in the early Han dynasty), but it does reflect a deep appreciation for Confucius and his work. Sima was not interested in presenting a perfected sage, and it is frustrating that at times the biography does not even seem to have incorporated Sima’s best critical techniques—it abounds in anachronisms, and the basic chronology at times sharply contradicts what we find elsewhere in the Shiji—but I believe, with Burton Watson, that the biography does have a coherent meaning.44 Sima carefully chose the stories he included (though not always with historical reliability as his primary criterion) in order to develop a particular portrait of Confucius—a man who was unappreciated in his own time but who after his death was recognized as wise and virtuous. One can form a rough idea of what Sima Qian thought of as the essentials of Confucius’s life by noting which events are referred to more than once in the Shiji. Arranged in the sequence of the “Hereditary House of Confucius” (chap. 47), we have A. Birth (noted in chaps. 14, 33, 47) B. Traveled to Zhou and learned from Laozi (chaps. 14, 47, 63, 67) C. Traveled to Qi (chaps. 14, 47) 1. Heard Shao music (chaps. 47, 121) D.Chief minister in Lu (chaps. 14, 31, 32, 33, 39, 40, 44, 47, 66) 1. Participated in conference between the rulers of Lu and Qi (chaps. 14, 32, 33, 47)45 E. Left Lu because the duke received a gift of singing girls (chaps. 14, 24, 33, 47, 83) F. Years of wandering, including 1. Wey, where he received a stipend (chaps. 14, 37, 47) 2. Kuang, where he was attacked (chaps. 47, 124) 3. Zheng (chaps. 42, 47) 4. Chen (chaps. 14, 36, 47) 5. Cai (chaps. 35, 47) 6. Song, where he was almost killed by Huan Tui (chaps. 14, 38, 47) 7. Chen again, where he yearned for his disciples in Lu (chaps. 36, 47, 121)

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8. Between Chen and Cai, where he almost starved to death (chaps. 47, 74, 124, 130) 9. Wey again, where he wanted to rectify names and refused to offer military advice (chaps. 14, 23, 37, 47, 74) G. Returned to Lu (chaps. 14, 33, 47) 1. Corrected music (chaps. 23, 47, 121) H.Edited classic texts (chaps. 13, 14, 47, 110, 121, 130) I. Discovery of unicorn (chaps. 14, 47, 121, 130) J. Lamented Zilu’s death (chaps. 37, 67) K. Death (chaps. 4, 14, 33, 34, 36, 37, 39, 47, 121) This approach is limited, since some events—like Confucius’s birth, death, and tenure as minister in Lu—seem to have been used mainly as convenient chronological markers that are mentioned only in passing, but this outline nevertheless represents the most memorable incidents that Sima Qian associated with Confucius. Let us now turn to the “Hereditary House of Confucius” to see how Sima narrates and augments the basic events of Confucius’s life.46 A. [Birth] Sima Qian begins chapter 47 with a brief list of Confucius’s ancestors, as is his custom, but almost from the beginning, things are not quite right. Sima notes that Confucius was conceived as the result of a “rustic union” (ye he ). This strange term has been interpreted as a marriage in which the husband was far too old for the bride or the ritual requirements were not completed. It even may have been an illegitimate affair, but at any rate it ascribes to Confucius a birth of less than perfect propriety. His father died shortly after his birth, and his mother “concealed the truth from him” (hui, the term for Confucius’s own rule of “avoidance”), but it is not clear what she was hiding—the exact location of his father’s grave? Or did she simply not talk about his father? Until a neighbor’s mother revealed the location of his father’s tomb, Confucius’s lack of knowledge prevented him from performing the proper rituals at his mother’s death. Then when he tried to enter a banquet while still in mourning, he was rudely rebuffed. Sima recounts some indications of Confucius’s extraordinariness—he was born as the result of his mother’s prayers; he had a strangely shaped head; he played with ritual implements as a child; he was hired as a teacher of ritual (mostly on the basis of his family heritage) at the age of seventeen— but for the most part, his early years seemed to be characterized by poverty,

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ineffectualness, and humiliation (a key term introduced in this section is bu dangshi, “he didn’t fit the times”). This impression is strengthened when after a brief account of Confucius’s success at a series of minor posts, Sima Qian adds a summary of the future that awaits Confucius, lest we get the wrong idea: “After he finished, he left the state of Lu. He was insulted in Qi, driven from Song and Wey, in distress between Chen and Cai, and then he returned to Lu.”47 Confucius enjoys some measure of influence and prominence in Lu, but with this foreshadowing summary, Sima shapes our impression of the narrative that follows. No matter how much success Confucius achieves, we already know that in the end he will leave Lu for a wandering life of danger and frustration. B. [Traveled to Zhou and learned from Laozi] Confucius and an associate, with aid from the duke of Lu, travel to the state of Zhou in order to study ritual at the court of the founders of the Zhou dynasty, and there they meet Laozi. This story is described in detail twice in the Shiji, and each time Confucius receives very different advice. In chapter 63, Laozi reminds him that in good times a wise man may serve in government, whereas in bad times he hides in obscurity and then urges him to overcome his arrogance and desires. When he leaves, Confucius remarks to his disciples that Laozi is as profoundly unknowable as the dragon.48 Laozi clearly has the best of this exchange, as is fitting in his own biography, but their conversation in the “Hereditary House of Confucius” is hardly any more complimentary to the Sage. There Laozi warns Confucius that those who persist in criticizing the flaws of others will come to grief. Burton Watson has suggested that Confucius’s penchant for criticism was a tragic flaw, but this places too much weight on one aspect of his life.49 As the biography unfolds, Laozi’s warning seems to have been prophetic, but Confucius encounters trouble from a number of sources—misunderstandings, jealousy, bad luck. What are we to make of anecdotes in which our hero is warned and ridiculed by his most important rival? First, we should note that there is very little historical basis for these tales. The figure of Laozi is elusive and legendary, and it is impossible to state for certain whether he and Confucius were even contemporaries. Moreover, these two incidents seem quite similar to stories of summit meetings of philosophers that were clearly fabricated by Zhuangzi as fanciful exercises. Nevertheless, the story of the meeting with Laozi does have an important function in the “Hereditary House of Confucius,” for it demonstrates his eclecticism and his willingness to learn. This was surely an important lesson for Sima Qian, who learned from his

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own Daoist-inclined father and who also traveled in his youth searching for knowledge and information. Although it may at first come as a surprise to find Confucius criticized by Laozi in his own hereditary house, it does fit a pattern; that is, Confucius is reprimanded and censured often in the tales that Sima Qian chose to include in chapter 47. C. [Traveled to Qi] Sima Qian then describes Lu—a small, weak kingdom situated precariously between the large and aggressive states of Qi, Chu, and Jin—and the ineffectualness of Confucius and his native state seem parallel. When the duke of Qi visits Lu, Confucius points out that successful rulers need good advisers (the implication being that if given a chance, he could solve Lu’s problems), but Lu is wracked by political turmoil, and Confucius, at the age of thirty-five, travels to Qi, hoping for employment. He succeeds in gaining several audiences with the duke of Qi, who is just about to grant him a fief when another adviser cautions him that ritualists like Confucius are arrogant and impractical. Other officials of Qi begin to plot against Confucius, and in the end, the duke of Qi does not offer Confucius a substantial position, saying, “I am old, and I just cannot use him” (fu neng yong ye).50 Confucius, undoubtedly disheartened by all this, returns to Lu. D. [Chief Minister in Lu] Here follow two strange stories that demonstrate Confucius’s knowledge of myth and tradition. In the first he correctly identifies a buried sheeplike creature as an apparition of the earth, and in the second he comments on the origins of a giant skeleton. These tales frustrate those who are seeking a rational, skeptical Confucius (or a rational, skeptical Sima Qian, for that matter), but they do allow readers to see that Confucius really does have remarkable abilities, despite his inability to find employment. In fact, Sima Qian seems to have emphasized this aspect of his account by adding the comment of an anonymous observer of these incidents, who exclaimed, “Wonderful! He is indeed a sage.” This remark does not appear in Sima’s source, the Narratives of the States.51 This acknowledgment of Confucius’s talents is all the more important because employment is not forthcoming: Then everyone in Lu, from the great lords on down, attempted usurpation and departed from the correct Way. Therefore Confucius did not take office, but instead retired and worked on the Poetry, the Documents, the rites, and the music. His disciples became more and more numerous, some even coming from distant lands, and none were turned away.52

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When he was fifty, Confucius received an invitation to take a position with a rebel upstart and he was sorely tempted, but in the end a disciple convinced him that he ought not to go. Finally, Confucius was granted a village magistracy, and he succeeded so well that he was promoted and officials in neighboring Qi began to worry. The duke of Qi invited the duke of Lu to a summit meeting and Confucius went along as an assistant. Here Confucius used his knowledge of ritual to protect the duke, put Qi in its place, and regain lost territory. Unfortunately, this moment of triumph was soon followed by failure as he tried to curb the power of three aristocratic families in the state of Lu, but he was nevertheless appointed acting chief minister at the age of fifty-six. The tradition of Confucius’s being chief minister in Lu is historically suspect. Sima’s source, the Zuo zhuan, records that when Confucius was a minor official he served as a xiang, or an assistant, at the conference with Qi, and this was probably the highest position he ever held. However, later Confucians, including Sima Qian, read the same character with another meaning, as “chief minister.” There are important reasons to doubt that Confucius ever reached this lofty position, but in his biography, this office helps give a literary shape to the chapter.53 It seems that often his successes are only preludes to disaster and disappointment, and indeed, from here until his death, his career is marked by a steady decline. E. [Leaves Lu] Things go well for three months, in fact so well, that the people of Qi begin to worry that Confucius will lead Lu to the leadership of the feudal states. Therefore they send eighty women as a gift to the duke of Lu, hoping that he will thereby be distracted from his responsibilities. Their plot succeeds, and in disgust, Confucius leaves in search of another, more worthy lord. After he is gone, Chief Minister Ji Huanzi admits his mistake, but by then it is too late. F. [Years of wandering] Confucius travels for about fourteen years from state to state searching for someone who would put him to good use, eventually asking more than seventy rulers for a position.54 In this chapter, Sima describes Confucius’s journeys from Lu to Wey to Kuang to Pu, back to Wey, to Cao to Song to Zheng to Chen, again to Pu, again to Wey, to the Yellow River to Zou to Wey to Chen to Cai to She, back to Cai (where he was in distress), to Chu to Wey, and back to Lu. In almost every place, there is some unhappy incident—slander, arrest, misunderstandings by disciples, accusations of ritual impropriety, assassination attempts, war, disappointments, insults, or political maneuvering—but for the most part, Confucius maintains his confidence, his good humor, and

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his fortitude, and he offers pithy quotes and insightful critiques all along the way. I will comment on only two of these incidents, which illustrate the kind of literary shaping Sima Qian provides. In the first, Confucius’s talent is recognized too late: In autumn, Ji Huanzi fell ill. He was taken in a cart to see the walls of Lu, where he sighed and said, “In the past this kingdom had a chance to rise to prominence, but because I incurred the condemnation of Confucius, it did not rise at all.” [Ji Huanzi was the minister who had recommended that the duke accept the gift of the eighty women.] He turned and said to his heir Ji Kangzi, “When I die, you must become chief minister of Lu, and you must summon Confucius.” After a few days, Ji Huanzi died and Kangzi inherited his position. As soon as his father was buried, Kangzi wanted to summon Confucius.55

At that moment, another official pointed out that the country of Lu had became a laughingstock when it failed to use Confucius appropriately in the past, and it risked a repeat of that derision if the officials invited Confucius himself. Accordingly, they summoned one of his students instead. Confucius proclaimed that he was ready to return to Lu, but while waiting for an invitation from his newly (and ironically) successful pupil, he continued his wandering. This anecdote echoes Ji Huanzi’s earlier expression of regret, which signaled the beginning of Confucius’s journeys, and it foreshadows the day, some eight years later, when Ji Kangzi finally summoned Confucius back to Lu, asked his advice, and then refused to give him a position. As a pivot that ties together the beginning and end of Confucius’s years of self-imposed exile, this tale is significant in that it highlights the fact that Confucius’s virtue was not completely unrecognized; it was just inconvenient for those in power. It is also significant because the ancient source for this story is unknown. I assume that Sima Qian did not fabricate it completely, but he was so anxious to make it part of his narrative that he was willing to set aside one of his most favored (and reliable) sources, the Zuo zhuan, which has a very different account of Ji Huanzi’s last words.56 The second incident is Confucius’s troubles between Chen and Cai: Three years after Confucius had moved to Cai, the state of Wu attacked Chen. Chu came to Chen’s aid and encamped their army at Chengfu.

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When (the ruler of ) Chu heard that Confucius was living between Chen and Cai, he sent men to summon Confucius. Confucius was just about to go and pay his respects when the great officers of Chen and Cai plotted together and said, “Confucius is a virtuous man who has criticized the faults of all the feudal lords. Although he has long resided between Chen and Cai, the practices established by the great officers are all contrary to his principles. Now Chu, a powerful state, has come to summon him. If Confucius is employed by Chu, then the great officers who administer Chen and Cai will be in danger.” Thereupon they together dispatched soldiers to surround Confucius in the countryside. He was not able to get out, and his supplies dwindled. His disciples were so weak that none were able to stand up, but Confucius continued to talk and to accompany himself on the lute as he sang.57

If Confucius’s term as chief minister of Lu was the zenith of his career, his difficulties between Chen and Cai were the nadir, and Sima Qian emphasizes this incident by slowing down the action through dialogue. Sima inserts a quotation from the Analects in which Confucius describes the reaction of a true gentleman to suffering, and then he adds a lengthy passage (for which we have no ancient source) in which Confucius asks three of his disciples in turn to interpret a couple of lines from the Classic of Poetry that seem relevant to their troubles. What is the cause of their present predicament? The first disciple doubts the abilities of Confucius and his followers; the second doubts the ability of the world to accept Confucius’s teachings and recommends modifying them; and the third urges Confucius to continue on, even if success is not forthcoming. Confucius gives his approval to the last. In the end, soldiers from Chu rescue them, and the king of Chu is just about to grant Confucius a fief when, in an ironic but familiar turn of events, a minister warns that Confucius and his disciples are too talented—that given a small fief now, they will end up running the whole country. The king therefore backs down, and Confucius, at the age of sixty-three, moves on. This tale of frustration and hardship was pointed out earlier in the hereditary house as a key event in Confucius’s life. Once again: “After he finished, he left the state of Lu. He was insulted in Qi, driven from Song and Wey, in distress between Chen and Cai, and then he returned to Lu.”58 Nevertheless, far from being critical of Confucius, this portrayal was intended to be inspirational. The trouble between Chen and Cai is

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mentioned in several other chapters of the Shiji. In chapter 74 it is contrasted with the philosopher Zou Yan’s astonishing success, but elsewhere it is cited as a model for the sagely endurance of undeserved suffering.59 The most important of these citations is by Sima Qian himself, after he describes his own disastrous experience in direct criticism: He turned within himself and pondered deeply, saying: “The writers of the Poetry and Documents were troubled and in distress and they tried to set forth the meanings of their desires and hopes. Of old when the Chief of the West, King Wen, was imprisoned at Youli, he spent his time expanding the Classic of Change ; Confucius was in distress between Chen and Cai and he made the Spring and Autumn Annals; when Qu Yuan was exiled, he composed his poem ‘Encountering Sorrow’; after Zuo Qiu lost his sight, he composed the Narratives of the States; when Sunzi had his feet amputated, he set forth the Art of War ; Lü Buwei was banished to Shu but his Lülan has been handed down through the ages; while Hanfeizi was held prisoner in Qin, he wrote ‘The Difficulties of Disputation’ and ‘The Sorrow of Standing Alone’; most of the three hundred poems of the Classic of Poetry were written when the sages poured forth their anger and dissatisfaction. All these men had a rankling in their hearts, for they were not able to accomplish what they wished. Therefore they wrote about past affairs in order to pass on their thought to future ages.”60

All these were books that Sima Qian admired and used in his own history, and he intended that the Shiji join these examples of sagely literature born out of personal failure and frustration. G. [Return to Lu] Finally Confucius, now in his sixty-seventh year, is summoned back to Lu by Ji Kangzi, but as we have seen, “in the end, Lu was not able to use (bu neng yong ) Confucius, and he did not ask for an official position.”61 H. [Edits classic texts] Sima Qian then describes Confucius’s work with the Classic of Documents, the ritual texts, traditions concerning music, the Classic of Poetry, and the Classic of Change. Sima’s organization of this chapter makes it appear that Confucius’s major scholarly efforts were undertaken after his return to Lu, and indeed, this would fit the pattern of rejection followed by literary production just outlined, but since the study of these

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classic texts was the essence of a Confucian education, I suspect that Confucius’s editing began, in some form, when he first took disciples. In this section, Sima includes six quotations from the Analects that illustrate Confucius’s literary efforts, but with the exception of one specifically stating that Confucius corrected music after he returned from Wei to Lu, the others give no indication of where or when they were originally uttered. Sima Qian has contextualized them; that is, he has taken free-floating quotations and anchored them historically at Confucius’s last years in Lu. Through this arrangement of traditions and quotations, Sima Qian gives shape to Confucius’s life and fits it into a pattern that recurs frequently in the Shiji. In addition to the preceding long list of literary precedents, elsewhere in the Shiji we read comments like “But if Yu Qing had not been impoverished and miserable, he would not have been able to write a book by which he could manifest himself to later generations.”62 The description of Confucius’s editing is followed by a sketch of his personality and habits. Here Sima Qian strings together some twenty-three free-floating quotations from the Analects, arranged (roughly) by category: thus we read about how Confucius taught, spoke, walked, ate, mourned, and learned. This section concludes with four appraisals by eyewitnesses: Zigong (a disciple), Yan Hui (a disciple), an anonymous villager, and Lao (perhaps a disciple), who quotes Confucius as saying, “Because I have never been put to use, I have become accomplished.”63 I. [Discovery of unicorn] Sima Qian’s account is drawn back into historical time with the discovery of a strange animal in 481 b.c.e. When Confucius hears the report, he immediately identifies it as the legendary unicorn (lin), which was thought to signal the arrival of a sage. But the appearance of the beast in such evil and chaotic times instead portends disaster. This event is described in the Gongyang commentary: The unicorn is a benevolent animal. When there is a true king it comes, but when there is no true king, it does not come. There was someone who reported [to Confucius], “There is a small deer with a horn.” Confucius said, “For whom has it come? For whom has it come?” He turned his sleeve and wiped his face as his tears wet his robe. Yan Hui died and Confucius said, “Alas, Heaven is destroying me.” Zilu died and Confucius said, “Alas, Heaven is cutting me off.” On a hunt in the west a unicorn was captured and Confucius said, “My Way has come to an end.”64

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This is one of the rare instances in which Sima Qian used the Gongyang commentary as a source, and he modified it in several ways, as can be seen from his quotations in the “Hereditary House of Confucius”: In the spring of the fourteenth year of Duke Ai of Lu there was a hunt at Daye. Ju Shang, Shusun Shi’s chariot driver, captured a [strange] animal, and considered it a bad omen. Confucius saw it and said, “It is a unicorn.” He took it and said, “No charts come from the Yellow River, no writings come from the Lo River; I am surely finished.” Yan Hui died and Confucius said, “Heaven is destroying me.” Then on a hunt in the west he saw a unicorn and said, “My Way has come to an end.”65

When it comes to historical details, Sima nearly always prefers the Zuo zhuan, which is where he gets the details of the unicorn’s capture (the Gongyang asserts that a wood gatherer found it), but Sima has retained much of the Gongyang ’s account of Confucius’s reaction, as well as the metaphorical meaning of this event (adding a quotation from Analects 9.9 about river omens). Confucius’s emotional wrenching brings to mind his bitterest disappointments, and his reaction to Yan Hui’s death is recounted here, even though it actually took place some eleven years earlier.66 Sima Qian retains this sequence from the Gongyang, although he omits the reference to Zilu, whose death he mentions a little later. At this point in his narrative, Sima Qian inserts a series of quotations from the Analects, and the effect is to transform Confucius’s lament into a drama of missed recognition. To continue the preceding passage: He sighed and exclaimed, “ ‘No one knows me.’ Zigong asked, ‘How can it be that no one knows you?’ The Master replied, ‘I neither resent Heaven nor blame people. I have studied things below and penetrated into things above. Perhaps the one that knows me is Heaven’ ” (Analects 14.37). “Not surrendering their principles, not debasing their bodies; these were Bo Yi and Shu Qi! But Liu Xiahui and Shao Lian surrendered their principles and debased their bodies. Yu Zhong and Yi Yi lived in retirement but sent forth their words; their actions achieved purity and their inactions achieved balance. I am different from these, [with me] there is nothing absolutely permitted or absolutely forbidden” (Analects 18.8). “The Master said, ‘Alas! Alas! A gentleman is distressed when he leaves this world without a

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praiseworthy reputation’ ” (Analects 15.19). “My Way is not advancing” (Analects 5.7). How can I manifest myself to future generations?67

The last question was written for Confucius by Sima Qian, and Sima answers it immediately with a description of the Spring and Autumn Annals—how they were produced, the principles behind their organization, and their world-transforming effect. Sima Qian’s organization of this chapter presents Confucius’s editing of the Spring and Autumn Annals as the culminating work of his life, for his death follows swiftly. J. [Laments Zilu’s death] But first we read a brief notice of the death of this important disciple, without the lament noted in the Gongyang and in other Shiji chapters. There seems to have been some confusion about Zilu’s death—the “Hereditary House of Wey” agrees with the Zuo zhuan on Confucius’s reaction; the “Biographies of the Disciples of Confucius” reports a different lament by Confucius; and the Gongyang has yet a third. The “Biographies of Confucian Scholars,” however, holds that Zilu was still alive after Confucius’s death68—yet here Sima Qian places events in the order given by the Zuo zhuan: the discovery of the unicorn in 481 b.c.e., Zilu’s death the next year, and Confucius’s own demise in 479 b.c.e. K. [Death] Confucius falls ill, once more voices his disappointment and frustration (“The world has been without the Way for a long time, but no one has been able to follow me”),69 and then dies. It is hardly a glorious passing, and the inappropriateness is compounded by the duke of Lu’s extravagant, hypocritical mourning. In this case, Sima Qian is not content simply to allow readers to draw their own conclusions; he quotes the remainder of the Zuo zhuan passage, which records Zigong’s rebuttal and criticism of the duke’s hollow words.70 Recognition comes slowly for Confucius, over many generations. In the characteristic manner of the hereditary houses, after the death of the main character, Sima briefly describes the lives of his descendants. This makes sense when the deposition of a plot of land provides continuity, but in the case of Confucius, it is his philosophy that is passed on. Eventually his teachings are spread by his descendants and disciples throughout China, and his home becomes a shrine for followers, until even Gaozu, the founder of the Han dynasty, offers sacrifices there to Confucius (this itself is remarkable, since Gaozu passionately hated Confucian scholars). The trend seems positive, and Sima records the appointment by Emperor Wu of one of Confucius’s descendants as an academician (boshi). This action was the result of a series of edicts that provided imperial sponsorship for the

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study of Confucian classics and was one of the key factors in establishing Confucianism as the official state ideology of the Han dynasty. The course of Confucius’s posthumous rehabilitation continues in the closing comments, which I quote in full: The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks: In the Classic of Poetry it says, “The tall mountain, I look up to it; the high path, I try to follow it.” Although I cannot attain it, still my heart bids me on. When I read the writings of Confucius, I try to picture in my mind what sort of person he was. I traveled to the state of Lu, and there I saw the temple of Confucius with his carriage, clothes, and sacrificial vessels. Scholars often go there to study ritual at his house, and I wandered about awestricken, unable to leave. Throughout the world there have been gentlemen and kings of great accomplishment, as well as multitudes of worthy persons, who have been honored in their day and then forgotten after death. [By contrast] Confucius lived as a commoner, but after more than ten generations scholars still follow him. From the Son of Heaven, kings, and marquises on down, all in China who speak of six arts take the Master as their standard. Truly he can be called a Supreme Sage!71

This comment directly answers Confucius’s last words when he grieved that “no one has been able to follow (zong ) me.” After ten generations, “scholars still follow (zong ) him,” although my translation does not capture the other connotations of zong, which include “to honor,” “to take as one’s ancestor,” and “to pay court.” Confucius’s unhappy life is balanced by his posthumous success, and the only note of hesitancy is in Sima’s description of his trip to Confucius’s home. There the sense of loss and unfulfilled ambition is almost palpable. In the “Hereditary House of Confucius,” Sima Qian has arranged various traditions about Confucius’s life into a coherent biography. His historiographical method may not have been as acute as we might have hoped for in this crucial chapter—he could have straightened out more of the details from the years of wandering or rejected the fanciful stories from the Narratives of the States or been more suspicious of traditions about Confucius’s early official career in Lu—but instead, he has sketched out a sympathetic and moving portrait. Sima Qian tells the story of a wise and virtuous (but by no means perfect) man, who never gains the employment and acknowledgment that he deserves yet never completely loses heart. At

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the end of his life, he entrusts his insights to literature, in particular to the Spring and Autumn Annals, and then after his death, he is recognized and honored appropriately by scholars, emperors, and even historians like Sima Qian. Sima has created this narrative through the careful selection and arrangement of anecdotes and quotations. D. C. Lau felt that the “Hereditary House of Confucius” was weak because Sima was too inclusive: “Ssu-ma Ch’ien [Sima Qian] was exceedingly cautious in the way he dealt with his source material: nothing was to be rejected unless he could satisfy himself of its unreliability. Where there was room for doubt he would rather preserve that tradition and leave the reader to judge for himself.”72 But this is surely not the case. Readers have only to consult Han works such as the Kongzi jiayu to see how little of what was available actually made its way into the Shiji.73 And Sima Qian did not even put everything he considered reliable into the chapter on Confucius. Additional anecdotes and quotations appear in other Shiji chapters (especially the “Biographies of Disciples of Confucius,” chap. 67), and it is noteworthy that so much of chapter 47 comes from the Analects and the Zuo zhuan, which modern scholars regard as the most valuable sources for the life of Confucius. Sima Qian regarded these texts as reliable, yet in the “Hereditary House of Confucius” he used only a small percentage of the words and actions they attribute to Confucius. It also is significant, as Nie Shiqiao has pointed out, that in Sima’s synopsis of Confucius’s life and teachings, traditional Confucian virtues such as “benevolence” (ren) receive little attention. Instead, the focus is more consistently on issues of “ritual” (li).74 This accords with Sima’s conception of Confucius as a sage who shaped the world through proper language and ceremonial, rather than as a mere teacher of morals. Surely he taught moral principles, but his influence (especially through the Spring and Autumn Annals) was more far-reaching. Sima Qian structures his story around certain types of repeated incidents—encounters with recluses, Confucius’s exclamations of confidence despite imminent disaster, scheming ministers who undermine Confucius precisely because they do recognize his talent, and fathers who find Confucius’s strict moralizing too much to bear themselves but who nevertheless recommend him to their sons. He emphasizes his primary themes through verbal repetitions such as the phrase bu yong, “was not employed,” variations of which recur seven times in chapter 47.75 He provides historical contexts for quotations that in the Analects appear without chronological or geographical ties. Finally, Sima helps shape the reaction of readers to this mass of material through his juxtapositions, which allow us to perceive the bitter ironies

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and near misses of Confucius’s career. Perhaps the “Hereditary House of Confucius” highlights Confucius’s failures—there are far too many incidents of disappointment, frustration, betrayal, and criticism for this chapter to be a simple paean to the Sage—yet this makes his eventual redemption all the more dramatic. This brings us back to the old problem of the relationship between history and fiction. We cannot help feeling that from the standpoint of critical, accurate history, Sima Qian could have done a better job. He has fit the basic elements of Confucius’s life into a rough chronological framework, but it seems that in the end, literary considerations have outweighed historical standards. However, for Sima Qian, accuracy is not the final goal of historical labors; rather, it is a means of uncovering the moral significance of the past. Perhaps Sima felt that the true meaning of Confucius’s life was readily apparent in the chapter as it stands. At any rate, the pattern of humiliation and rejection, followed by literary effort and eventual recognition, was clear enough for Sima Qian to use as a model for his own life.

7

CONFUCIAN READING II

The only reason I’d care to be a king Would be to hear the subjects speak their mind And know that meant their minds belonged to me: “The King’s English”—imagine, owning a language! Howard Nemerov, “Gnomic Variations for Kenneth Burke”

e have seen how Sima Qian uses literary devices to shape his presentation of history, and if the Shiji does not offer firm answers to those searching the past, it at least provides provocative guidance. By shaping his narrative, Sima emulates Confucius’s example of judgmental historiography, but this was only half of the Confucian program. It remains to be seen whether Sima’s book was intended to shape the world itself. Readers may be influenced by Sima’s accounts, but is the wider world altered appreciably as well? More specifically, did Sima Qian in the Shiji attempt to refashion the world through the ritual use of language, implementing some type of Confucian rectification of names? To answer these questions, we turn now to one of the central narratives of the Shiji, told (as usual) through several overlapping/interlocking/ competing annals and biographies.1 This is the story of how the state of Qin, under the leadership of the First Emperor, defeated the Six States and unified all of China in 221 b.c.e. I believe that the Shiji is Sima’s bid to usurp the world order established by force in the Qin dynasty. In contrast to the coercion and punishments used by the First Emperor, Sima sought to reestablish morality as the basis for ordering the state and human society.

W

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I begin with my own narrative, based on Sima Qian’s, and then explore the implications of what he has done.

A World of Bronze The First Emperor began as a prince of the state of Qin during the Warring States era (403–221 b.c.e.), a time when the hundreds of small feudal states that claimed some loyalty to the early rulers of the Zhou dynasty had been reduced to just seven. These seven kingdoms were locked in a lethal struggle as they sought to outmaneuver and destroy one another, knowing full well that the constant warfare would come to an end only when one state ruled all of China. The term China, which today describes a nation-state, at that time referred to a culture or a civilization. Chinese people were those with a common heritage, including language and customs. Everyone else was regarded as barbarian. The ancient Greeks had a similar sense of identity (our word barbarian comes from the Greek attempt to imitate and denigrate the meaningless sounds of alien languages), but in their case, geography forced them to acknowledge the rival claims of Egypt and Persia. However, no other ancient civilizations intruded on the inhabitants of the Yellow River valley, and from the Warring States era on, the Chinese referred to their territory as Zhongguo, the “Middle Kingdom.” Early uses of this term in the Confucian classics implied that the Chinese occupied the center because they were surrounded on all sides by barbarians. To their credit, the Chinese distinguished among various tribes of barbarians, but the term zhong certainly included a valuative component in addition to its geographical reference. The “middle” was “important” (as in our English word central ); it was “proper,” and even when it meant only “mediocre, average,” its use as a cultural discriminator implied that barbarians were pathologically “not normal.” Because the boundaries between Chinese and barbarian were more cultural than geographical, there was always the possibility that a particular group might occupy an intermediary position, in which only some of what they did was “civilized,” that is, Chinese. This was the case with the people of Qin. Qin was located in the northwest, and even though the Zhou dynasty had begun in that region some eight hundred years earlier, the center of Chinese civilization had since shifted east, and the Qin were regarded by the rest of the states as semibarbarian. Although their ancestors had been

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only loosely affiliated with the Chinese, the Qin had been recruited to protect the western frontier when the Zhou court fled east in 771 b.c.e. In return for this service, their ruler was given the status of a feudal lord, but constant contact with barbarians to the west kept the process of sinicization slow. Their origins, location, and relatively late entry into the Chinese feudal system all contributed to the sense that they were essentially outsiders, but an even more important factor was their uncivilized behavior. For example, there were reports of human sacrifice. This was a delicate subject for the Chinese, since they all traced their civilization back to the Shang dynasty (ca. 1525–1025 b.c.e.), one of the few cultures in history that engaged in regular, extensive human sacrifice. The practice seems to have continued sporadically through the Zhou dynasty, though with increasing disapproval by the educated elite.2 By the Spring and Autumn era (722–481 b.c.e.), the records report shock and dismay at such instances. In 641 b.c.e., the duke of Song sacrificed the ruler of a subordinate state “in order to rally the Eastern Barbarians.” His minister of war observed that since sacrifices were intended to benefit humans, it made little sense to kill them in the process, and he explicitly contrasted such sacrifices with virtuous leadership.3 Having deliberately abandoned human sacrifice because of humane, civilized concerns, the Chinese were more than a little anxious about its recurrence. Thus, when Duke Wu of Qin was buried in 678 b.c.e. with sixty-six of his retainers and Duke Mu was buried in 621 b.c.e. with 177 followers, the rest of China regarded Qin as backward and barbaric.4 Worse yet, as with many cultural latecomers—though the Qin gradually adopted more and more Chinese customs (political institutions, protocol, scribes, religious ceremonies, music, and the like)—they got some things wrong. In the first year after their formal acceptance into the Chinese social order in 771 b.c.e., they performed the Western Sacrifice to the Lord on High (Shangdi). We note once again Sima Qian’s reaction to this event: Here the first sign of usurpation can be seen. The Records of the Ritualists states: “The Son of Heaven sacrifices to Heaven and Earth; the feudal Lords sacrifice to the famous mountains and great rivers within their realms.” But now the Qin were mixing [Chinese customs] with those of the Rong and Di barbarians. They gave first place to violence and brutality, putting benevolence and righteousness last. Although their position was that of a frontier vassal, they nevertheless offered the suburban sacrifice [of the Son of Heaven]. Gentlemen might well take fright at this.5

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In addition, the state of Qin was at the forefront of the rapid social change that characterized the late Zhou dynasty. In an apparent repudiation of the shared Chinese tradition, they were replacing their aristocratic, feudal government with a new centralized bureaucratic administration in which talented lower nobility, commoners, and even foreigners could rise to prominence. They were reforming traditional modes of taxation, land distribution, and family life to increase the agricultural efficiency and political cooperation of the peasants. And they were undermining the largely unwritten code of proper behavior (li) by promulgating detailed law codes that applied to everyone equally. Increasing military competition forced other states to initiate or adopt similar reforms, but none so eagerly embraced the dictatorial, antitraditional Legalist philosophy that inspired and coordinated the changes in Qin. Other states were more willing to compromise with their aristocratic elements and to maintain at least the pretense of conventional morality. Thus in 266 b.c.e., we find a minister of Wei arguing that Qin shares the customs of the Rong and Di barbarians and has the heart of a tiger or a wolf. Covetousness and brutality (tan li) characterize its love of profit and lack of integrity. It is unacquainted with propriety, righteousness, and virtuous conduct. If it has the advantage, it shows no respect for parents, kinsmen, and brothers, treating them as mere animals. The whole world knows this.6

At the age of twelve, the future First Emperor inherited a state organized for war and unencumbered by traditional inhibitions. Making full use of geographical advantage, talented ministers and generals, and tens of thousands of troops, he fought for twenty-five years, conquering one state after another until 221 b.c.e., when he defeated the last of his rivals. By the force of arms, bronze in this case, he had become the master of the known world, and he set out to recreate it in the image of Qin.7 Politically, the First Emperor destroyed the old feudal system and organized China into thirty-six commanderies, each staffed by a centralized, professional bureaucracy. He further consolidated his rule by confiscating weapons, relocating 120,000 potentially dangerous noble families, and tearing down former fortifications. In addition, his armies drove back the barbarians, and he ordered thousands of civilians to settle the newly pacified regions and stabilize the frontiers. Socially, the First Emperor unified the

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new nation by standardizing law codes, weights and measures, coinage, the axle length of carts, and the written form of the language. The First Emperor’s will to remake China did not stop with political institutions and social conventions but extended to the land itself. On his orders, mountains were cut through and valleys were filled in to construct an extensive system of roads, canals, and walls (including the fortifications that became the basis for the Great Wall of China).8 Political organization, social interaction, and even topography seemed susceptible to massive effort and the threat of force, but the First Emperor sought dominion in another realm as well, that of ideology. Like the first Zhou rulers, who justified their victory over the Shang dynasty by appealing to the concept of the “Mandate of Heaven,” the First Emperor tried to legitimize his own military conquests through a restructuring of thought. He sought to transform the categories by which people understood the world, and above all he wanted the power to define himself. His first recorded action as the ruler of an empire was to ask his chief ministers for advice about what title he should hold. In this speech he summarized in chronological order his victories over the states of Hann, Zhao, Wei, Chu, Yan, and Qi, but the language of his new political order was read back into the past, with each military conquest described as “punishment” (zhu) for some act of rebellion.9 The broken treaties, doublecrossings, and severed alliances he enumerated were common enough in the Warring States era, but the very notion of “revolt” assumes a unified, stable political entity wielding the authority to punish transgressors. Ignoring the fact that until that very year Qin was simply one state among equals in a protracted period of civil war, the First Emperor continued: Despite my personal weakness, I have relied on the spiritual power of my ancestors and called up armies to punish the violent and the rebellious. The six kings have all acknowledged their guilt and the world has been finally pacified (ding ). Now, if we do not change the names and designations, there will be nothing whereby we may signify our achievements, and so pass them on to future generations.10

His advisers, not being fools, replied in kind, noting that his “armies of righteousness had punished oppressors and bandits” and suggesting possible titles. The First Emperor finally settled on shi huangdi, “First August Emperor.” Earlier he, like his rivals, had used the title “king” (wang ), but

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this formerly exalted appellation now seemed too ordinary and mortal for the unprecedented power at his command.11 In a frenzy of renaming, the First Emperor declared that his orders would from now on be “edicts” and that his commands would be “decrees.” The people themselves became the “black-headed ones,” and even the Yellow River was rechristened as the “Powerful Waters.” A new world required new names for everything, and they all would come from the First Emperor, himself a new kind of sovereign. As with the biblical Adam, the act of naming signified both a beginning and dominion (though one may note that even Adam was denied the opportunity to name himself ). All this was the First Emperor’s attempt to gain control of the discourse of power, that is, the ability to define his place in the world. As he noted in a subsequent edict, I have heard that in high antiquity there were titles, but no posthumous names, and that in middle antiquity there were titles, but after death one’s deeds were recognized with a posthumous name. In this way, sons passed judgment on their fathers and subjects passed judgment on their rulers. Let there be no such labeling; I will not be caught in it! From this day forward I abolish the practice of posthumous naming. I will be the “First August Emperor,” and later generations will be designated by number, i.e., “Second Generation [Emperor],” “Third Generation [Emperor],” down to the “Ten Thousandth Generation [Emperor],” and this tradition will continue forever.12

For the rest of his life, the First Emperor went on periodic tours of his vast empire, and like universal sovereigns before him such as Darius I (521–486 b.c.e.) in Persia and Ashoka (r. ca. 272–232 b.c.e.) in India, he erected stone inscriptions on these journeys to celebrate his achievements and propagate his new vision of the world. These inscriptions reminded (or informed) subjects that “the six states were wicked: their covetousness and violence (tan li ) were insatiable, their cruelty and murder interminable until, pitying the people, the August Emperor sent a punishing army to manifest his military power,” and they praised the First Emperor as the one who “regulated all things and investigated the truth of affairs, so that each bears its proper name.”13 In my account of the First Emperor’s achievements, I have differentiated among his political, social, and topographical reforms. But these divisions are somewhat artificial, for under true unification there is no aspect of life

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that does not find its role as part of a seamless, harmonious whole. Thus the First Emperor uses the same term, ding, “to settle, establish, quiet,” to describe what he has done to the empire, to the duties of his people, to laws, punishments, and names, as well as to the land and terrain (the last was “settled” by “destroying city walls, breaking through river embankments, and leveling mountainous barriers”).14 The comprehensive nature of the First Emperor’s remaking of the world can be seen in this inscription from 218 b.c.e.: In his twentieth-eighth year the August Emperor made a new beginning. He adjusted the laws and regulations, standards for the ten thousand things. He clarified human concerns, bringing concord to father and son, sage, wise, benevolent and righteous, making plain the principle of the Way . . . . The merit of the August Emperor lies in diligently fostering basic concerns, exalting agriculture, abolishing lesser occupations, so the black-headed people may be rich. All under heaven are of one mind, single in will. Weights and measures have a single standard, words are written in a uniform way. Wherever sun and moon shine, where ships and wheeled vehicles bear cargo, all fulfill their allotted years, none who do not attain their goal . . . . The August Emperor’s virtue preserves and brings calm to the four extremes. Punishing disorder, dispelling harm, he furthers benefit and calls down good fortune. His frugal undertakings are timely, so that all occupations prosper and multiply. The black-headed people are at peace, never needing to take up arms. The six kinships guard one another, ever free from bandits and marauders. All delight in honouring instructions, complete in their knowledge of the laws . . . . wherever human tracks may reach, there are none who are not his subjects. In merit he tops the Five Emperors, his bounty reaching oxen and horses, none untouched by the ruler’s virtue, each at rest in his home.15

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Here is a comprehensive vision of a universal world order, encompassing government, law, economics, family relationships, communications, and nature.16 In short, the First Emperor tried to define the terms by which the world is understood and judged. Perhaps it is significant that even though the sparse archaeological remains of these inscriptions all are stone, two supplemental texts speak of inscribing the glories of the First Emperor on both “metal and stone.”17 The literal meaning of this phrase is unclear (Were there additional copies of the inscriptions engraved in bronze? Did the edict pillars originally have a bronze component? Was this a reference to inscribed bronze weights and measures?), but the metaphorical reference is obvious. Earlier rulers engraved their deeds on stone monuments and bronze vessels, particularly the latter. These texts often commemorated important events and specified feudal relationships; for example, in 554 b.c.e. a minister of Lu observed, What should be engraved is—for the Son of Heaven, a record of his virtue; for feudal lords, notices of their seasonal activities and calculations of their accomplishments; for great officers, announcements of their military expeditions. . . . Moreover, when a great state attacks a small one and captures spoils in order to manufacture ritual vessels and implements, they should engrave upon them their brilliant achievements so that they might demonstrate to their sons and grandsons the ascendance of the virtuous, and the castigation of the improper.18

Through the manufacture and distribution of these objects (to either descendants or vassals), ancient kings sought to communicate and validate their own accounts of the world.19 The reference to inscriptions on metal and stone, then, represents an effort by the First Emperor’s companions (if not himself ) to tap into another world of bronze, a conceptual world established and maintained by the manipulation of numinous ceremonial bronzes. By the Warring States era, the use of bronze had become commonplace and secularized and large inscribed vessels were rare, yet the prestige of early artifacts still held. On his return from the site where the first reference to metal records was inscribed, the First Emperor stopped at the river Si and ordered a thousand divers to search for the legendary, sacred, bronze cauldrons that had once belonged to the Zhou king and were rumored to have been buried in the waters.20 That effort failed, but on the whole the First Emperor did succeed in appropriating to himself the legitimizing power of the ancient ritual

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bronzes. Those vessels and his own stone (and bronze?) inscriptions had a common goal—both were attempts to impose a ruler’s self-definition on the world and the future. The Qin inscriptions are surprising in at least two ways. First, unlike Darius and Ashoka, the First Emperor does not invoke the authority of the gods. Although in speeches he occasionally mentions “relying on the spiritual power of my ancestors,” none of this appears in any of his inscriptions.21 It may be that he recognized no supreme being with whom an alliance would be beneficial, but it is also likely that he was deliberately rejecting the limitations of the Zhou precedent. When the first Zhou kings overthrew the Shang dynasty, they invoked their own god, Tian, “Heaven,” who with them had proved more powerful than Shangdi, the ancestral deity of the Shang. The Zhou king referred to himself as the Son of Heaven, Tianzi, and, claiming to rule with Heaven’s approval, professed obedience to his will. Such deference would have been unthinkable to the First Emperor. Rather, by using the word di as part of his new title, the First Emperor was asserting the equivalence of his own authority to that held by legendary rulers and spiritual beings in the past.22 Second, despite his successful employment of Legalist tactics and ministers, the First Emperor’s justifications for his rule are decidedly eclectic. He refers to his mastery of “laws” and “punishments and names” and his acting “in accordance with the times,” all important Legalist principles, but he also claims the cardinal Confucian virtues of “wisdom, benevolence, and righteousness.” He uses phrases borrowed from the Confucian classics and offers filial harmony as a critical value.23 Yet there is also Daoist praise for his concordance with natural processes, and an inscription erected by his ministers notes that he “embodies the Way (dao) and acts with power (de),” using the key terms from the Classic of the Way and Its Power (Daodejing).24 Much of the First Emperor’s renaming, along with his changing of the calendar, the ceremonies, and the official colors (actions that marked the inauguration of a new dynasty) was explicitly derived from the speculations of Warring States cosmological theorists.25 These scholars held that the Five Phases succeeded one another in a regular fashion and that each dynasty was associated with a particular phase. Since the Zhou dynasty ruled by the power of fire, its natural successor would rule by water, the next phase in the cycle. The First Emperor enthusiastically adopted this idea as yet another attempt to provide a natural, persuasive foundation for his reign. In addition, the most prominent argument in the inscriptions is that the First Emperor’s rule is justified because his conquests have ushered in

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a time of peace and prosperity for the common people, and his concern for the masses and tireless efforts on their behalf are constantly lauded. The idea of a sovereign who works diligently for the welfare of his people does not accord with either Daoist or Legalist principles. Indeed it seems nearly Mohist in its emphasis on labor, authority, and material well-being, but the appeal of a beneficent sovereign probably transcended any specific philosophy. As K. C. Chang has written, “Obviously the idea that a king’s claim to rule was founded on merit may be characterized as a Confucian ideal, but it was actually appealed to by both the Shang and the Chou [Zhou] as justification for their rule and must be regarded as a part of the art of governance in ancient China.”26 The First Emperor’s inscriptions drew on several of the major schools of contemporary philosophy, but they all were cited for a single purpose—to legitimize the new imperial order. This new, unforeseen usage—a sort of hijacking of the intellectual heritage of the Warring States era—could be successful only if history itself were held hostage. Since most schools held that the standards for interpreting and judging political and social patterns were firmly rooted in antiquity, the First Emperor needed to reinterpret the past in order to gain control of present. Thus the new era of peace celebrated in the inscriptions is not depicted as the renewal of a past golden age. The legendary sage rulers revered by Confucians, Daoists, and Mohists are occasionally mentioned, but only to compare them unfavorably with the First Emperor himself—“his achievements surpass those of the Five Emperors.” In the inscription written by his ministers, we read: The Five Emperors and Three Kings of ancient times, knowing that their teachings were all different and their laws and regulations were unclear, pretended to be awe-inspiring spirits and divinities in order to deceive those in far-off regions, but the reality did not accord with their use of names, so they did not last long. Even before these sovereigns died, the feudal lords rose in rebellion and their laws and orders went unheeded. But now the August Emperor has unified all the lands within the seas and organized them into commanderies and districts. All the world is at peace.27

The simple assertion that the First Emperor was superior to all historical figures proved less than persuasive, however, and rival conceptions of the world continued to be defended and, even more annoyingly, were used to judge the First Emperor himself.

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The key issue in the resurgence of past standards was the old feudal system. Shortly after unification in 221 b.c.e., the chancellor Wang Wan suggested that the First Emperor enfeoff his sons as feudal lords. Acting on the advice of the Legalist Li Si, his superintendent of trials, the First Emperor rejected this proposal and instead organized China into the thirtysix commanderies.28 Eight years later, however, the recommendation to reinstate the feudal order was again made, this time by Chunyu Yue, who cited the examples of past dynasties and warned: “As for not imitating the ancients in the arrangement of affairs and yet being able to survive for a long time—never have I heard of such a thing.”29 Once again Li Si forcefully argued that this would be an unwise policy, and perhaps frustrated by its recurrence, he offered a proposal of his own: The Five Emperors did not imitate each other, the Three Dynasties did not carry on each other’s ways, yet each was well governed. It was not that they rejected one another, but that the times changed . . . . But nowadays scholars, instead of looking to the present, study antiquity in order to criticize their own age, misleading and confusing the black-headed people. As chancellor, your servant Li Si must speak out on pain of death. In the past the empire was fragmented and in confusion and no one was able to unite it. Therefore the feudal rulers rose up side by side, all of them declaiming on antiquity in order to disparage the present, parading empty words in order to confuse the facts. Men prided themselves on their private theories and criticized the measures adopted by their superiors. Now the August Emperor has unified all under heaven, distinguishing black from white and establishing a single source of authority. Yet these adherents of private theories band together to criticize the laws and directives. Hearing that an order has been handed down, each one proceeds to discuss it in the light of his theories. At court they disapprove in their hearts; outside they debate it in the streets. They hold it a mark of fame to defy the ruler, regard it as lofty to take a dissenting stance, and they lead the lesser officials in fabricating slander. If behaviour such as this is not prohibited, then in upper circles the authority of the ruler will be compromised, and in lower ones cliques will form. Therefore it should be prohibited. I therefore request that all records of the historians other than those of the state of Qin be burned. With the exception of the academicians whose duty it is to possess them, if there are persons anywhere in

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the empire who have in their possession copies of the Odes [Classic of Poetry], the Documents, or the writings of the hundred schools of philosophy, they shall in all cases deliver them to the governor or his commandant for burning. Anyone who ventures to discuss the Odes or Documents shall be executed in the marketplace. Anyone who uses antiquity to criticize the present shall be executed along with his family. Any official who observes or knows of violations and fails to report them shall be equally guilty. Anyone who has failed to burn such books within thirty days of the promulgation of this order shall be subjected to tatoo [sic ] and condemned to “wall dawn” labour. The books that are to be exempted are those on medicine, divination, agriculture, and forestry. Anyone wishing to study the laws and ordinances should have a law official for his teacher.30

These new regulations were immediately approved and implemented and have been notorious ever since. I have quoted this memorial at length because it is crucial to understanding how the First Emperor attempted to fashion an imperial ideology. Obviously, he was willing to use force to root out rival accounts of the world, but as Derk Bodde observed, he did not try to destroy all the literature of the past. Certain nonpolitical writings were spared, and even dangerous works were allowed to remain in the possession of the academicians or, more literally, “scholars of wide learning,” a group of seventy intellectuals who represented a variety of schools and advised the emperor.31 The First Emperor recognized that history was useful—after all, it is necessary to know something about the legendary sage-rulers in order to be impressed by the man who claimed to have bested them. His inscriptions quoted the Classic of Poetry and the Classic of Documents; and even Li Si cited historical precedents to prove the dangers of independent thinking—but access and interpretation had to be strictly controlled. The chronicles of the other feudal states (which, of course, would have represented the Qin as evil and opportunistic) were to be off limits to everyone forever, since they directly contradicted the new orthodoxy, but more theoretical writings were available for officially sanctioned scholarship at court (readers there could be dealt with if they got out of line, and tradition credits the First Emperor with the execution of more than 460 of them).32 The real danger lay with unofficial, private studies of history and literature. It is worth noting that Li Si’s memorial did not really deal with the problem at hand—the proposal to reinstate feudalism was made during a banquet of the “scholars of wide learning,” who were allowed to keep their books and make

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outrageous recommendations even after the new regulations were in effect. The argument at court simply provided Li Si and the First Emperor with an opportunity to rid the empire of insubordinate, competing worldviews. It was an excuse to bring in weapons of bronze to enforce their ideology. The last element of the First Emperor’s grand program of comprehensive unification was his attempt to bring heaven itself under his dominion. This endeavor was, by its nature, more elusive than political conquest, and consequently, its results were less impressive. On his official tours of inspection, the First Emperor visited sacred sites and conducted elaborate sacrifices designed to win over the heavenly powers and impress his earthly subjects, but these often ended in a semicomic mode. In 219 b.c.e., he consulted with Confucian scholars in the eastern region of Qi about performing the legendary feng and shan sacrifices. Although the scholars disagreed among themselves, the First Emperor climbed Mount Tai and made a sacrifice anyway. On the way down, however, he was caught in a violent rainstorm and had to take cover under a tree. This was an inauspicious, potentially embarrassing mishap, but he soon recovered his imperial poise by granting the tree the title of “Gentleman of the Fifth Rank.”33 In a similar vein, when the First Emperor arrived at the shrine of Mount Xiang and a sudden windstorm made it nearly impossible to cross the river, he inquired more closely into the identity of the deity. The shrine turned out to be the burying place of the daughter of Emperor Yao, who was also the wife of Emperor Shun (the fourth and fifth of the Five Emperors whom he was always claiming to have surpassed), and the First Emperor, in a rage, attempted to punish her spirit by ordering three thousand convicts to strip the mountain of trees and make it red.34 (One is reminded of Xerxes ordering his men to administer three hundred lashes to the Hellespont, throw in a pair of fetters, and then brand it with hot irons, all in retribution for a storm that destroyed his pontoon bridges).35 In 212 b.c.e., back in his capital at Xianyang, the First Emperor initiated a massive building program that mirrored the configuration of the heavens: “He made a covered road that started at Epang Palace, crossed the Wei River, and then connected with Xianyang, in the likeness of the Heavenly Plank Road [made up of six stars] that cuts across the Milky Way to join the Heavenly Apex and the Encampment constellation.”36 By incorporating the natural, fixed structures of the heavens into his own environment, he hoped to acquire their permanence. This apparently had been a major goal of his reign, since some 700,000 castrated criminals and convicts were conscripted to work on the Epang Palace and his mausoleum. The First Emperor’s quest

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for immortality eventually became so obsessive that he ordered hundreds of palaces built so that his status as a “true man” (zhenren) would not be compromised by anyone’s knowledge of his exact whereabouts. He had been told by court magicians that this would facilitate their finding the “elixir of immortality” (busi zhi yao), but their efforts were always unsuccessful.37 Perhaps as a result of surviving three assassination attempts, the First Emperor was terrified of losing all that he had so laboriously acquired. “He hated to speak of death, and among his ministers there was no one who dared bring up the subject,” but immortality was apparently another matter, and many stepped forward to offer advice.38 The First Emperor was constantly being duped by unscrupulous magicians who claimed to know the secrets of longevity. After wasting years and several fortunes, the magicians finally blamed monstrous fish that had kept them away from the magic islands where they were sure the elixir was located. In characteristically aggressive fashion, the First Emperor traveled to the coast where he shot a giant fish but then died on the way back to Xianyang. (Ironically, his ministers covered up the fact of his death—made obvious by the odor of his rapidly decaying corpse—by loading salted fish into the carriages accompanying his own.)39 This awkward end to a remarkable career brings us back to his tomb at Mount Li. All the while the First Emperor was furiously trying to avoid death, he was at the same time making elaborate preparations for his eventual demise. These preparations took the form of a model of the universe, encased in protective bronze. The First Emperor’s mausoleum was a working model in two senses. It included mechanical machinery for circulating mercury (which stood for the waters of the empire), but it also was intended to work for the First Emperor. Because his spirit would not be satisfied with ruling over a toy China in an underground chamber, the model was intended to influence the outside world as well as represent it. In a culture that emphasized correlative thinking (in which things of a similar nature could influence one another without direct contact), the careful sealing off of the tomb from intruders would ensure its smooth functioning, which would in turn guarantee the orderly operation of the outside world, along with the First Emperor’s continuing domination of both.40 At Mount Li his spirit would receive the sacrifices from his son, the Second Emperor, and as a divine ancestor he could continue his reign on a more spiritual plane. The tomb was thus the culmination of the First Emperor’s efforts to consolidate all things under his authority. It unified space through its representation of all the empire, but it also brought

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together heaven and earth and the natural and human worlds. In addition, time itself was collapsed by associations with Mount Li, which represented both the beginning and the culmination of Qin’s involvement with Chinese civilization. In 771 b.c.e., King You of Zhou was killed by barbarians at the foot of Mount Li. When the ruler of Qin came to the rescue of the dynasty, he was rewarded with a feudal title and fief, and 550 years later the king of Qin ruled all of China.41 The First Emperor’s mausoleum was the architectural counterpart to the orderly, ideal world of his inscriptions, and like them, it was intended to add control over the future to his domination of the past and present. How successful were the First Emperor’s efforts? This question can be answered in several ways. From one perspective, he was a dismal failure. Despite meticulous planning and massive expenditure, the actual life span of the government and monuments built of stone and bronze was closer to that of salted fish, despite being intended to last for ten thousand generations. The dynasty the First Emperor founded barely outlasted the brief reign of his son; after fifteen years it was over. Even his wondrous tomb was looted and burned. From another perspective, however, the First Emperor’s legacy was quite durable. The next dynasty, the Han, strenuously denounced the oppression and immorality of the Qin rulers but then quietly adopted nearly all their practices and institutions, from commanderies to laws, from ceremonies to imperial titles. In fact, the basic pattern of government established by the First Emperor lasted until the abdication of the last emperor of China in 1911. As Derk Bodde has written, “The year 221 b.c.e., which marks the shift from state to empire, is consequently by far the most important single date in Chinese history before the revolutionary changes of the present century.”42 Even the fact that China is today a unified country, despite a total area and regional diversity rivaling those of western Europe, is due in no small measure to the reforms of the First Emperor. But in another respect the First Emperor failed miserably—in the end, he entirely lost the power to define himself, a task that was usurped by Sima Qian about one hundred years later. That is, most of our information about the First Emperor comes through the mind of this single person. Indeed, we might consider the First Emperor, as we know him, to be the creation of Sima Qian. Like the convicts who labored on the tomb at Mount Li, Sima—also a castrated criminal—worked with ink and brush to fashion another monument to the First Emperor, one that, though written on only fragile bamboo, managed to outlast the stone and bronze.

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Contesting the World At first, Sima Qian might seem an unlikely challenger to the First Emperor. As a minor official in the court of Emperor Wu, his position and power could hardly have been more different from that of the First Emperor. Indeed, the First Emperor and Sima Qian seem to be polar opposites— dictator and victim, military lord and bureaucrat, Legalist and Confucian, destroyer of the past and historian—but it is important to recognize that the two men were actually engaged in the same contest.43 Each sought to define the world by reordering history, naming and categorizing, and controlling the foundations of discourse. It is useful to think of Sima Qian as the anti– First Emperor, the opposite who would later despoil the kingdom. Strange as it may seem, Sima Qian wrote a history whose intent was to undo, point by point, the ideological constructs of the First Emperor. The First Emperor attempted to vilify and eradicate the feudal lords, whereas Sima restored them to a place of prominence in his history.44 The First Emperor sent generals to build walls and enforce a strict border between the Chinese and the barbarians (with the Qin people firmly inside the circle of Chinese civilization), but Sima included chapters on the barbarians and outlined their long interaction with the Chinese (freely documenting the barbaric origins of the Qin). Whereas the First Emperor executed wouldbe assassins such as Jing Ke, Sima Qian honored them. Whereas the First Emperor carefully concealed his whereabouts and the contents of his tomb, Sima revealed their secrets to the world. And whereas the First Emperor tried to destroy the influence of the hundred schools of thought, Sima restored and corrected their sayings. Even more impressively, Sima labored heroically to reverse the First Emperor’s suppression of literature in a literal fashion: When the Way of Zhou came to an end, the Qin suppressed and eliminated the old writings. They burned and destroyed the Classic of Poetry and the Classic of Documents, and consequently the charts and records of the Bright Hall, the stone rooms, the metal boxes, and the jade tablets became scattered and confused. . . . Of the remains of literature and ancient affairs scattered throughout the world, there is nothing that has not been exhaustively collected by the Grand Astrologers.45

But perhaps Sima Qian’s greatest victory over the First Emperor was his rewriting of the sovereign’s own life. The First Emperor desperately tried

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to distance himself from all that had preceded him. He granted himself a new title with which to reign over a new political system, and he tightly controlled access to the past. Sima Qian undermines these pretensions by placing him in a familiar context. The first chapters of the Shiji trace the fortunes of the Five Emperors and the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, and Zhou), next the state of Qin, and then the First Emperor himself. With this organization, Sima has forced the First Emperor back into the dynastic cycle, with its echoes of the Mandate of Heaven. In addition, Sima accepts the Confucian myth that the earlier sage-kings were themselves the rulers of a unified China, a notion that both diminishes the uniqueness of the First Emperor’s achievement and invites invidious comparisons. Yet Sima Qian’s arrangement is not quite the traditional cycle. Would it not have been more appropriate to place the chapter on Qin with those of the other feudal houses? After all, during the entire span of that chapter, the Zhou royal house was technically in power, even if its actual influence was negligible. Sima’s contextualization, even though it now seems natural enough after another two thousand years of dynasties that have come and gone, was revolutionary in his own time. Scholars who were trying to make sense of the world through conventional categories simply did not know what to make of the Qin dynasty, which seemed a horrendous aberration, and Sima chides their shortsightedness: Scholars blindly follow what they have heard, and when they see that the Qin possessed the empire for only a day, they do not investigate the end and the beginning of the matter. Instead, they hold it up as an object of ridicule and dare not speak [seriously] of it. This is no different from trying to eat with your ears. How pitiful!46

In the traditional Mandate of Heaven schema, a strong, vigorous, moral first ruler is eventually succeeded by weak and licentious descendants, who eventually lose the Mandate. But in the brief Qin dynasty, it appeared that the founder and the loser were the same person. Sima solves this conundrum by writing the “Basic Annals of the Qin,” in which he demonstrates that the Qin house did have strong and accomplished early rulers (like Duke Mu), whose achievements were then undone by the First Emperor. With a little fudging, Sima showed that it was possible to fit the First Emperor into the traditional dynastic cycle. Note that unlike many of his contemporaries, Sima was willing to allow the Qin’s achievements a certain amount of dignity, but only on his own terms.

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Similarly, the First Emperor’s successes are duly recorded in his biography, but once again Sima’s selection of context serves to subvert our overall impression. Although military triumphs are recorded, they are punctuated by notices of strange, unnatural occurrences. For example: In the seventeenth year of [the First Emperor’s] reign (230 b.c.e.), the Chamberlain of the Capital Teng led troops against the state of Hann, captured King An of Hann, and annexed all of his territory, which was made into the Yingchuan Commandery. There was an earthquake. The Dowager-queen Huayang died. There was a great famine among the people.47

In Sima Qian’s telling, the relentless advances of Qin armies find their counterpoint in an uncanny succession of comets, floods, droughts, locusts, and unusual snows and thunders (all traditional signs that the Mandate was about to be lost). Likewise, the Confucian virtues proclaimed in the First Emperor’s inscriptions are belied by the accounts of his treatment of Confucian texts and scholars, as well as his general oppression of the common people in his building projects and military campaigns. And his claims to unprecedented greatness ring hollow in a chapter that goes on to recount the surprisingly quick (and undignified) demise of his regime. With regard to religious observances, Sima Qian’s reference to the killing of concubines and craftsmen at the mausoleum of the First Emperor, with its overtones of human sacrifice, seems to indicate a slide back to barbarism, and the attention lavished on the First Emperor’s superstitiousness and gullibility in the “Treatise on Feng and Shan Sacrifices” (chap. 28) provide an unflattering context from which to assess the First Emperor’s judgment (or lack thereof ). Sima Qian even manages to exploit Five Phases theorizing, the First Emperor’s favorite mode of legitimization, to undermine the credibility of the imperial sacrifices. As we noted, the First Emperor proclaimed that he had overthrown the Zhou (whom he associated with the power of fire) by virtue of the power of water, and he reformed imperial ritual, renamed the Yellow River, and increased his reliance on harsh laws in order to bring his administration into conformance with the force of water. But when Sima relates the First Emperor’s arrogant appropriation of traditional sacrifices, in nearly every instance there is some mishap involving water. After performing the feng on Mount Tai, the First Emperor was caught in a violent storm; the river Si thwarted his efforts to recover the Zhou bronzes (he had fasted and

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sacrificed beforehand); and a great wind nearly prevented him from crossing the Yangtze after his sacrifice to the deity at Mount Xiang. In addition, between his sacrifices to the sage-rulers Shun and Yu, terrible waves in the Zhe River forced him to take a detour of 120 li to find another place to cross.48 It is also significant that in Sima’s biography of Zou Yan (the foremost proponent of Five Phases analysis), he identifies an orthodox Confucian core to Zou’s theories. After a brief account of Zou Yan’s cosmological, historical, and geographical theories, Sima concludes: His teachings were all of this sort. But if one wishes to trace these ideas to their source, one ends at benevolence and righteousness, restraint and frugality. His teachings are merely extensions of that which begins in the proper hierarchy between ruler and subject, superiors and subordinates, and the six relationships.49

Sima concedes that Zou Yan was much more popular than Confucius ever was but suggests that perhaps Zou’s esoteric and extravagant conjectures were simply devices to get the attention of rulers. Once he had gained access, he could lead his hearers back to the virtues articulated in the Classic of Poetry. In fact, Zou Yan’s theories posed a considerable challenge to traditional Confucian beliefs. As Vitaly Rubin wrote, Proponents of the Five Powers [phases] theory introduced an entirely new interpretation of historical change: one dynasty does not replace another as a result of the moral degeneration of the old one and the virtuous behavior of the founder of the new dynasty; rather, the replacement occurs in the course of the natural and inevitable cyclical process of struggle (which was understood by the legalists as war) and victory. For the proponents of the Five Powers theory, as well as for legalists, historical change had no connection at all with moral or religious values.50

Sima Qian, who is virtually our only source for information about Zou Yan, has brought him back into the Confucian fold (or “rehabilitated” him, in Joseph Needham’s words).51 Just as Sima undermines the world of the First Emperor by forcing him back into the Mandate of Heaven cycle, so also Sima’s Confucian readings of Zou Yan defuse the threat posed by the First Emperor’s ideological forerunner.

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In the end, the First Emperor that we know is the one presented by Sima Qian—a hardworking, meticulous, superstitious, paranoid, megalomaniacal, ruthless man. The portrait is harsh, but perhaps not entirely unsympathetic. It is somewhat unsettling to see so powerful a man lose control so quickly. For instance, toward the end the First Emperor even forfeited his prized power of naming. Sima Qian writes: “The Epang Palace was not yet finished. When it was completed, the First Emperor intended to make a change and choose an auspicious name with which to name it, but because it was built at Epang, the whole world called it Epang Palace.”52 And long after the book is put away, we remember the pathetic predicament of a man who finds that even as the most powerful person in the world, the things he most desires are beyond his grasp: “The First Emperor was not happy. He ordered his academicians to compose poems about immortals and True Men [to become one had been his own ambition], and wherever he went on his travels throughout the empire, he commanded musicians to sing and play these pieces.”53 This remark then leads to the last round of bad omens, frantic sacrifices, and empty inscriptions. All this may seem to imply that Sima Qian is a historian in the familiar Western sense, that is, a historian who patiently sifts through the evidence and produces a coherent, careful narrative that both depicts and analyzes the past. But Sima Qian’s Shiji is a very different kind of history, for it not only tells the story of the past, it also seeks to represent the past in a symbolic way. Like the tomb of the First Emperor, the Shiji is a model of the cosmos, a world inscribed on thousands of bamboo slips. In fact, the Shiji is a competing model that eventually proved victorious. The First Emperor tried to use his political might to fashion a new world, one untainted by history, but in the end he was forced to assume his proper place in the cosmos created by Sima Qian’s Shiji. Perhaps the First Emperor had a premonition of the vulnerability of his ideological world. Even during his lifetime there was an attempt made to overthrow it, when an unknown author dared to write a counterinscription on a mysterious stone. The ferocity of the First Emperor’s response may be an indication of his nervousness: In the 36th year [211 b.c.e.], Mars lodged in the section of the sky dominated by the Heart Constellation. There was a falling star that came down in Eastern Commandery, and when it hit the ground it became a stone. Someone among the black-headed people inscribed upon the stone the following: “The First August Emperor will die

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and his territory will be divided.” When the First Emperor heard of this, he sent the imperial secretary to investigate. No one confessed, so he seized and executed all the people who lived in the area near where the stone had been found, and he melted the stone in fire.54

But there was nothing the First Emperor could do when Sima Qian wrote his bamboo book. We may wonder why the task of rewriting the world seemed so urgent to Sima Qian. After all, both his rival and the dynasty he had founded had been safely out of the way for more than a hundred years. Confucianism was well on its way toward a reconciliation with the imperial system (including its hereditary emperorship, standing army, and elaborate law code), and even the famous proscription of literature had long ago been rescinded (in 191 b.c.e.). And yet Sima Qian sacrificed his reputation, his dignity, and his manhood to reconstruct the past. Why? I believe the answer lies in contemporary politics. After a period of relative peace, the world of bronze was staging a comeback in the person of Sima’s own sovereign, Emperor Wu, who was once again following an aggressive, activist course of centralization. During his long reign (141–87 b.c.e.), he moved decisively to weaken the remaining feudal lords and bring nearly all the empire under the imperial system of commanderies and counties. He forcibly relocated wealthy and prominent families to undercut their local power. He raised taxes and established government monopolies over the production of salt, iron, and alcohol, in part to pay for massive campaigns against the barbarians of the north and south. Emperor Wu also aimed to expand his dominion through conquest, the building of new fortifications, and the settlement of new areas. Government intervention in the economy included the bureaucratic regulation of prices, currency, transportation, and trade. Imperial officials relied increasingly on harsh, complicated law codes, and ministers often came from the profit-minded merchant class that Confucius had warned against. In addition, Emperor Wu sought to consolidate the symbolic framework of his regime by reforming the calendar, revising religious ritual, and initiating the practice of multiple reign periods (each characterized by some imperial slogan). In short, it appeared that the Legalist techniques of government that had made the Qin so hated and unstable were reappearing once again. It is safe to assume that Sima Qian viewed these developments with alarm, for much of the Shiji can be read as a protest against such policies,

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from the “Biographies of Cruel Officials” (all except one were employed by Emperor Wu) to the “Treatise on the Feng and Shan Sacrifices,” in which the superstitions of the First Emperor and Emperor Wu are suggestively paired. Similarly, lengthy passages from the “Treatise on the Economy” (chap. 30) and the “Biographies of Moneymakers” (chap. 129) are frequently interpreted as thinly veiled criticisms of Emperor Wu’s fiscal policies, and several of the biographies devoted to generals and barbarian tribes provide abundant evidence of misdirection in Emperor Wu’s military policies. Finally, it is perhaps not coincidental that Emperor Wu had his own share of problems with water (detailed in the “Treatise on Hydrography,” chap. 29).55 Here we must beware of falling back into old patterns of Shiji criticism. Beginning in the Later Han dynasty, many readers have seen the Shiji as a cloaked diatribe against Emperor Wu. I agree that Sima disparages his sovereign, but I have argued that the Shiji’s cosmological nature makes it much more than merely a means of settling scores. Although Emperor Wu’s authoritarian policies made Sima’s project urgent, we should bear in mind that his real target was the First Emperor. His goal was to overthrow the archetypal world of bronze, and attacks on later incarnations, though they might aid the cause, were clearly secondary. I believe that Sima Qian’s jabs at Emperor Wu turned traditional moral-historiographical procedures upside down—Sima was using the present to criticize the past. Actually, Sima Qian did not explicitly criticize the First Emperor; instead, he emphasized certain patterns and events that encouraged readers to reach critical conclusions on their own. Similarly, when his editing highlights parallels between the First Emperor and Emperor Wu, readers recognize that the two sovereigns belong to the same category and that the same critical responses apply to both. The structure of the Shiji allows Sima to match like with like (even though the “Basic Annals of Emperor Wu” are no longer extant). Various treatises set the policies of the First Emperor and Emperor Wu side by side, but also important is the hereditary houses section. There the states brought to an end by the First Emperor’s inexorable march to the throne are followed by chapters devoted to a few of the noble families that were raised up and then disinherited by the Han emperors. The hereditary houses mix together large kingdoms with much smaller marquisates, but the pattern is the same. Nearly every chapter follows the fortunes of a noble family from their enfeoffment to the time when their descendants lose their land and title. The kingdoms in particular proved reluctant allies of the Han court, and several revolted in 154 b.c.e. The central government used this rebellion, along with various crimes committed by

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kings and the failure in some cases to produce heirs, as excuses to reduce the size of the kingdoms and to otherwise dilute their power by splitting them into smaller parts and appointing their senior officials. Emperor Wu continued to increase the power of the central government at the expense of kingdoms, and although he appointed marquises for his own purposes, he brought many of the older lines to an end.56 According to the sixth chronological table (chap. 18), Gaozu granted marquisates to 143 of his followers, but by the end of Emperor Wu’s reign only three remained intact, and Emperor Wu himself had put an end to seventy noble lines. Similarly, the next table reveals that of the ninety-two fiefs granted by the four emperors between Gaozu and Wu,57 only one was still held by the same family at the death of Emperor Wu, who had personally eliminated thirty-six. In the prefaces to these chapters, Sima is somewhat reticent about what he thinks of all this, but I suspect that he was disturbed. When he notes that this rate of turnover was not characteristic of the Zhou dynasty, it appears that he intends the comparison to be less than flattering to the Han.58 Elsewhere he speaks warmly of the practice of appointing feudal lords,59 and he is critical of officials who twist the law in order to bring down kings and marquises. But once again, one of the most important pieces of evidence is the hereditary houses section. Clearly, the feudal lords of the Warring States era, who headed large independent states, were very different from the subordinate kings and minor marquises of the Han, yet Sima groups them together, and by so doing he implies that their declines in the Qin dynasty and again during his own time were part of the same process. But they were not, which is partly why in his history of the Han dynasty, Ban Gu can entirely dispense with the section on hereditary houses. This digression on Sima Qian and hereditary houses illustrates how Sima used the structure of the Shiji to impart meaning to the world, but an even more important historiographical issue is at stake. Sima’s favorable attitude toward the feudal lords is indicative of a general wariness toward consolidation under single authority. He celebrates assassins (chap. 86) and local bosses (chap. 124), and he writes surprisingly sympathetic portraits of Han dynasty rebels such as Han Xin (chap. 92) and Liu An, the king of Huainan (chap. 118). And of course, the fragmented structure of the Shiji is itself a disavowal of centralized control. Many scholars have surmised Sima Qian’s support for political consolidation (yi tong ), taking their cue from a line in his autobiography in which he

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reports his father’s lament that he had not been fully able to commemorate those involved in the Han dynasty’s “bringing all within the seas under one rule” (hai nei yi tong ).60 Yet it seems to me that Sima Qian’s support for this program was qualified. Political unity was preferable to the chaos of the Warring States era, but the First Emperor (and Emperor Wu) went too far. The best regime was one that kept the country together but allowed for a measure of regional and intellectual autonomy. I think that Sima Qian would have preferred a Son of Heaven ruling in conjunction with feudal lords, much as he imagined had been the case in the early Zhou dynasty. This conclusion has important implications for the contest between the worlds of bronze and bamboo. Sima Qian does not want to overthrow the ideological world of the First Emperor and replace it with one of his own making. The Shiji imparts to the world a degree of structure, but not an overpowering, all-encompassing, coercive type of order. Sima Qian is not a historian who tells us exactly what to believe. Instead, he suggests and arranges, and at the same time he provides enough information to support a variety of interpretations.61 It might be too much to say that the Shiji was designed to deconstruct itself, but Sima does leave room for flexibility, dissenting opinions, and even corrective criticisms. Not only does Sima Qian use the Shiji to censure overly centralized authority in the Qin and Han, but through the very act of writing a universal history, he has also provided the intellectual ammunition needed by ideological rebels in all ages. The First Emperor attempted to limit access to history in response to criticisms based on historical precedents; Sima Qian conveniently brings together all sorts of stories and records so that future critics of authoritative regimes need not wander far in search of ominous examples. If the form of the Shiji demonstrates a type of decentralized authority, its very existence serves to perpetuate such ideas in the realm of politics. This potential function of the Shiji was not lost on its first readers. In 32 b.c.e., the ruler of a small kingdom went to the imperial court looking for a copy of Sima Qian’s history. His request was denied by the emperor after General in Chief Wang Feng pointed out that the Book of the Eminent Grand Astrologer [Shiji ] includes (accounts of ) the treacherous plots of the Vertical and Horizontal alliances of the Warring States era, scheming ministers and strange criticisms from the early Han dynasty, disasters and irregularities in the heavens, and the layout of the land and mountain passes. All of these would be inappropriate in the hands of the feudal lords and kings.62

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This line of thought brings us back to Confucius’s “rectification of names.” Sima Qian gives order to his history and, through it, to the world itself, not by extinguishing all opposition, but by applying ritually appropriate names. He records the facts of the past, including the good points of unsavory characters and the faults of heroes, but through sagely categorizing and editing, he brings the powers of li to bear on history. Confucius preached the superiority of moral example and ritual over strict laws and punishments, which is precisely the tactic that Sima Qian employs in the Shiji. In the end, the transforming power of his bamboo world overcomes the bronze regime of the First Emperor. We should not underestimate the audacity of Sima’s insurrection. In early China, thanks in part to Confucius, at least some of an emperor’s power and prestige was due to his ritual prerogatives. As the Son of Heaven, he was authorized to promote and demote, to interpret natural phenomena, to regulate the calendar, and to perform ritually significant actions. The state was upheld by both correct ritual and by arms. The Shiji recounts several instances of men who improperly arrogated to themselves the right to, say, ride in yellow-roofed carriages with banners on the left side or call their orders “edicts” (such practices were reserved exclusively for emperors). This sort of behavior was considered extremely threatening to the stability of the empire.63 The Shiji also notes the dangers of discussing the winners and losers of dynastic battles and of interpreting portents.64 Sima Qian did not go so far as to ride in the wrong kind of carriage, but he did usurp the imperial power of naming. In the end, it is Sima who declares which individuals (including emperors) belong in which sections and chapters. He determines who had the Mandate when; he corrects mistakes in imperial edicts;65 he shows us which laws and officials were unreasonable; he decides which portents are significant; and he offers posthumous rehabilitations.66 When scribes pass judgment on emperors, the imperial order is turned upside down, but if those judgments are sagely and in accordance with li, the natural moral order of the cosmos is thereby maintained. Sima Qian seems to suggest that historians, not emperors, are the true link between Heaven and earth.

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Why do sinners’ ways prosper: and why must Disappointment all I endeavor end? .... birds build—but not I build; no, but strain Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain. Gerard Manley Hopkins

have argued that as a microcosm, the Shiji is not simply the embodiment of Sima Qian’s opinions. Sima deliberately held back from complete control of his material and as a result, the relation between the author and the text is somewhat more tenuous than is common in Western histories. Nevertheless, I am not suggesting that Sima Qian was therefore objective and unbiased. I have shown how his shaping of structure and narrative reflected Confucian attitudes and that there is some room in Sima’s conception of historiography for a degree of self-expression. I do not believe that Sima thought the Shiji transmitted his personal views in exactly the same way as the Spring and Autumn Annals were thought to convey Confucius’s sagely judgments, but clearly, certain types of themes and issues attracted Sima’s attention. After all, it is impossible to edit historical records without any criteria for selection. I suspect that Sima Qian’s editing was, in some ways, like note taking. There were a few themes and categories of events that he was consciously looking for, and others may simply have struck him as significant in

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some unarticulated way. Chinese scholars frequently sort passages from the Shiji and try to determine Sima’s ideas about economics, feudal society, philosophy, religion, government, and so forth. Although this method is limited by Sima’s eclecticism and contradictions, it is true that he presents a wealth of material on these topics, just as he does on subjects of obvious personal interest. Through his direct comments, selection, and literary handling, he signals his fascination with reputation, friendship, offering advice safely, suicide, filial piety, and loyal service to the state. It would be interesting to trace Sima’s handling of each of these topics, and even though I doubt that we would be able to identify conclusively many of the author’s firm opinions, the effort itself would sharpen our understanding. One of the primary functions of the Shiji is to give readers an opportunity for creative historical analysis. It is the process that is valuable, as opposed to the actual discovery of secret messages from the author. However, in this chapter I take another approach, focusing on three related themes that I believe illuminate a more basic concern of Sima’s— what, if anything, can we learn from history, and how do we know when we know it?

Fitting the Times Sima Qian was fascinated by failure and success. He believed that human affairs followed cyclical patterns, and he was interested in identifying the causal mechanisms of fortune and disaster. As he wrote in his letter to Ren An, I have gathered together the old traditions of the world which were neglected and lost, and investigated their deeds and affairs. I have searched into the principles behind their successes and failures, their rises and declines, [making] in all, 130 chapters. In addition I wished to study the relationship of Heaven and man, and to penetrate changes both ancient and modern, thus completing the discourse of a single school.1

In the basic annals section, Sima fit all of history into the Mandate-ofHeaven dynastic cycle, but elsewhere he tentatively identifies other patterns. We have already noted the sincerity-reverence-refinement cycle posited in his remarks at the end of “The Basic Annals of Gaozu.” Sima suggests in the treatise on economics that governmental jurisdiction expands and

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contracts in a regular pattern2; he organizes the hereditary houses in a way that emphasizes their rises and declines; he repeats in the “Biographies of Moneymakers” the theories of Jiran and Bai Gui concerning the correlation between good harvests and the cycles of Jupiter3; and he gives some credence (with due consideration to moral values) to the Five Phases theorizing of Zou Yan.4 Perhaps the most pervasive pattern noted in the Shiji narratives is the simple alternation between extremes. As Sima Qian points out in the “Treatise on Economics,” “Thus things flourish and then decline. When they reach an extreme position, they turn, on the one pole toward simplicity and on the other toward refinement. This is the whole course of change.”5 Similarly, Lord Chunshen is quoted as saying: “I have heard that things reach an extremity and then turn back; this is the case with the alternation of winter and summer. When they reach an extremity, there is danger. This is the case with games of chess.”6 This general principle applied to individual lives as well as to dynasties and lineages. For instance, in his concluding comments to the “Biography of the Marquis of Rang,” Sima notes, “When his eminence reached its limit and his wealth was overflowing, one man spoke out and the Marquis’ body was broken, his power snatched away, and he died of grief.”7 After recalling his own astonishing rise to power, Li Si remarked: “Today there is no minister who ranks above me. Indeed, it could be said that my wealth and eminence have reached their limit. Since all things reach their limit and then decline, I do not yet know where I will end up.”8 As he should have foreseen, Li Si, along with his family, was executed not many years later. This cycle of fortune and misfortune may have some basis in reality, but the principle is too general and vague to be truly useful for either analyzing history or providing guidance for our own lives. With a little creativity, almost any sequence of historical events can be interpreted as fitting the pattern. Moreover, behavior appropriate to one part of the cycle may be disastrous at another time. We have seen Sima’s doubts about the “Way of Heaven,” which rewards the good and brings disaster on the wicked. Sima suggests that there are criteria beyond mere success by which to gauge the moral rectitude of particular actions (or else he would not have been troubled by the counterexamples of unearned suffering and oblivion), yet he clearly recognized that times change and proper behavior must follow. When should one speak out or remain silent? When should one take office or retire? How can one best honor one’s parents? These are the kinds of issues that permeate the Shiji narratives.

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Let me offer a few familiar examples. Lü Buwei was a successful merchant who had a knack for doing the right thing at the right time. In particular, a modest investment in an unpromising prince of Qin resulted in the young man’s becoming king of Qin, with Lü as his chief adviser. This seems to be an example of the proverbial “one word that brings profit to ten thousand generations,”9 but in his concluding comments, Sima points out that Lü Buwei merely exhibited the outward, false virtue that Confucius had warned against. Similarly, Lord Shang watered down his advice so that an earlier ruler of Qin would employ him. He achieved great success but was criticized by Sima Qian for his insincerity.10 Many, however, maintained their integrity and as a result got nowhere. We mentioned Bo Yi and Shu Qi, who obstinately refused to shift their loyalties and then starved to death. Confucius himself fits into this category, as does Mencius, and Sima explicitly contrasts their failures with the success of Zou Yan, another clever speaker who nevertheless gains his approval: On his journeys, Zou Yan was honored and treated with respect by the feudal lords. How can this be compared with Confucius going hungry between Chen and Cai, or Mencius encountering trouble at Qi and Liang? When King Wu relied upon righteousness and benevolence to attack the tyrant Zhou and become king, Bo Yi starved by refusing to eat the grain of the new Zhou dynasty. When Duke Ling of Wey asked about battle formations, Confucius refused to answer. When King Hui of Liang plotted to attack Zhao, Mencius told the story of Tai Wang leaving Bin.11

Such are the kinds of examples that led Sima Qian to use history writing as a way to increase the aggregate amount of justice in the universe. More complete renderings of these lives reveal that Lü Buwei and Lord Shang were ignominiously executed, and Bo Yi was posthumously honored by Confucius. But this cannot be the end of historical inquiry, for there is another, disturbing possibility. Could the strict moral stands of Bo Yi and Confucius have been, at least to some degree, mistaken? To continue the preceding quotation: How could it be that these men would have casually modified their intentions to fit the ways of the world? If one takes a square peg and wishes to insert it into a round hole, will it go in?12 Yet some say that Yi Yin had to carry pots before he could urge Tang to become

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king, and Bailixi ate under an oxcart before Duke Mu could employ him to become hegemon. First they had to get close (to a ruler), and then they could lead him in the Great Way. Although Zou Yan’s words were unorthodox, could it be that he had the idea of “pots and ox”?13

Perhaps there were other options available to Bo Yi and Confucius. The case of Bo Yi is already problematical, since he was protesting (on the basis of filial piety) the revolt of King Wu, the hero-sovereign of Confucian teaching. King Wu’s overthrow of the evil tyrant Zhou is one of the founding myths of Confucian ideology, yet Sima Qian called attention to the fact that this crucial event could be judged both positively and negatively.14 Bo Yi is honored for his principled protest, but would he not also have been admired if he had offered his full support to the recipient of the new mandate? Had he taken this path, he could have lived on as a respected and loyal subject. Sima’s biography of Confucius reveals that the sage himself was sometimes tempted to relax his stern moral standards. He was barely dissuaded by his disciple Zilu from accepting a position with the rebel Gongshan Buniu and later with the rebel Bixi.15 And he was somewhat awkwardly forced to justify his actions to his disciples when he met with Nanzi, the notorious wife of Duke Ling of Wey, and later broke an oath (claiming that oaths sworn under coercion have no binding force).16 Could Confucius’s career have been more successful if he had been more willing to compromise, as was Zou Yan? It is worth noting that Sima Qian seems to take delight in reporting the criticisms of various recluses and madmen who advised Confucius to give up his stubborn ethical attitudes.17 What emerges from many Shiji chapters is a tension between strict, orthodox Confucian morality and the kind of moral action that actually gets things done. In addition to the ethical but downtrodden, and the wicked but prosperous (both categories that demand some sort of explanation), we find people who broke with conventional morality and yet seemed to act morally. Indeed, many achieved success precisely because they adopted a more practical, functional standard.18 Consider, for instance, the case of Wu Zixu. When his father, under duress, summoned him and his older brother, his brother chose to go, even though he knew he would be executed upon his arrival. Wu Zixu, by contrast, disobeyed his father and then lived to exact vengeance. Sima comments:

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If at that time Wu Zixu had joined his father as ordered, they both would have died. And how would (his death) have been any different from that of a cricket or an ant? But instead he gave up a small righteousness in order to wash away a great shame, and his name has been handed down to later generations.19

Similar examples could be multiplied. Lin Xiangru and Cao Mei protected the interests of their states by flagrantly violating diplomatic protocol,20 and Sun Bin, Tian Dan, and Han Xin won great victories through their battlefield deceit.21 Master Li, a staunch supporter of Gaozu, insulted Xiang Yu and paid with his life, even while insisting that “when great issues are at stake, one does not fuss over discretion; the highest virtue does not worry about politeness”22; and Fan Kuai used much the same words when he urged Gaozu to escape from Xiang Yu while he had a chance, even at the risk of offending his host.23 Sima includes a chapter on local bosses, in which he praises their unconventional morality. He notes that some Confucian scholars achieved rank and prominence, but others, whose “righteousness did not fit the times,” lived their entire lives in poverty and obscurity (though they may now be celebrated).24 There was a similarly broad range among the local bosses whom the Confucians despised. Certainly, some of them were little better than gangsters, but others exhibited a particular type of virtue—they were true to their word, fair, modest, and willing to risk their lives to aid those in trouble. Sima continues: In truth, if we wished to compare the influence and power of the village bosses to that of Ji Ci and Yuan Xian [two strict but poor disciples of Confucius], determining their relative accomplishments in their own times, we would have to discuss them in an entirely different light. Yet if we judge their truthfulness by their deeds, the righteousness of the local bosses is certainly not insignificant.25

Merchants were another social class held in disrepute by orthodox Confucians, yet Sima provides a laudatory chapter on some of the most successful of them. Like the local bosses, they changed with the times, astutely judging what was in demand and reaping a honest profit. It was even possible to serve the cause of Confucius through business: Zigong studied with Confucius, and after he left (the master) he became an official in the state of Wey. He gave up a permanent

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residence and sold his goods throughout the regions of Cao and Lu. Of the seventy disciples of Confucius, Zigong made the most abundant profits. Yuan Xian [another disciple], hidden away in an impoverished lane, could not get his fill of even dregs and husks, while Zigong harnessed his four-horse team and rode in a carriage. With gifts of bundled silk he entertained visiting feudal lords, and when he traveled, the rulers of state without exception left their courts to go out and welcome him. Therefore, when it comes to spreading the name of Confucius throughout the world, Zigong would rank first. Is not this what is meant by “obtaining influence and turning it to advantage”?26

Shusun Tong also served Confucius through questionable means. He was condemned by other Confucian scholars for shifting his loyalties, compromising the rituals, recommending ruffians, and flattering the emperor, but he in turn chastised his critics for “not knowing the changes of the times.”27 Shu eventually gained the trust of Gaozu and thus was able to introduce Confucian ceremonial into the court and Confucian scholars into the bureaucracy. He even went so far as to risk his life to prevent the emperor from changing the heir apparent. As Sima remarks at the end of his biography, Shusun Tong was rare in his generation for his ability to weigh situations and establish (appropriate) rituals. He pushed forward and pulled back in accordance with the transformations and changes of the times, and in the end he became the father of Han Confucians. Is this not a case of “great straightness seems bent; truly the Way is flexible”?28

Although “changing with the times” is often considered a Legalist or a Daoist notion,29 Sima offers examples of applications that benefited Confucians. A number of stories must have had personal meaning for Sima Qian, who had once deliberated whether it was more moral to commit suicide or to submit to castration. Fan Ju suffered insult and humiliation quietly, so as to survive for bigger and better things, as did Jing Ke, Chen Yu, and Han Xin.30 In his comments on the “Biographies of Wei Bao and Peng Yue,” Sima notes that they nurtured rebellious ambitions to the extent that when they were defeated, they did not commit suicide, but instead allowed themselves

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to be taken as prisoners, suffering punishment and disgrace. Why? If even men of middling worth would be ashamed of this course of action, how much more so should kings! The reason must be that since their cunning in strategy surpassed ordinary men, they only feared losing their bodies entirely. If they could gain control of a foot, or even an inch of a handle, then like the clouds gathering or dragons transforming, their desire was for an opportunity to devise plans. This is why they chose confinement in prisons and refused take their leave.31

It is not surprising that the idea of “changing with the times” comes up so often in the Shiji. As a historian, Sima Qian was keenly aware of historical trends and transformations. He notes individuals and states that were successful in adapting to shifting circumstances, and he occasionally points out people who were fortunate enough to be born into an era that fit them. For example, Sima says of the state of Qin that “by changing in accordance with different generations, they were able to achieve great things” and of the marquis of Pingjin that “although Gongsun Hong’s actions and righteousness were desiccated, he truly fit his times.”32 Others, of course, were less successful and less fortunate. Sima quotes Emperor Wen as commenting to Li Guang, “It is too bad that you do not fit the times. If you had lived at the time of Gaozu, it goes without saying that you would have been a marquis over ten thousand households,” and he himself explains Dou Ying’s downfall with the judgment that “truly he did not know how to change with the times.”33 Sima reports that Xiang Yu, contemplating his impending death, complained in a poem that “the times were not favorable,”34 and Sima, too, once wrote a poetic lament entitled “Gentlemen Who Did Not Fit Their Times,” a category in which he surely put himself.35 Patterns of adaptation and morality overlap in discomfiting ways. Gongsun Hong and the state of Qin are not exactly moral exemplars,36 and Sima’s biography of Li Guang paints a very sympathetic portrait of a tragic figure.37 How, then, does one know what ought to be done? When should one bend with the times or stand firm against them? Although Sima Qian claims to have “investigated deeds and affairs and searched into the principles behind their successes and failures,” it seems that success cannot be attributed to any constant, immutable rule, even one as vague as “change with the times.” What may work in one set of circumstances may not in another.38 Although it was said that “Heaven rewards the virtuous,” Sima has demonstrated that

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Heaven’s failings in this regard are numerous and that the notion of virtue itself may be defined in different ways. These basic contradictions and ambiguities are one reason that Sima Qian is hesitant to set out “the lessons of history.” What is required is a flexible moral understanding based on a wide range of historical precedents. Sima has preserved for us a speech of the debater Cai Ze that brings together the themes of historical cycles, adaptation, and morality: As the proverb says, “The sun at midday begins to set; the moon at its fullness begins to wane.” Things reach their highest degree and then decline; this is the constant rule of Heaven and Earth. Whether in advance or retreat, in fullness or loss, to change with the times; this is the constant Way of the sages. Therefore, “when the kingdom follows the Way, one should serve [as an official], and when the kingdom loses the Way, one should retire.” A sage said, “When the dragon flies through heaven, it is advantageous to look for a great man.” And “As far as I am concerned, wealth and eminence achieved without righteousness are no more than floating clouds.”39

What is needed now is a clear methodology, a systematic procedure for untangling and analyzing these issues.

The Limits of Rationality The pages of the Shiji are filled with individuals who appeal to history to persuade rulers or to justify their own actions. Not surprisingly, a few offer guidelines for interpreting history. For example, at the end of the “Basic Annals of the First Emperor of Qin” is a long essay by Jia Yi, in which he writes: There is a countryside proverb that says, “Past events should not be forgotten, because they set the pattern for future events.” Therefore, as a ruler runs his kingdom, he should scrutinize ancient history, look for verification in his own age, compare it against human affairs, identify the principles of rise and decline, examine what is proper to the circumstances, put off and proceed according to order, and change according to the times. Thus his bright days will be long and his sacrifices undisturbed.40

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In a similar vein, Sima Qian himself offers the following suggestions in his preface to a table of Han dynasty feudal lords: Those living in the present age who wish to follow the ways of the ancients have (history as) a mirror, but the two time periods are not exactly the same. Since emperors and kings each had their distinctive rituals and their different tasks, if one wished to take their accomplishments as a guiding thread, how could one sew? If we want to see what brings honor and favor and what brings neglect and disgrace, our own age offers a multitude of examples of success and failure. Why is it necessary to learn from the ancient past? Therefore I have carefully examined the ends and beginnings (of these noble families) and made a table from the documents, though perhaps I have not exhausted their roots and branches. Nevertheless, what was clear I have set forth, and what was doubtful I have omitted.41

Jia Yi’s advice seems practical (though vague), and Sima promises a handy guidebook, but like so much else in the Shiji, these authoritative-sounding pronouncements are undermined elsewhere. Despite his disclaimer, Sima Qian most certainly is interested in learning from ancient times, and although he does neatly report the reasons for enfeoffments and dispossessions in the accompanying chronological table, the fates of these families do not have the literary power or the relevance to ordinary readers that we find in the biographies. We can wish that Sima Qian had provided more guidance in exactly how to go about comparing ancient and modern times, judging circumstances, and testing against human affairs, but the Shiji does not really demonstrate or model this type of analysis. Our narrator does not undertake these tasks on our behalf. Instead, what we find are chapters and chapters about people who scramble through their lives in provocative but ambiguous ways. The debaters and statesmen of the Warring States era were confident about extracting didactic meaning from history (and Sima shows us plenty of these men), but their cunning in analysis did not always lead them to success or morality. Too often, stories can be interpreted in a variety of ways, and Sima’s fragmented and overlapping narratives only emphasize that point. Let us use as an example the biography of Li Si, the minister of the First Emperor who was the original instigator of the infamous burning of the books. There we find Zhao Gao, an evil and powerful eunuch, urging Prince Huhai to depose his older brother, using the same sorts of arguments. He

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cites the examples of the Confucian heroes King Tang and King Wu, and even Confucius himself, and concludes (echoing Master Li), “In doing great deeds, one does not fuss over discretion; the highest virtue does not worry about politeness.”42 However true this may have been in the case of Wu Zixu, Zhao Gao is marshaling here the same kind of historical precedent and interpretation in the service of nefarious actions. As he moves to bring Li Si into the plot, Zhao Gao argues: Now I have heard that sages shift and follow along without a constant rule—they adapt to changes and follow the times, they see the tips and know the roots, they observe the direction things point and visualize where they end up. Since the world is most certainly like this, how can you grasp on to any constant rules?43

The trouble is that Zhao Gao’s analysis seems to be essentially correct. The biography of Li Si is filled with references to changing with the times,44 but as intelligent and knowledgeable as Li is and as valiantly as he struggles (he even refuses to commit suicide, trusting in his innocence and his ability to persuade though citations of history),45 his life ends disastrously, and his talents are exploited for evil purposes. Unfortunately, Sima’s presentation of Li Si’s life only complicates these matters. Sima’s concluding comments condemn Li Si, but the biography itself is strangely sympathetic. Li is misjudged by the emperor, refuses to commit suicide, and tries to justify himself through his writings (Sima would have seen his own life reflected in this events), and in an unusual sentimental gesture, Sima reports that Li’s last, tearful words were a wish that he and his son could once again go rabbit hunting. Even more important to engaging the sympathies of readers is the figure of Zhao Gao, who looms large in the narrative. When Li Si is placed side by side with Zhao Gao, Li looks good by comparison; at least he has some scruples and is capable of regret.46 If historical precedents can be used with equal adroitness for good and for evil, if the past offers no constant principles by which one can avoid suffering and failure, what then is the point of studying history? As viewed through the lens of the Shiji, the kinds of historical skills ordinarily utilized by Chinese statesmen, philosophers, and debaters seem both limited and dangerous.47 If the past is too shifting, variegated, and contradictory to provide final, secure lessons (in addition to the problems

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of evidence and accuracy that Sima knew so well), where are we to turn for guidance? At the heart of the Shiji lies a crisis of faith or, rather, a pair of crises. The first, which we saw earlier, is the problem of the “Way of Heaven”; that is, history does not appear to illustrate the kind of moral justice that the very notion of Heaven seems to require. Given the tenuousness of historical interpretation, the second difficulty is, what is the point of the whole enterprise? The structure of the Shiji and much of its content throw these problems into high relief. Accuracy is obviously important, but it is not enough. In any case, absolute accuracy and comprehensiveness are unattainable. The historical analysis of the debaters is shown to be too narrow and too easily twisted. Sima Qian also is critical of the endlessly multiplying commentaries employed by Confucians scholars to wrest meaning from history.48 The situation is not completely hopeless, however. There are hints throughout the Shiji that good fortune and ethical behavior are based on more than mere chance and whim. There are message-bearing portents from Heaven, wise observers who are capable of making predictions that come to pass, and occasional references to a stable, reliable human nature, the kind one could take into account in planning.49 Yet once again, the Shiji contains numerous examples of obscure portents, failed predictions, and people who seem to transcend the common run of humanity. The situation is analogous to what Nathan Sivin reveals about the prediction of lunar eclipses in early China—astronomers knew they were dealing with a regular, periodic phenomenon, and they had a method that worked most of the time, but the exact prediction of every eclipse nevertheless eluded them.50 Sima Qian can identify cycles and a basic moral framework, but he cannot account for everything, and this element of uncertainty makes an appeal to history problematic. Another method of understanding history, however, is hinted at in the Shiji. If the structure of the text highlights certain difficulties, it also points the way to a resolution of sorts, although here, too, we do not find conclusive closure. Sima throws his net so broadly and so sympathetically that he seems to be opening himself to a nonrational, nonanalytical connection with the past. Sima Qian’s crisis of faith is answered by another type of faith. In this case, history is approached through the heart (though we must bear in mind that the Chinese word xin means both “mind” and “heart”).

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A. C. Graham has posited what he calls a “quasi syllogism” at the core of Chinese philosophy: In awareness from all viewpoints, spatial, temporal and personal, of everything relevant to the issue, I find myself moved toward X; overlooking something relevant I find myself moved toward Y. In which direction shall I let myself be moved? Be aware of everything relevant to the issue. Therefore let yourself be moved toward X.51

Graham goes on to emphasize the importance of spontaneous inclination and multiple viewpoints in Confucianism as well as in Daoism, although for Confucian thinkers, spontaneous inclination leads to an intuitive sort of correlating and categorizing (responses that good Daoists avoid).52 This fits well with the approach to history exemplified in the Shiji. Sima exposes his readers to the full range of history, verified and edited to some extent, but nevertheless replete with ambiguous turns of events and multiple viewpoints. He invites us to think through history with him, making what sense we can of it, but Sima’s ideal reader is not someone who can derive from this interaction a seamless analysis, mastering every detail of the past. Rather, it is someone who is appropriately moved by what he or she reads, someone who learns how to discern. The goal is not to accumulate all the facts about the past, or even their correct interpretations; there is no one right, encoded message to be discovered. It is the give and take with the evidence, the process of learning to read, that is the real goal of historical studies. By encountering history, particularly as it is conveyed in the Shiji, it is possible to learn to become a sage. Sageliness is not a matter of memorizing a corpus of facts; it is reaching understanding. Sima Qian models this response to history for us in his remarks at the end of chapters. These comments are not analytical so much as emotional, for he responds freely and sometimes strongly to the events he has just narrated. For example, in fourteen comments, his response includes a lament such as wu hu, “alas,” or bei fu, “how pitiful”53; in four comments, he tells us how he tried to imagine the person whose life he had just narrated54; and in nineteen comments, he describes himself in the act of reading, often recording specific reactions. In regard to the last, Sima’s comments in chapter 74 are typical:

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The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks: Whenever I read the book of Mencius and I come to the passage where King Hui of Liang asks, “How can I profit my kingdom?,” I cannot help but set my book aside and sigh, saying, “Alas, desire for profit is surely the beginning of ruin.”55

Aside from an emotional aspect, there is not much that the personal comment sections have in common, though the lack of regularity is not so much a failing as a guidepost. Sima Qian’s sometimes quirky reactions challenge readers to discover their own spontaneous inclinations, although at the same time he invites readers to join him (perhaps in a sagely training mode). He does this through two devices—exclamatory statements (usually marked by the particle zai ) and rhetorical questions (usually indicated by the question word qi, “How could it be that”). Of the 128 Shiji chapters with personal comments introduced by “The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks,” eighteen include at least one exclamatory statement, fifty-one pose a rhetorical question, and twenty include both. This emotionally responsive approach to history is not exemplified only in Sima’s comments, for the narratives themselves frequently reflect his fascination with intuitive knowledge and sageliness. In the Shiji we meet generals, statesmen, and even commoners who manage to do the right thing not as a result of shrewd calculation but because of an intuitive knack. One thinks, in this regard, of the biographies of jesters (chap. 126) who, with an apt word, accomplish the improbable, of men like Bu Shi whose naive generosity gained him high office,56 or of children who find political solutions that have eluded their elders.57 Others are able to discern the first signs of success or failure and thus can plan accordingly. As Sima Xiangru put it, “Those who are enlightened can see sprouts from afar even before they grow, and those who are wise can avoid danger even before it takes shape.”58 Although I have argued all along for Sima Qian’s basically Confucian outlook, all this may seem more in tune with Daoist concerns and proclivities. This impression is strengthened if we read Sima’s fu poem on “Gentleman Who Did Not Fit Their Times,” which concludes: There is a cycle between bad times and good: [States] fall and rise. One cannot depend upon constant principles Or rely upon sound knowledge. Do not act to bring about happiness,

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Do not interfere to precipitate calamity: Entrust yourself to the spontaneous And in the end everything will revert to the One.59 Once again we see the issues of historical patterns and the lack of clear guidance, but now Sima’s response is a resigned Daoist inaction. We may grant Sima Qian a few moments of Daoist respite, but these sentiments do not seem typical of a man who labored tirelessly to condense all of history into a single volume. Certainly the lack of a single overriding perspective, the reticence to articulate definitive interpretations, and the openness to spontaneous inclination lend themselves to a Daoist interpretation of the Shiji, but Sima Qian was an eclectic writer who drew on many traditions, including Daoism. He was not a blind follower of Confucius; after all, the Shiji does not read like the Spring and Autumn Annals. Yet I would suggest that such attitudes are not exclusively Daoist. There is also a Confucian resistance to pushing analysis too far lest it become morally debilitating. As Confucius famously asserted (and Sima quotes this passage in his introduction to the “Biographies of Harsh Officials”): “Guide them by edicts, keep them in line with punishments, and the common people will stay out of trouble but will have no sense of shame. Guide them by virtue, keep them in line with the rites, and they will, besides having a sense of shame, reform themselves.”60 Just as laws may be too detailed and strict (a significant theme in the Shiji), so too historical analysis may become merely a tool to advance personal aims, without resulting in the moral transformation that Confucius and Sima Qian desired. Confucius suggests that example and ritual are the proper methods by which to shape moral sentiments. These also seem to be the techniques preferred by Sima Qian. In the Shiji, he models a particular approach to history (or in his own words, he “establishes a school of discourse”), and as we saw in the last chapter, he at the same time attempts to implement a Confucian program of sagely naming and correlating, which are critical elements of the ritual use of language. Indeed, the prototype of ritual may be a key to grasping the historical methods of the Shiji. As Sima notes in the “Treatise on Ceremonial,” the rites are of human origin. True, they were developed by sages, but they are not absolute. They change from dynasty to dynasty, and even Confucius had a hand in their modification. Nevertheless, they are effective because they fit human nature and harmonize the human world with Heaven. Finally, they can be

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comprehended only through experience, for it is the performance of the rites that is transformative. Thus the Shiji is a human creation that falls short of offering eternal principles, but it does make progress toward harmonizing the Ways of Heaven and man. It reflects the moral tendencies of the cosmos while at the same time it avoids slighting the moral complexities of human existence. In addition, it presents a method of reading that must be put into practice to become effective; that is, we must join with Sima Qian in his encounter with the past if we wish to learn sageliness. Rational analysis is an important element of the Shiji. Struggling with evidence and chronologies and accuracy is the basis of historical study. But in the end we must move beyond the limits of rationality if we are to truly understand the meaning of history. By modeling intuitive responses and sagely correlating and by not providing the type of closure and exclusive interpretation that we generally look for in Western histories, Sima Qian suggests that there is a way by which we can come to actually know individuals from the past rather than merely knowing about them. It is a vision of history that we perhaps cannot share—separated as we are by vast stretches of time and culture—but it is an exhilarating dream nonetheless.

Knowing and Being Known The Shiji ’s most important contribution to historical studies is not its message but its methodology. It is a working model rather than a set of conclusive interpretations. As such, it allows Sima Qian to represent the world both accurately and provocatively, and at the same time it offers a means for understanding it. Like his readers, Sima Qian used the microcosmic Shiji as a tool for gaining understanding and wisdom, and his labors in constructing it were similar in many ways to the kinds of effort that skilled readers must exert to make sense of the text and, through it, the wider world. Yet the Shiji has another function that applies to Sima in a unique way: For Sima Qian, the Shiji is a mode of self-expression and a road to immortality. A key issue in the Shiji is how to recognize men of talent and worth, particularly since such individuals may not be esteemed by their contemporaries. We saw earlier how Sima’s editing of the story of Nie Zheng emphasized this issue, and elsewhere in the text we encounter similar tales of recognition. Lords Mengchang and Pingyuan and the prince of Wei were

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famous for their thousands of retainers, and Sima tells us how a few of these servants managed to gain the attention of their employers and were then given opportunities to display their true talents. Thus Mengchang’s life was once saved by two lowly retainers who had the ability to imitate dogs and roosters (useful skills in thieving). Sima inserts an unusual aside: “At first, when Lord Mengchang had granted these two men a place among his retainers, the others were completely mortified. But when Mengchang ran into trouble in the state of Qin, it was these two men who pulled him out in the end.”61 Likewise, Lord Pingyuan recognized Mao Sui’s abilities and was benefited by his unorthodox diplomacy (though admittedly full recognition came only after the fact),62 and the prince of Wei sought out Hou Ying and Zhu Hai while they were still living in obscurity as a gatekeeper and a butcher.63 Assassin-retainers like Yu Rang and Jing Ke were loyal to the death to the rulers who recognized their worth, and successful sovereigns of the Warring States era were quick to notice the talents of the debaters and military adventurers who wandered into their kingdoms.64 The ability to appreciate the worth of others was, on the one hand, a characteristic of sages like Confucius who offered their historical judgments and, on the other hand, of rulers such as Gaozu, whose success was due in no small measure to his proficiency in recruiting able assistants. This overlapping responsibility, based on different criteria, puts historians and sovereigns into competition with one another, and it is not hard to guess where Sima Qian’s sympathies lie, as he invites readers to evaluate not only Gaozu’s followers but also Gaozu himself. When Sima weighs merit, he encroaches on the emperor’s prerogatives and duties and perhaps even those of Heaven itself. One wonders whether perhaps Sima Qian’s meticulous tables were not intended to shame Heaven into doing a better job of keeping complex strings of events straight and rewarding the virtuous. In any case, as historians save individuals from oblivion, they also serve Heaven. How do sages, historians, and readers of the Shiji recognize men and women of worth? Surely, having accurate facts is a crucial starting point, though it is often noted that Sima Qian does not really provide full biographies of his subjects. His selection and editing are intended to aid readers in grasping the essentials of various historical personages, and he seems to dispense with many extraneous details (though he never pares them down to the level of “one biography equals one didactic lesson”; there are enough details to keep readers busily sifting and interpreting for themselves). And we have already noted the emotional connection with the past that Sima seeks to inculcate in his audience.

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Although this process is tenuous, it nevertheless is the process to which Sima entrusts his own identity. There is one final way in which Sima Qian bestows meaning on the life of Confucius—particularly as it centers on Confucius’s despair in discovering the unicorn and his decision to preserve his opinions through a written history—and that is by recreating these events in his own life. History is transformed into the present. Sima Qian himself has encountered persecution and hardship. He also has felt like a man profoundly out of step with his times, and his response is to emulate Confucius by embedding his personal philosophy in a work of history, in the hope that someday people like himself would read it, recognize his worth, and justify his life. In both his autobiography and his letter to Ren An, Sima cites the examples of famous figures who in their times of crisis wrote books that preserved their ideas and insured their future fame. This impressive list includes the authors of the Classic of Poetry and the Classic of Documents, as well as King Wen, Confucius, Qu Yuan, Zuo Qiu, Sunzi, Lü Buwei, and Han Feizi, and their writings span genres from classics to philosophy, from poetry to history.65 Sima Qian also wants to be known through his writings (he actually gives little space to his life and actions), and the Shiji is in some ways more clever than most of its antecedents. Sima’s writing is not a record of his own ideas; indeed, he can be quite reticent about expressing his personal opinions. Rather, the Shiji is a history of the entire world, and as such, it is invaluable. It is also, from a certain perspective, invulnerable. The problem with philosophical writing is that it becomes irrelevant to those who hold to another tradition. And even history can become outmoded and obsolete. As times change and interpretations shift, what was once seen as gospel truth becomes increasingly ignored or distanced by multiplying commentaries. But the characteristics that can make the Shiji so frustrating—its multiple viewpoints and open-endedness—are the very qualities that keep it fresh and intriguing for generation after generation. A model that is coherent, clear, and internally consistent is susceptible to obsolescence, but a complex, somewhat contradictory system (especially if it appears to hold out the possibility of practical guidance and ultimate meaning) can accommodate newly discovered facts and newly invented interpretations. It can be, in short, endlessly fascinating. Just witness the longevity of the Classic of Change. Sima Qian’s conquest of history takes two distinct forms. First, he has brought all of history together, correlating, editing, and finally wresting control of the past from the imperial powers of the First Emperor. To

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a large extent, we still view the early history of China through Sima Qian’s eyes. But second, his control of history is not so complete that it is endangered by subsequent research and social change. The Shiji is so vast and suggestive that a person facing nearly any situation could find some relevant precedent in its pages, and a historian of ancient China arguing for nearly any hypothesis could draw from Sima’s opus at least a few items of pertinent evidence. Sima managed to write a history for all time by creating a new school of discourse and a novel way of making sense of the past. Through the microcosmic structure of the Shiji, he creates a model that gives shape to the world at large. He invites us to enter his model and join him in using it to make sense of history. He gently guides and encourages and, in so doing, ensures that even as we discover our own meanings, we will not leave him behind. In this way, Sima Qian has conquered the nearly inevitable ravages of history; that is, he has secured for himself a perpetual place in histories that will be conceived and written for ten thousand generations to come.

EPILOGUE

n 1290 c.e., shortly after the end of the Southern Song dynasty, the Song loyalist Xie Ao climbed up to the Western Pavilion on Mount Fuchun, in Zhejiang Province, to pay his respects to Wen Tianxiang, a patriotic official of the Song who had been executed by the Mongols several years earlier. After a moving description of this trip, Xie observes:

I

I have always wanted to follow the example of the Eminent Grand Astrologer and write a “Table by Months of the End of the Han” like his “Table by Months of the Conflict Between Qin and Chu” [Shiji, chap. 16]. Among the people of today no one knows my heart, but surely in the future there will be someone who will understand me.1

Clearly, something besides the Shiji’s accuracy has impressed Xie Ao; it is a rare scholar who grieves that he did not have the chance to write an ancient chronology. What Xie Ao admires in Sima Qian’s Shiji is what Sima himself admired in Confucius’s Spring and Autumn Annals. It is the same abandonment of the frustrating present, the same desire to write a history that would overleap contemporary difficulties and join the past to the future (through the mediation of a sagely historian). And it is significant that the focus of Xie’s desire is the chronological tables—the section in which Sima’s sparse, meaningful notations most emulate the portentous style of the Annals. Just as the full scale and scope of the world revealed in the tables were unavailable to those locked within the limited perspectives of various rows and columns, so also Sima and Confucius believed that the present perceived by their contemporaries would be thoroughly

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reconceived by future historians who could examine their tables and annals with sagely discernment. These are the kinds of traditions that make it difficult to compare Sima Qian with the pioneering ancient historians of Greece.2 Certainly much of what was done by Herodotus or Thucydides was paralleled by Sima— they each created new modes of presenting information about the past; they organized and edited their data in meaningful ways; they wrestled with evidence and chronologies; they wrote aesthetically pleasing narratives, they honored some historical figures and disparaged others; and in general they transmitted their own moral insights. But in addition, Sima Qian did something truly remarkable. He assumed that historians have a cosmological function and he consequently constructed a history that operates as a model of the world. Here we might compare the Shiji with another classic of the GrecoRoman world—Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. About two hundred years after Sima Qian, Plutarch wrote a series of twenty-two biographies organized into a regular pattern of alternating Greeks and Romans.3 These accounts are similar in many ways to some of Sima Qian’s chapters. Plutarch also was concerned with individuals and moral significance, and he provided prefaces to a few of the pairs and editorial remarks at the end of almost all of them (his personal comment sections are, in fact, much longer and more detailed than Sima Qian’s). Plutarch cared, to some degree, about accuracy, and he generally did not concentrate on the faults of his main characters. The lives of the Greek and Roman of each pair resonate in interesting ways, and Plutarch’s general approach is sometimes reminiscent of Sima Qian’s, as when he notes at the beginning of his biography of Alexander that I do not tell of all the famous actions of these men, nor even speak exhaustively at all in each particular case, but in epitome for the most part. . . . In the most illustrious deeds there is not always a manifestation of virtue or vice, nay, a slight thing like a phrase or a jest often makes a greater revelation of character than battles where thousands fall, or the greatest armaments, or sieges of cities.4

This might have been said of the many Shiji biographies that begin with a seemingly inconsequential anecdote that later is shown to have been predictive in some way of the subject’s future glory or catastrophe. Just a little time with each text will quickly convince readers, however, that the differences far outweigh the similarities. On the one hand, the Shiji

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is much more organized and structured, and on the other, the meaning of the narratives is never quite as clear as it is in the Lives. In the preceding quotation, the material hidden by ellipses includes the phrase “it is not Histories that I am writing, but Lives,” and the difference is obvious. Plutarch includes what he needs in order to construct aesthetically pleasing, morally uplifting, accounts. Sima Qian is concerned with getting the facts straight, to the extent that in many chapters the moral meaning is obscured or missing altogether. Whereas Plutarch wrote in the countryside, mostly from memory; Sima exhaustively researched the imperial archives. Plutarch provides little in the way of historical context, but Sima embeds his biographies in a universal history; Plutarch psychologizes and comments garrulously, but Sima Qian does neither. Although it is generally fairly obvious what Plutarch is doing in his biographies, Sima Qian is a much more elusive presence in his history. The most important contrast, however, is with the cosmological form of the Shiji, which allows more insight than Sima Qian himself could possibly provide. The Shiji, with its peculiar five-part structure, contains representations of the heavens, the earth, and man. Its various sections and overlapping narratives play off one another to suggest a world in motion, one open to a variety of interpretations. Sima Qian creates and highlights various patterns and correspondences through his editing—indeed, I would argue that he saw himself as categorizing and naming in a ritually significant manner reminiscent of Confucius’s program of rectifying names—but the Shiji seems to function somewhat independently of its author. This impression is strengthened by Sima’s reluctance to provide explicit interpretations of his material and by his habit of directly incorporating earlier records into his history. Because the Shiji is a representation of the world itself, rather than simply an expression of Sima Qian’s own opinions, it is possible for readers to discover moral lessons and patterns that escaped Sima. In fact, he clearly expected that he was providing data for future inquiries that might go beyond or even be at variance with his own reconstructions. One of the consequences of the Shiji ’s fragmented form is that the narratives regularly describe the same event from different perspectives and that these overlapping accounts are not always consistent. This is a troublesome issue, particularly since elsewhere Sima Qian evinces a great concern for accuracy. I believe that he, spurred on by the contradictory commentaries of the Annals and the conflicting interpretations of history offered by the debaters of the Warring States era, came to see the past as a vast storehouse of data that could be interpreted in any number of ways.

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Some readings, of course, might be more reliable than others, but the same event could be seen as an element of many different stories, all valid with regard to the evidence. Scholarly analysis and research have a place, but in the end the truly important questions—namely, how we should live, and what the will of Heaven is—can be answered only by going beyond rational argumentation to a sagely understanding. We can achieve this by reading history both critically and sympathetically. We are invited to join Sima Qian as he demonstrates how to perceive order in the past, how to label properly, and how to be appropriately moved by what we read. The goal of his historical labors is not unimpeachable truth but a flexible, useful understanding. This notion seems to fit the idea of a cosmological model better than the ideal of the tightly constructed, unified, convincing narrative (or argument) familiar in the West.5 Sima is appealing to something other than a singular historical narrative, which validates itself by the power of its univocality. He seeks not to compel assent but, rather, to invite participation in the sagely labor of world making, and the Shiji incorporates a multitude of voices and viewpoints. The result is an artifact that mirrors the world itself rather than Sima Qian’s mind. Through the Shiji, Sima attempts to make the past itself accessible (though in a suggestive and usable form).6 The universe that Sima Qian creates is in fact a multiverse, one that allows the construal of myriad lines of cause and effect coursing through space and time. As Sima Qian relativizes the past, he also steps back from absolutizing the present. Sima realized that he himself could be seen as a participant in many different stories—tales of filial piety, literary responses to misfortune, restorations of lost traditions, challenges to imperial authority, and the like—and he does not tailor his work to fit any one narrowly defined purpose or to convey any one overriding message. The Shiji is a tool by which multiple pasts can be connected to possible futures, and although it clearly has a judgmental aspect, it cannot be reduced to anything as pedestrian as simply using the past to criticize the present. Sima Qian had given up on the present, and his work was not directed toward his contemporaries. Instead, it was written for future readers, who would use it to form their own judgments and to meet their own needs, whatever those might be. The Shiji deliberately binds the past to the future, which is a process ultimately out of Sima Qian’s control. He can only hope for a satisfactory outcome. He has some grounds for confidence. Despite the lack of interpretive closure, the multiple voices, the ambiguities, and the inconsistencies, Sima

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Qian is by no means a postmodernist who views all truth as relative and conditioned. There is Heaven after all, and Confucius! Sima Qian believes in a natural moral order inherent in the universe. Its workings are somewhat mysterious, but Sima’s history has gone some way toward revealing its presence and restoring its place in human discourse. Sima Qian expected that the Shiji, like the Spring and Autumn Annals, would aid the cause of Heaven by increasing the amount of justice in the world and transforming the cosmos itself though sagely naming and categorizing. Sima worked to subvert the authoritarian, coercive order that characterized the First Emperor’s world of bronze, and he rejected such an approach when he created his own world of bamboo, preferring instead to rely on the “Way of Heaven.”6 The intensity of Sima Qian’s search for meaning, his refusal to settle for limited, mundane perspectives, his hope for eventual justification, and his trust in a transcendent moral force seem to make the Shiji the product of a type of religious devotion or the result of a crisis of faith. Sima struggles to believe despite the evidence of history, and he trusts in the face of his own tragic personal experience. At the same time, however, he remains true to both history and experience. The Shiji is a very human document, and even if we cannot share Sima’s historically contingent belief system, we can nevertheless be moved by his integrity and determination. In the end, the Shiji, as far as I know, stands alone, unique among works of history, even in China. It is somewhat ironic that a text whose author labored so diligently to undermine absolute orthodoxies and unified systems should now take a position as the first in a regular series known as the Standard Histories. Sima Qian was able to avoid a single, authoritative perspective in part because he was not writing a history to justify the current regime. The Shiji was emphatically unofficial, and its multiple perspectives could reasonably be seen as seditious, or at least as threatening to centralized authority. Later Standard Histories, by contrast, did become tools of dynastic succession, and in particular, they do not share the Shiji’s ambition to function as a universal history, a comprehensive model of the cosmos. Nevertheless, Sima Qian’s history has continued to inspire and challenge historians and readers throughout Chinese history. The Shiji forces us to expand our conception of what the term universal history entails. Sima’s book is not just an account of all the times and places known to him, it is a history for all time. By refusing to constrict his viewpoint, Sima succeeded in producing a text that could be continuously interesting, not just as a relic of a particular time, but also as a world that

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generation after generation could enter into, argue with, and interpret. The Shiji is so marvelously ambiguous and so tantalizingly suggestive that it is germane to all kinds of new situations, new reconstructions of the past, and new theories of historiography. It remains a living work despite the vicissitudes of time. Through it, we are bound to the past in a creative and exhilarating relationship. The enduring relevance of the Shiji stands as a tribute to Sima Qian’s cosmological vision.

NOTES

Notes to Chapter 1 1. A. F. P. Hulsewé, “The Ch’in Documents Discovered in Hupei in 1975,” T’oung Pao 64 (1978):175–217; Writing Team of the Qin Tombs at Shuihudi in Yunmeng, Yunmeng shuihudi Qin mu (Beijing: Wenwu, 1981); Li Xueqin, Eastern Zhou and Qin Civilizations, trans. K. C. Chang (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1985), pp. 425–430. 2. Wang Zhongshu, Han Civilization, trans. K. C. Chang and collaborators (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1982), pp. 175, 209; Michael Loewe, “Manuscripts Found Recently in China: A Preliminary Survey,” T’oung Pao 63 (1977):99–136. 3. For detailed information on the funerary banners and tlv mirrors, see Michael Loewe, Ways to Paradise: The Chinese Quest for Immortality (London: Allen & Unwin, 1979). 4. Actually, the early Chinese did not believe that a person had one soul but, rather, at least two. In accordance with the principle that the universe was made up of yin and yang elements, a person was composed of a body, a hun soul (associated with yang) that made possible mental and emotional activity, and a po soul (yin) that animated the body. Generally, the hun soul was thought to travel elsewhere while the po soul remained with the body and enjoyed the funerary goods. However, if the hun soul was responsible for mental processes, one must wonder whether the literacy necessary to use buried texts was available to the po soul. Reading without thought may be a common enough experience, but it is seldom efficacious. See Michael Loewe, Chinese Ideas of Life and Death (London: Allen & Unwin, 1982), p. 121; Ying-shih Yü, “ ‘O Soul, Come Back!’ A Study in the Changing Conceptions of the Soul and Afterlife in Pre-Buddhist China,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 47 (1987):363–395. 5. For a transcription of this text into modern Chinese, with commentary and comparisons with other historical records, see Liang Wenwei, “Yunmeng Qin

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jian biannianji xiangguan shishi hejiao,” (Ph.D. diss., National Taiwan University, 1981). 6. Aristotle, Poetics 1451b, trans. S. H. Butcher in Aristotle’s Theory of Poetry and Fine Art, 4th ed. (London: Macmillan, 1907), p. 35. 7. Peter Hardy, Historians of Medieval India (London: Luzac, 1966); Romila Thapar, “The Historical Ideas of Kalhana as Expressed in the Rajatarangini,” in Historians of Medieval India, ed. Mohibbul Hasan (Meerut: Meenakshi Prakashan, 1968), pp. 1–10. 8. Burton Watson has translated the title Shiji as “Records of the Grand Historian,” but this seems to me to draw too heavily on Western notions of history. The term shi properly means scribe or archivist, and although these officials did record historical events (in addition to their other divinatory and ritual functions), they did not engage in the kind of analysis and interpretation that we associate with the word historian. It is also worth noting that the title Shiji was not original to Sima Qian’s text but was used as a generic title for the work of scribal recorders in feudal states. See Shiji 14.509–510, 15.686, 130.3295–3296 For similar reasons, I have translated taishiling as “Grand Astrologer” rather than “Grand Historian.” It is important to remember that writing a universal history was not part of Sima’s official responsibilities, which Charles Hucker defined as follows: “In very early Han [the Grand Astrologer] apparently had some historiographic duties, but in general was in charge of observing celestial phenomena and irregularities in nature, interpreting portents, divining and weather forecasting as regards important state ceremonies, and preparing the official state calendar.” Charles O. Hucker, A Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1985), s.v. “t’ai-shih ling.” Also see n. 30 for this chapter. 9. We know from Ban Gu’s biography of Sima Qian in the Han shu that Sima had a daughter before his castration, but there is no record of a son who could have carried on his lineage line. See Han shu 62.2737. 10. David N. Keightley, Sources of Shang History (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1978), pp. 33–35. 11. Arthur Waley, trans., The Book of Songs, 2nd ed. (New York: Grove Press, 1987), pp. 209–216; Cho-yun Hsu and Katheryn M. Linduff, Western Chou Civilization (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1988), pp. 376–377. 12. Roger T. Ames, The Art of Rulership (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1983), pp. xii–xiii. 13. Analects 7.1. 14. Shangzi 1.2b; J. J. L. Duyvendak, trans., The Book of Lord Shang (London: Arthur Probsthain, 1928), p. 173. Sima Qian quotes this remark in his biography of Lord Shang; Shiji 68.2229. 15. Huainanzi 19.11a, Graham’s translation (with Pinyin romanization). A. C. Graham, Disputers of the Tao (La Salle, Ill.: Open Court, 1989), p. 67.

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16. Analects 3.9, 14. 17. By and large, Confucians were successful in standardizing the Chinese conception of the past by the end of the Warring States era. As John Knoblock has noted, “Scholars might choose different figures as their heroes and emphasize one or another detail, but they did not dispute the basic order, chronology, and outline of the emergence and development of human society.” John Knoblock, trans., Xunzi, vol. 2 (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1990), p. 4. 18. Stephen W. Durrant, The Cloudy Mirror: Tension and Conflict in the Writings of Sima Qian (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), pp. 47–69. 19. For a brief summary of the rise of Confucianism during the Han, see Robert Kramers, “The Development of the Confucian Schools,” in The Cambridge History of China. Vol. 1: The Ch’in and Han Empires 221 b.c.–a.d. 220, ed. Denis Twitchett and Michael Loewe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 747–765. 20. Arthur F. Wright, “On the Uses of Generalization in the Study of Chinese History,” in Generalization in the Writing of History, ed. Louis Gottschalk (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963), p. 38. 21. Mencius 7B.3. 22. Classic of Documents, “Duo shi” and “Duo fang”; see James Legge, trans., The Shoo King, Chinese Classics vol. 3 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1865: Taiwan reprint, n.d.), pp. 453–463, 492–507. 23. For descriptions of the historiographical assumptions underlying these works, see Etienne Balazs, Chinese Civilization and Bureaucracy, trans. H. M. Wright and ed. Arthur F. Wright (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1964), pp. 129–142; and Michael Loewe, Imperial China (London: Allen & Unwin, 1965), pp. 280–291. For more detailed summaries and analysis, see Zhang Zhizhe, Zhongguo shiji gailun (Jiangsu: Jiangsu guji, 1988), pp. 94–314. 24. Derk Bodde, Essays on Chinese Civilization, ed. Charles Le Blanc and Dorothy Borei (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1981), pp. 48–51. 25. Compare the Greek attitude toward the heroic age as described by Paul Veyne in Did the Greeks Believe in Their Myths? trans. Paula Wissing (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), pp. 17–18. 26. See Frederick W. Mote, Intellectual Foundations of China, 2nd ed. (New York: Knopf, 1989), pp. 12–16. 27. In the earliest account of these events, the executions and the burning of the books are not necessarily related, although it is commonly asserted that the scholars were killed because they were hiding banned writings. The account also implies that all the victims were Confucians, even though this is highly unlikely, since the First Emperor kept a variety of scholars at his court and the direct cause of the executions was the desertion of two magicians. Shiji 6.258; Burton Watson, trans., Records of the Grand Historian (subsequently cited as Records), 3 vols. (Qin, and Han 1 & 2), rev. ed. (Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong

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Kong, 1993; original ed., 2 vols. [Han only], New York: Columbia University Press, 1961), Qin:58. 28. Derk Bodde, China’s First Unifier (Leiden: Brill, 1938), pp. 162–166; the quotation is from p. 166. 29. Balazs, Chinese Civilization and Bureaucracy, p. 135. 30. Keightley, Sources, pp. 42–45; Hsu, Western Chou, pp. 233, 246. For detailed accounts of the different types of scribes and their duties and biases, see Jin Yufu, Zhongguo shixue shi (Shanghai: Shangwu, 1941), pp. 3–19; and Li Zongtong, “Shiguan zhidu: fulun dui chuantong zunzhong,” in Zhongguo shixueshi lunwen xuanji, ed. Du Weiyun and Huang Jinxing, 2 vols. (Taipei: Huashi, 1976), 1:65– 109. Li’s article is particularly interesting, since he argues that the scribes were deeply conservative and sought to preserve traditional forms of social structure and ritual through their writings. 31. For exemplary references and tales from the Zuo zhuan about scribes, see Duke Min 2.7; Duke Xuan 2.4; Duke Zheng 5.4, Duke Xiang 14.3, 25.2, 29.6; Duke Zhao 17.2; James Legge, trans., The Ch’un Ts’ew and the Tso Chuen, Chinese Classics vol. 5 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1872; Taiwan reprint, n.d.), pp. 129, 291–292, 357, 466, 515, 549, 667. 32. See Mencius 5B.2. 33. This practice can be also be found in the discussions between Confucius and his disciples, whom he was training for office. See, for example, Analects 7.14, where Ran You ascertains Confucius’s opinion of contemporary politics in the state of Lu by asking about the ancient worthies Bo Yi and Shu Qi. 34. All translations are my own except where noted. References to Watson, Records, are for comparison. Shiji 6.255; Watson, Records, Qin:54. 35. Classic of Documents, “Kang gao,” Legge’s translation, Shoo King, p. 386. 36. Classic of Documents, “Jiu gao”; see Legge, Shoo King, p. 409. Classic of Poetry, “Wen wang (Mao no. 235); see Legge, The She King, Chinese Classics vol. 4 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1871; Taiwan reprint, n.d.), p. 431. The ode “Dang” (Mao no. 255) ends by noting that the Shang should have seen themselves in the mirror of the Xia; see Legge, She King, p. 510. 37. Mencius, 4A.2; Mozi 9.13a; Hanfeizi 14.1ab; Guoyu (“Wu yu” 3; Shanghai guji ed.), 2:598. 38. Mao no. 256, Waley’s translation, in his Book of Songs, pp. 300–301. 39. Analects 2.23. 40. Zuo zhuan, Duke Zhuang, 23.3; Legge, Ch’un Ts’ew, p. 105. 41. David N. Keightley, “Early Civilization in China: Reflections on How It Became Chinese,” in Heritage of China, ed. Paul S. Ropp (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990), p. 31. 42. See Benjamin I. Schwartz, The World of Thought in Ancient China (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1985), p. 65. 43. Homer H. Dubs, “The Reliability of Chinese Histories,” Far Eastern Quarterly

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6 (1946):23–25. The Shiji is the most thoroughly translated of the Standard Histories, with Edouard Chavannes’s six-volume annotated translation of chapters 1–50 (1895–1905); Burton Watson’s three-volume narrative translation of 78 chapters (some partial) (1961, revised and expanded in 1993); and William Nienhauser’s projected complete translation in nine volumes (1994–). 44. Zhao Yi, Nianershi zhaji, 2 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1963), 1:3. 45. For general information as well as quotations that specifically note Sima Qian as a model, see Wm. Theodore de Bary, Wing-tsit Chan, and Burton Watson, eds., Sources of Chinese Tradition (Columbia University Press, 1960), pp. 491–501. 46. In the following discussion, unless otherwise noted, the information comes from Shiji 130. For a translation of this chapter, see Burton Watson, Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China (subsequently cited as Grand Historian) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), pp. 42–57. Stephen Owen has translated Sima’s letter to Ren An in An Anthology of Chinese Literature: Beginnings to 1911 (New York: Norton, 1996), pp. 136–142. 47. Han shu 62.2732; Watson’s translation, Grand Historian, p. 63. The quotation is from Sima’s letter to Ren An, which was also translated by J. R. Hightower in Cyril Birch, ed., Anthology of Chinese Literature: From Early Times to the Fourteenth Century (New York: Grove Weidenfeld, 1965), pp. 95–102. 48. For an English-language version of this debate, compare Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 34 and 168–169, with Robert B. Crawford, “The Social and Political Philosophy of the Shih chi,” Journal of Asian Studies 22, no. 4 (August 1963):401– 416. 49. See Mencius 2B.13. 50. Li Zhangzhi, Sima Qian zhi renge yu fengge (Shanghai: Kaiming, 1948), p. 63. 51. Shiji 130.3300. 52. Lai Mingde has argued that next to Sima Qian’s desire to fulfill his father’s last injunctions, the most important element in his history writing was his ambition to follow the example of Confucius and promulgate the principles of the Spring and Autumn Annals. See Lai Mingde, Sima Qian zhi xueshu sixiang (Taipei: Hongshi, 1982), pp. 60–62, 76–86. 53. Shiji 130.3293. 54. Han shu 62.2727. 55. Shiji 130.3295. 56. Ibid.. 57. Scholars have long attempted to determine just which parts of the Shiji were written by Sima Tan, arguing on the basis of chronological or ideological assumptions, but their efforts have been inconclusive. For instance, Li Zhangzhi identified eight chapters of the Shiji that he felt were probably written by Sima Tan, and nine others that could have been written by either Tan or Qian. Other scholars, on much less evidence, have suggested that as many as thirty-seven chapters were written by Tan, but this

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seems unlikely. See Li Zhangzhi, Sima Qian zhi renge yu fengge, pp. 155– 163; and Zhang Dake, Shiji zhi yanjiu (Lanchow: Gansu renmin, 1985), pp. 58–73. 58. Analects 4.19. 59. Han shu 62.2733. 60. Shiji 130.3295. 61. Mencius 4A.26. 62. Han shu 62.2736, Burton Watson’s translation, in his Grand Historian, pp. 66– 67. Stephen Durrant has written insightfully of Sima Qian’s filial piety, noting that “only with a completed copy of Shih chi [Shiji ] in hand can he approach that gravemound [of his father], for the completed historical record will bring fame to both his father and himself.” Stephen W. Durrant, “Self as the Intersections of Traditions: The Autobiographical Writings of Ssu-ma Ch’ien,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 106, no. 1 (January/March 1986):35. 63. Shiji 130.3299. 64. Stephen Durrant has cited the Spring and Autumn Annals of Master Lü, the Huainanzi, and chapter 33 of the Zhuangzi as examples of this synthesizing tendency. See Durrant, Cloudy Mirror, pp. 3–5. 65. Shiji 130.3319–3320. The phrase “repairs omissions in the classics” literally reads “rectify the arts,” bu yi, but I have followed Sima Zhen’s gloss “repair omissions in the Six Disciplines,” bu liu yi zhi que. Unfortunately, this gloss is misprinted in Shiji 130.3321 n11, where yi 1 should read yi 2, but see Takigawa Kametar¯o, ed., Shiki kaich¯u k¯osh¯o, 10 vols. (Tokyo: T¯oh¯o bunkagakuin, 1934),130.64. “Six Disciplines” refers here to the six Confucian Classics, as Takigawa notes. For more on the six arts, see Durrant, Cloudy Mirror, pp. 47–48. 66. Although notoriously, Sima Tan had nothing negative to say about Daoism. 67. The best account in English of Sima Qian’s astrological (and astronomical) labors is Christopher Cullen’s “Motivations for Scientific Change in Ancient China: Emperor Wu and the Grand Inception Astronomical Reforms of 104 b.c.,” Journal for the History of Astronomy 24 (1993):185–203. For Han dynasty astronomy in general, see Christopher Cullen, Astronomy and Mathematics in Ancient China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 1–66. For provocative comments on how cosmological speculations might be applied to literature, see Andrew H. Plaks, “Toward a Critical Theory of Chinese Narrative,” in Chinese Narrative: Critical and Theoretical Essays, ed. Andrew H. Plaks (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1977), pp. 335–339. Plaks identifies two basic patterns, one of waxing and waning and the other based on the cyclical sequence of the seasons. 68. Han shu 62.2735. 69. Shiji 130.3300. For a lucid exposition of the argument that Sima viewed literature primarily as a means to overcome personal suffering by appealing to the judgment of future generations, see Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 154–158.

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70. Han shu 62.2733; Hightower’s translation in Birch, Anthology of Chinese Literature, pp. 100–101. 71. Watson, Grand Historian, p. 144. 72. See Edouard Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques de Se-ma Ts’ien, 6 vols. (Paris: E. Leroux, 1895–1905 and 1969 [vol. 6]), 1:xxxi. 73. Durrant, Cloudy Mirror, p. 10. 74. Dominick LaCapra, History and Criticism (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1985), 38. See also Dominick LaCapra, “Rethinking Intellectual History and Reading Texts,” in Modern European Intellectual History, ed. Dominick LaCapra and Steven L. Kaplan (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1982), pp. 47–85. 75. Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority in the Shih chi (Records of the Historian),” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 4, no. 2 (December 1994): esp. 363–369. 76. Durrant, Cloudy Mirror, pp. 1–27. 77. Vivian-Lee Nyitray, Mirrors of Virtue: Lives of the Four Lords in Sima Qian’s Shiji (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, forthcoming).

Notes to Chapter 2 1. It is possible that Sima Qian never actually completed the basic annals of Emperor Wu in the first place, but we know that his plan for the Shiji contained such a chapter because a brief description is included in the chapter summaries in Shiji 130. 2. Shiji 13.487–488; Burton Watson, Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), p. 184. 3. It is possible to print the tables with the axes reversed, as has been done in Zhang Dake’s edition. See Zhang Dake, ed., Shiji chuanben xinzhu, 4 vols. (Xi’an: San Qin, 1990). 4. There is a major shift between 477 and 476 b.c.e., when Shiji 14, with fourteen rows, gives way to Shiji 15, with seven rows. In order to preserve continuity, events from discontinued rows are included in the rows of the states that eventually conquered them. See Takigawa Kametar¯o, ed., Shiki kaich¯u k¯osh¯o, 10 vols. (Tokyo: T¯oh¯o bunkagakuin, 1934), 15.2. In the Zhonghua edition, these extra notations are set off by a slight space. A tally of these entries is as follows: Jin in Wei’s row: 7 [Wei and others destroyed Jin in 376 b.c.e.] Wey in Wei’s row: 12 [Wei took over Wey in 252 b.c.e.] Zheng in Han’s row: 13 [Han destroyed Zheng in 375 b.c.e.] Zhongshan in Zhao’s row: 2 [Zhao and others destroyed Zhongshan in 295 b.c.e.] Yue in Chu’s row: 2 [Chu destroyed Yue in 333 b.c.e.] Cai in Chu’s row: 5 [Chu destroyed Cai in 447 b.c.e.] Lu in Chu’s row: 11 [Chu destroyed Lu in 249 b.c.e.] Song in Qi’s row: 8 [Qi destroyed Song in 295 b.c.e.]

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Note that there are two states whose names are transliterated as “Wei.” I have labeled the more ancient of these two “Wey” in order to distinguish them. In this usage, I follow Burton Watson. See Watson, trans., Records of the Grand Historian (subsequently cited as Records), 3 vols. (Qin, and Han 1 & 2), rev. ed. (Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1993; original ed., 2 vols. [Han only], New York: Columbia University Press, 1961), Han 1:11, n. 11. 5. Note that the basic chronological structure of this table differs from that presented in the basic annals. Here Emperor Hui gets his own row, although his reign is subsumed into the basic annals of Empress Lü. When Ban Gu reworked the Shiji, he followed the pattern of this table and gave Emperor Hui his own annals chapter. 6. For a partial translation of this table, as well as an explanation of its various features, see A. F. P. Hulsewé, “Founding Fathers and Yet Forgotten Men. A Closer Look at the Tables of the Nobility in the Shih chi and the Han shu,” T’oung Pao 75 (1989):43–126. The order of enfeoffment and the order of rank offer two competing modes of categorizing these men, and in his commentary on the Han shu, Yan Shigu notes yet another—the size of one’s territory is not correlated with either system. Han shu 16.540. 7. See Edouard Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques de Se-ma Ts’ien, 6 vols. (Paris: E. Leroux, 1895–1905 and 1969 [vol. 6]), 1:ccvii. 8. Chen Zhi has classified the upside-down notices into six categories: installments in office, dismissals from office, and ministers’ deaths or crimes or resignations or executions. Chen Zhi, “Han Jin ren dui Shiji de chuanbo ji qi pingjia,” in Sima Qian yu Shiji lunji, ed. Lishi yanjiu bianji bu (Xi’an: Shanxi renmin, 1982), p. 236. See also Zhang Dake, Shiji yanjiu, pp. 329–337; and Zhou Yiping, Sima Qian shixue piping ji qi lilun (Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue, 1989), pp. 243–262. In his translation, Chavannes used italics to represent the original upside-down printing. See Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 3:320, n.1. 9. I have borrowed these translations of chapter titles from B. J. Mansvelt Beck, Treatises of the Later Han (Leiden: Brill, 1990), which includes useful descriptions of Sima Qian’s treatises. 10. The “Treatise on the Calendar” concludes with a calendar from 104 to 29 b.c.e. Although Sima certainly had the expertise to construct a calendar for future years (his proficiency is demonstrated by the role he played in the reforms of 104 b.c.e.), the errors in this particular calendar suggest that this part of Shiji 26 was added by a later, less skilled, hand. See Liang Yusheng (1745–1819), Shiji zhiyi, 3 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1981), 2:766; Zhang Dake, Shiji chuanben, 2:753–754. Nevertheless, Chavannes believed that Sima originally included the calendar and that only the anomalies are the work of interpolators. See Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 3:332, n. 4, and 616–666. On Sima’s calendrical labors, see Du Shengyun, “Sima Qian de tianwenxue chengjiu ji sixiang,” in Sima Qian he Shiji, ed. Liu Naihe (Beijing: Beijing Chubanshe, 1987), pp. 242–244.

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11. This position is defended by Eduoard Chavannes in Les mémoires historiques, 1:cciv–ccv. 12. For information on the use of pitch pipes, see Joseph Needham, Science and Civilization in China, vol. 4, part 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1962), pp. 135–141, 199–202. 13. Zhang Dake, Shiji chuanben, 2:737–738; Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 1:ccv–ccvii. 14. Of course, there are exceptions to all generalizations, and thus Qi and Yan, both major states in the Warring States era (403–221 b.c.e.), are hereditary houses two and four respectively, and the hereditary houses of both Song and Chu include information on Shang dynasty forebears. 15. I have used the nonstandard romanization “Qii” to distinguish this state from the much larger and more important state of “Qi.” 16. I have used the irregular romanization “Hann” to distinguish this new state from another region of China, “Han.” The Chinese characters for these two names are different, but their standard romanizations are identical. See Watson, Records, Han 1:11, n.10. 17. Liu Weimin pointed this out in his Sima Qian yanjiu (Taipei: Wenjing, 1975), pp. 278–279. 18. For this reason and because the chapter ends with a long passage that was added by Chu Shaosun, many scholars have concluded that this hereditary house was lost and then forged. Zhang Dake, however, denies this and feels that the documents as arranged offer oblique criticisms of Emperor Wu’s policies. See Zhang Dake, Shiji chuanben, 2:1295. 19. Liu Weimin, Sima Qian yanjiu, pp. 273–326. 20. See P. Ryckmans, “A New Interpretation of the Term Lieh-chuan as Used in the Shih-chi,” Papers on Far Eastern History 5 (March 1972):135–147. 21. Watson’s translation of this chapter in his Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China (subsequently cited as Grand Historian) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), pp. 42–57, omits the table of contents, but these brief descriptions are appended to their respective chapters in Watson’s Records of the Grand Historian. 22. Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 1:iii–iv, my translation. 23. For analyses of these comments, see Zhou Hulin, Sima Qian yu qi shixue (Taipei: Wenshizhe, 1978), pp. 239–277; Zhang Dake, Shiji yanjiu, pp. 272–289; and Xiao Li, Sima Qian pingzhuan (Jilin: Jilin wenshi, 1986), pp. 70–86. Zhou, in particular, offers a good sketch of Sima’s historiography, based on the personal comment sections and informed by modern historiographical categories. 24. In another thirteen comments, Sima Qian cites the example of Confucius. The next most quoted individual in the Shiji is Laozi, with three comments (chaps. 99, 105, 122). 25. For a survey of the issues involved, see Vivian-Lee Nyitray, Mirrors of Virtue:

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Lives of the Four Lords in Sima Qian’s Shiji (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, forthcoming). 26. The synopsis in Shiji 130 itself is unlikely to be a later forgery, since its descriptions of chapter contents do not always match exactly what we have in our current Shiji. For general summaries of the main problems in Shiji exegesis, see Zhang Dake, Shiji yanjiu; the collection of classic articles in Yu Dacheng and Chen Xinxiong, eds., Shiji lunwen ji (Taipei: Mudo, 1976); and Huang Peirong, ed., Shiji lunwen xuanji (Taipei: Chang’an, 1982). Zhang Dake’s introductions to individual chapters in his Shiji chuanben are also quite helpful. 27. The most complete review of Sima Qian’s sources is Jin Dejian’s Sima Qian suo jian shu kao (Shanghai: Shanghai renmin, 1963). See also Takigawa, Shiki kaich¯u k¯osh¯o, appendix, 50–69; Ruan Zhisheng, “Taishigung zenyang souji he chuli shiliao,” Shumu jikan 7, no. 4 (March 1974):17–35; and Zhang Dake, Shiji yanjiu, pp. 230–271. 28. Shiji 130.3319; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 56. 29. Zheng Qiao, Tongzhi, 3 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1987), 1:405a. 30. Elements in this synopsis can be traced in the following comment sections (listed by Shiji chapter number): Textual criticism: 1, 13, 15, 61, 123 Oral sources: 1, 75, 77, 86, 92, 95, 97 Travel and observation: 1, 23, 28, 32, 44, 47, 61, 75, 77, 78, 84, 88, 92, 95 Refusal to speculate: 13, 26, 27, 30, 67, 17, 18, 80, 127, 128, 129 Importance of beginnings and ends: 14, 15, 18, 19, 30 Corrections of popular accounts: 1, 4, 15, 39, 69, 70, 44, 86, 87, 95, 97, 103 Classics deficient: 1, 27, 61 Criticisms of own impressions: 55, 109, 124 It is important to note that Confucius provided a model for some of these concerns. Burton Watson has pointed out that Confucius was known for not recording details of doubtful authenticity and that the Shiji includes an account of a time when Confucius admitted that his initial impressions had been mistaken. See Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 70–81, 85–86; and Shiji 67.2206; William H. Nienhauser Jr. et al., trans., The Grand Scribe’s Records (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 7:76. 31. In his seminal essay “History and Epics in China and in the West,” Jaroslav Pr u° ˇsek contrasted the continuous, narrowly focused, chronological narrations of Western history with the fragmented, overlapping chapters of the Shiji. He suggested that Sima Qian was above all an arranger and categorizer and that this mode of analysis inclined him to search out generalized patterns. My interpretation of the Shiji is similar, but I would go further than Pr u° ˇsek’s reductive assertion that “this [historical] material mainly served for general political and moral discussions and it was the subject of certain evaluations.”

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The Shiji has certainly filled this function, but I believe that in addition, Sima Qian designed it to change the world. See Jaroslav Pr u° ˇsek, Chinese History and Literature (Dordrecht: Reidel, 1970), p. 25. 32. We might here compare the disappointment of the great nineteenth-century translator James Legge when he finally read the much-vaunted Spring and Autumn Annals. See James Legge, trans., The Ch’un ts’ew and the Tso Chuen, Chinese Classics, vol. 5, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1871; rpt. Taiwan, n.d.), prolegomena, pp. 1–6. 33. In this respect, as in so many others, the Shiji is similar to the Zuo zhuan. John Wang has noted: “The most common method of character depiction in the Tso-chuan [Zuo zhuan], as is also true of most later works, is through dialogue and action, and occasionally also comments by other characters. Rarely does the author tell us directly what type of person a character is.” John C. Y. Wang, “Early Chinese Narrative: The Tso-chuan as Example,” in Chinese Narrative: Critical and Theoretical Essays, ed. Andrew W. Plaks (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1977), p. 9. 34. The credibility of the narrative voice in the personal comments is undercut by their occasional repeating of politically correct assessments that are questionable in light of the preceding narratives. This is particularly true with regard to Gaozu, who as the founder of the Han dynasty and great grandfather of the current emperor, could not be criticized with impunity. However, the issue here may actually be irony rather than credibility, and identifying irony in Sima Qian’s personal comments has kept Shiji scholars happily arguing for centuries. After all, it is possible to identify some of Sima Qian’s criticisms of Gaozu, indirect and subtle though they may be. See Nie Shiqiao, Sima Qian lungao (Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue, 1987), pp. 93–94; and chapter 4 of this book. For another perspective on the function of Sima’s inconsistent comments, see Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority in the Shichi (Records of the Historian),” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 4, no. 2 (December 1994):388–391. Li believes that there is a consistent narrative voice, albeit one characterized by an ironic, eclectic, and flexible attitude. 35. Shiji 7.339, 16.760; Watson, Records, Han 1:48, 88. 36. On the concept of narrative followability, see W. B. Gallie, Philosophy and the Historical Understanding (New York: Schocken Books, 1964), pp. 22–50. 37. In Western history, annals and chronicles are usually regarded as preceding fullblown history, but in the Han dynasty the most prestigious style of historical writing was the annals form, due to the popular association of Confucius with the Spring and Autumn Annals. Annals were regarded as the distillation of historical research and sagely acumen and so might be properly considered “postnarrative.” Sima, of course, combines annals with narratives and creates a new mode of historical writing that derives some of its vigor from the tensions involved in juxtaposing the two competing forms within the same text. See

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Grant Hardy, “The Interpretive Function of Shih chi 14, ‘The Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords,’ ” Journal of the American Oriental Society 113, no. 1 (January/March 1993):14–24. 38. In Shiji 14, for the years 722 to 481 b.c.e. (the period covered by the Spring and Autumn Annals), there are 870 entries in the table. By my preliminary count, 176 describe events that are not mentioned elsewhere in the Shiji. The majority of these incidents are battles or wars (128), many of which seem important enough to warrant further treatment. See, for instance, the conflicts in 588 b.c.e. (six states involved), 564 b.c.e. (nine states involved, two of whose hereditary houses include one sentence each on their individual contributions), 555 b.c.e. (six states involved), and 549 b.c.e. (five states involved). 39. In the preface to the first chronological table, Sima Qian notes: “When Confucius arranged the Spring and Autumn Annals according to the writings of the scribes, he recorded the initial year of a reign and fixed the time by month and day; such was his exactitude. But when he wrote prefaces for the Classic of Documents he forbore; there are no indications of years or months. He may have had some vague information, but there were so many gaps that he could not make a [full] record. Thus when he was in doubt, he passed on his doubts; such was his scrupulousness.” Shiji 13.487; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 184. 40. Shiji 3.91, 4.111, 13.488–489. This contradiction obviously bothered Chu Shaosun, the first commentator on the Shiji, since he appended a long explanation at the end of Shiji 13 that attempts to read the mythical tales in an allegorical fashion. On Chu Shaosun, see Timoteus Pokora, “Ch’u Shao-sun—the Narrator of Stories in the Shih chi,” Annali dell’ Istituto Orientale di Napoli 40 (1981):1–28. 41. Shiji 3.106, 4.116; see Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 1:201–202, 217–218. 42. See Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 1:lxi; Charles S. Gardner, Chinese Traditional Historiography (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1938), p. 17; Wolfram Eberhard, A History of China (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1950), p. 106; Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 85– 86, 95, 98; Burton Watson, Early Chinese Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1962), pp. 94–98; E. G. Pulleyblank, “The Historiographical Tradition,” in The Legacy of China, ed. Raymond Dawson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1964), p. 149; Michael Loewe, Imperial China (London: Allen & Unwin, 1965), p. 281. Some Chinese scholars such as Zhou Hulin have adopted this Western praise for Sima Qian’s objectivity, but significantly, Zhou does not see this as conflicting with Sima’s sagely interpretations. See Zhou Hulin, Sima Qian yu qi shixue, pp. 199–202, 213–221. 43. These assumptions are not just plucked out of thin air. My readings of Sima Qian’s personal comments plus comparisons of his edited narratives with their original sources have convinced me of his high standards of accuracy, rationality, and evidence (and I admit to being enormously impressed by the effort that went into the chronological tables). Sima’s detailed synopsis of the Shiji in chapter

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130 suggests to me that this is a book whose constituent parts work together as a whole and whose present form is primarily due to one brilliant, innovative, designer. In addition, in Shiji 130 Sima evinces no anxieties about the incomplete state of his history. He thinks that his goals have been achieved (indeed, to have chosen castration in order to complete a book and then failed to have finished it would have demanded some justification). Finally, the fact that I can come up with a conception of history that accommodates both the precisions and the inconsistencies of the text while still remaining within the worldview of Han dynasty China suggests that a solution is possible. I do realize that this last point does not prove anything. The argument “if it is possible, it must be actual” is hardly persuasive, but I am content to view my conception of a microcosmic Shiji as a working hypothesis. Let us see if it yields any valuable insights. 44. Shiji 6.265. See Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang, trans., Records of the Historian (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 1974), p. 186; Watson, Records, Qin: 63; Nienhauser et. al., The Grand Scribe’s Records, 1:155. 45. One might compare here some of Emperor Wu’s building projects. Among his ritually significant constructions, he included an artificial lake with models of the magical islands of immortality in the middle, which was as close as he ever came to possessing those frustratingly elusive isles, despite years of effort and expense. See Shiji 28.1402; Watson, Records, Han 2:49. 46. See Maxwell Hearn, “The Terracotta Army of the First Emperor of Qin (221– 206 b.c.),” in The Great Bronze Age of China, ed. Wen Fong (New York: Knopf, 1980), pp. 334–373; Li Xueqin, Eastern Zhou and Qin Civilizations, trans. K. C. Chang (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1985) pp. 251–260; and Shensi Province Qin Shihuang Mausoleum Archaeological Team, The First Emperor’s Terracotta Legion (Beijing: China Travel and Tourism, 1988). The main tomb itself has not yet been excavated. 47. Shiji 8.376, Watson, Records, Han 1:72; Li Xueqin, Eastern Zhou and Qin Civilizations, p. 254. 48. Shiji 130.3320; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 57. 49. Although bronze weapons were still very much in use during the late Warring States period, iron technology was also fairly widespread in China, and it is striking that all the weapons in the First Emperor’s tomb were made of bronze (with the exception of a few iron arrowheads). Li Xueqin suggests that the use of bronze in the tomb may have been the result of custom or ritual: “The weapons found in the pits were all new weapons that had never been used at the time of the burial. They were shiny, valuable, and beautiful, probably suitable for use at rituals.” We might also consider a possible connection with the bronze vessels that were traditionally part of funereal goods or the fact that bronze weapons would never rust. See Li Xueqin, Eastern Zhou and Qin Civilizations, pp. 277, 328–329. 50. Shiji 130.3319; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 56.

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51. The first commentators to suggest these correlations were Sima Zhen and Zhang Shoujie, both of the Tang dynasty. For their comments and later assessments, see Lai Changyang, Chen Keqing, and Yang Yanqi, eds., Lidai mingjia ping Shiji (Taipei: Boyuan, 1990), pp. 119–120, 122, 136. Takigawa regarded these correlations as forced and unconvincing, but I am more sympathetic. The astronomical identifications of the twelve annals and thirty hereditary houses seem natural enough, and the whole scheme seems suspiciously ordered. Note that 12 (annals) times 2.5 equals 30 (hereditary houses); 28 (the rough number of hereditary houses in Sima’s description) times 2.5 equals 70 (biographies); and 12 (annals) plus 10 (tables) plus 30 (hereditary houses) equals 52, which multiplied by 2.5 yields 130 (the total number of chapters in the Shiji ). But see Takigawa, Shiki kaich¯u k¯osh¯o, appendix, p. 75. 52. Compare Jaroslav Pr u° ˇsek’s comments: “The Chinese historian was naturally confronted with the same historical phenomena as the European historian. Only he never thought of working his historical facts into a unified structure that would be in some accordance with reality, of trying perhaps to ‘evoke,’ ‘revive,’ ‘conjure’ past events before our eyes. . . . The Chinese historian knew that he had before him sources and relics which stood in complicated relationship with real happenings and that these sources and the facts included in them were a category of their own, the mutual connections of which were not defined—or at least not exclusively—by the relations between the phenomena these sources reflected. First of all, historical sources, in any event, represent a reflection of only a very insignificant part of real processes, moreover they appear regularly elaborated in specific synthetic complexes or structures.” See Pr u° ˇsek, Chinese History and Literature, p. 24. 53. Shiji 15.687, 28.1404, 17.803, 18.878; Watson, Records, Han 1:426, 429, 2:52. 54. For a general exploration of Han concepts of microcosm, resonance, and order, see Nathan Sivin, “State, Cosmos, and Body in the Last Three Centuries b.c.” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 55, no. 1 (June 1995):5–37. 55. See Michael Loewe, Ways to Paradise: The Chinese Quest for Immortality (London: Allen & Unwin, 1979), pp. 17–59 (banner) and pp. 60–85 (TLV mirrors). 56. Denis Twitchett and Michael Loewe, eds., The Cambridge History of China. Vol. 1: The Ch’in and Han Empires 221 b.c.–a.d. 220 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), p. 724. 57. Loewe, Ways to Paradise, pp. 75–80; Christopher Cullen, Astronomy and Mathematics in Ancient China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 43–49. 58. Shiji 6.256; Watson, Records, Qin: 56. 59. See John B. Henderson, The Development and Decline of Chinese Cosmology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), pp. 75–82. 60. Shiji 28.1401; Watson, Records, Han 2:47–48. 61. See Wu Hung, The Wu Liang Shrine (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press,

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1989), pp. 148–156, 218–220. On the ritual buildings of Wang Mang (r. c.e. 9– 25), see Wang Zhongshu, Han Civilization, trans. K. C. Chang and collaborators (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1982), pp. 9–10. 62. Willard J. Peterson, “Making Connections: ‘Commentary on the Attached Verbalizations’ of the Book of Change,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 42 (1982):88, emphasis in the original. Peterson goes on to argue that the term duplicate is not really an adequate expression of interrelatedness of the Book of Change and the cosmos, both of which contain the other: “Everywhere and always there is change, and the change everywhere and always is the same change, characterized by bipolarity and contained in the Change ” (p. 91). See also Henderson, Chinese Cosmology, pp. 13–19. 63. Zhou yi, Xici A.3–4, Baynes’s translation, pp. 293–296. Richard Wilhelm, trans., The I Ching or Book of Changes, trans. from German by Cary F. Baynes, Bollingen Series 19, 3rd ed. (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1967). 64. See Michael Loewe, ed., Early Chinese Texts: A Bibliographical Guide (Berkeley and Los Angeles: Society for the Study of Early China, 1993), pp. 324–325. The structure of a few Western texts reflects the organization of the cosmos, Dante’s Divine Comedy being the most famous. 65. Shiji 85.2510; Watson, Records, Qin: 163. 66. Watson, Early Chinese Literature, pp. 186–187. 67. George Kennedy has shown this type of analysis to be spurious, and modern scholars no longer believe that Confucius had a hand in the production of the Annals. See George A. Kennedy, “Interpretation of the Ch’un Ch’iu,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 62 (1942):40–48. 68. Han shu 27A.1331–1332; translation is from Loewe, Chinese Ideas, p. 86, or Twitchett and Loewe, Cambridge History of China, vol. 1, p. 712. 69. Shiji 121.3127; Watson, Records, Han 2:368. 70. Shiji 14.509–510; Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 3:18–20. 71. Shiji 14.511; Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 3:20–21. 72. Liu Zhiji and Pu Qilong (1679–1762), Shitong tongshi (Shanghai: Shijie, 1935), p. 10. 73. Louis Mink, Historical Understanding (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1987), p. 196. 74. Shiji 110.2919; Watson, Records, Han 2:162.

Notes to Chapter 3 1. The names of Duke Hui and Prince Whey, although different, are romanized with the same letters, so I have altered the prince’s name to “Whey” to make the story easier to follow. 2. Shiji 33.1528–1529; Edouard Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques de Se-ma Ts’ien, 6 vols. (Paris: E. Leroux, 1895–1905 and 1969 [vol. 6]), 4:106–108.

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3. This device from the Zuo zhuan may have inspired Sima’s own “Eminent Grand Historian” comments at the end of Shiji chapters, but Sima was undoubtedly the first to offer brief comments in his own voice at regular intervals. 4. Zuo zhuan, Guliang, Gongyang, Yin 8.2,3, and Huan 1.4. For these commentaries, I have used the texts included in the Chunqiu jingzhuan yinde, ed. William Hong, Harvard-Yenching Institute Sinological Index Series no. 11 (Beijing: Harvard-Yenching, 1937; rpt. Shanghai: Shanghai Guji, 1983). See James Legge, trans., The Ch’un Ts’ew and the Tso Chuen, Chinese Classics vol. 5 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1872; Taiwan reprint, n.d.), pp. 25–26. 5. Zuo zhuan, Yin, 5.1; Legge, Ch’un Ts’ew, pp. 18–19. 6. According to David Hall and Roger Ames, Confucians read the Classic of Poetry to learn traditional values, to refine aesthetic sensitivities, and to gain a working vocabulary by which to make sense of the world. They argue that the ambiguity of the text was a good thing in that it forced readers into deeper reflection as they creatively sought to apply the ancient poems to their own times and situations. See David L. Hall and Roger T. Ames, Thinking Through Confucius (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1987), pp. 63–65. 7. Stephen Owen has called attention to the connection between the deliberate fragmentariness of the Analects and classical Chinese poetics. See Stephen Owen, Remembrances: The Experience of the Past in Classic Chinese Literature (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1986), pp. 68–69. 8. Analects 7.8. Translation is from Wm. Theodore de Bary, Wing-tsit Chan, and Burton Watson, eds., Sources of Chinese Tradition (Columbia University Press, 1960), p. 26. 9. See de Bary et al., Sources of Chinese Tradition, pp. 207–220; Michael Loewe, Chinese Ideas of Life and Death (London: Allen & Unwin, 1982), pp. 38–47; and John B. Henderson, The Development and Decline of Chinese Cosmology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), pp. 22–28. 10. Shiji 130.3297–3298; Watson’s translation (slightly modified), from Burton Watson, Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China (subsequently cited as Grand Historian) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), pp. 51–52. 11. Shiji 130.3296; Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 50. 12. For translations, see Legge, Ch’un ts’ew, pp. 14–17. 13. Liang Yusheng expressed his surprise that this information was not included in the Annals or its commentaries. Liang, Shiji zhiyi, 1:312. 14. This phenomenon is not simply due to the fact that these events took place before the Spring and Autumn era. The table consistently breaks up and expands Zuo zhuan stories that occur out of chronological order. See Kamada Tadashi, Saten no seiritsu to sono tenkai (Tokyo: Daishükan, 1963), pp. 248–251. 15. Liu Zhiji and Pu Qilong (1679–1762), Shitong tongshi (Shanghai: Shijie, 1935), p. 10. 16. Shiji 37.1592; Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 4:193–195.

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17. Shiji 38.1623; Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 4:234. 18. Shiji 42.1760; Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 4:455. 19. This lesson is particularly clear when we compare Sima Qian’s account with the original Zuo zhuan version. Not only does Sima omit much of the extraneous material, but in the Zuo zhuan, the official heir also has not yet been officially appointed. See Liang, Shiji zhiyi, 2:933. 20. Shiji 37.1605; Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques, 4:213. 21. There are limits to this type of analysis, however. Zhouxu is mentioned once more in the Shiji in the “Hereditary Houses of Chen and Qi”: “In the 23rd year of Duke Huan, Duke Yin of Lu came to power. In the 26th year, Wei assassinated its ruler Zhouxu. In the 33rd year, Lu assassinated its ruler Duke Yin” (Shiji 36.1576). I have no idea why Sima Qian would tie the justified execution of Zhouxu to one of the most notorious assassinations in the Spring and Autumn era. As Liang Yusheng notes, “This is simply turning one’s back on the principles of [correct] terminology in the Spring and Autumn Annals.” Liang, Shiji zhiyi, 2:915. 22. See Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1980), pp. 115–116, 190. 23. Hans Kellner, Language and Historical Representation (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), p. 45 (his emphasis). 24. Shiji 56.2062. For more details see Burton Watson, trans., Records of the Grand Historian (subsequently cited as Records), 3 vols. (Qin, and Han 1 & 2), rev. ed. (Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1993; original ed., 2 vols. [Han only], New York: Columbia University Press, 1961), Han 1:126–127. 25. Shiji 57.2072. See Watson, Records, Han 1:373. 26. Shiji 90.2590; Watson, Records, Han 1:148. 27. Shiji 8.370–372; Watson, Records, Han 1:67–69. 28. Shiji 28.1378; Watson, Records, Han 2:18–19. These sacrifices are also referred to in Shiji 26.1260. 29. See Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 96–98, who follows Su Xun’s classic analysis of Shiji narratives. 30. Shiji 49.1970; Watson, Records, Han 1:325–326. The word rebelled may seem to jar with the neutral position, and readers should note that the parallel text found in the Han shu does not include rebelled. See Han shu 97A.3941. 31. Shiji 92.2613; Watson, Records, Han 1:167–168. 32. Shiji 16.786–787. 33. Shiji 22.1119 and 54.2026 (though the year is corrected to “second” in the Zhonghua edition). Note that Shiji 18.946 also dates Wei’s defection in the fifth month of the second year. 34. Shiji 90.2595; Watson, Records, Han 1:152. 35. We might suppose that at least some of these contradictions are due to Sima’s

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following divergent sources too closely. Such discrepancies are to be expected when a historian simply patches together earlier accounts. Unfortunately, we do not know enough about Sima’s sources for Han dynasty history to judge this hypothesis. I am inclined to believe that as Sima’s history approached his own day, he did more and more of the writing. 36. For example, “The Biography of Li Yiji and Lu Jia” ends with the following comment: “The Eminent Grand Astrologer remarks: Most of the books about Master Li in circulation today assert that he donned Confucian robes and went to speak with the King of Han [Gaozu] after the king had already conquered the three kingdoms in Qin, marched east to attack Xiang Yu, and led his troops between Gong and Loyang. This is false. Before the Lord of Pei [Gaozu] had entered the pass, when he bid farewell to Xiang Yu and proceeded to Gaoyang, that was when he gained the support of Master Li and his brother” (Shiji 97.2705; Watson, Records, Han 1:231). 37. For a recent Western discussion of hujianfa, see Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority in the Shih chi (Records of the Historian),” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 4, no. 2 (December 1994):395–400. 38. Zhu Ziqing, “Shiji dao du,” in Shiji lunwen xuanji, ed. Huang Peirong (Taipei: Changan, 1982), pp. 238–240. 39. Zhang Dake, Shiji zhi yanjiu (Lanchow: Gansu renmin, 1985), pp. 290–307. As one might expect, the technique of complementary viewpoints makes interpretation notoriously difficult. For example, one passage in the Shiji explains that the hated First Emperor of Qin was actually the bastard son of the merchant Lü Buwei. This assertion contradicts the information in the First Emperor’s own annals, and Derk Bodde has (I think rightly) rejected it on textual grounds as the slander of a later interpolator. Yet both Zhang Dake and Zhou Yiping offer the contradictory accounts of the First Emperor’s birth as an example of how the technique of complementary viewpoints allowed Sima to record the truth and show his subjects the respect their position deserved (albeit in different chapters). See Shiji 6.223, 85.2508; Derk Bodde, trans., Statesman, Patriot, and General in Ancient China (New Haven, Conn.: American Oriental Society, 1940), pp. 15– 18; Zhang Dake, Shiji zhi yanjiu, p. 296; and Zhou Yiping, Sima Qian shixue piping ji qi lilun (Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue, 1989), pp. 222–223. 40. Louis O. Mink, “Narrative Form as a Cognitive Instrument,” in his Historical Understanding (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell, University Press, 1987), pp. 182–203. 41. Ibid., pp. 198–199. 42. See especially Hayden White, “The Historical Text as Literary Artifact,” in his Tropics of Discourse (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), pp. 92– 94, where White argues that by emphasizing different elements within a fixed chronology of events, historians can impose different meanings on those events. 43. See Hayden White, Metahistory (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), pp. 1–42, for a brief summary of White’s conceptual framework. Of

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course, Xiang Yu’s tale is a tragedy because he lost, whereas from Gaozu’s perspective the same events look quite agreeable indeed. But I have in mind a profound shift in the way those events are explained in the two chapters. In the Gaozu’s annals it is Heaven that constantly rescues and supports him, but in the personal comment section at the end of “The Basic Annals of Xiang Yu,” Sima Qian expressly denies the influence of Heaven in Hsiang’s defeat. This type of analysis is suggestive, but White’s categories are too imprecise and too dependent on Western genres to be truly useful in evaluating Chinese narratives. 44. (1) Shiji 7.328–330, 8.375–377; Watson, Records, Han 1:42–43, 71–73. (2) Shiji 8.372, 16.787; Watson, Records, Han 1:68. (3) Shiji 7.299, 16.766, 55.2036; Watson, Records, Han 1:20, 100. 45. Shiji 16.791, 794. 46. See Grant Hardy, “The Interpretive Function of Shih chi 14, ‘The Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords,’ ” Journal of the American Oriental Society 113, no. 1 (January/March 1993):14–24. 47. Hundreds of discrepancies were cataloged by the Qing dynasty scholar Liang Yusheng in his Shiji zhiyi. It is difficult to argue that the Shiji was simply not intended to be read so closely. Sima Qian knew and admired commentaries on the Spring and Autumn Annals that construed interpretations of Confucius’s meaning based on differences of phrasing and selection much more subtle than those I outlined in the story of Wei Bao. In addition, the structure of the Shiji compels readers to work through the text several times, comparing various accounts and evaluating the reliability and completeness of the complementary narrative explanations.

Notes to Chapter 4 1. See Derk Bodde, “Types of Chinese Categorical Thinking,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 59 (1939):207–219. 2. Shiji 7.297, Burton Watson, trans., Records of the Grand Historian (subsequently cited as Records), 3 vols. (Qin, and Han 1 & 2), rev. ed. (Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1993; original ed., 2 vols. [Han only], New York: Columbia University Press, 1961), Han 1:18. 3. Shiji 7.321–322; Watson, Records, Han 1:37–38. 4. Shiji 55.2047–2048; Watson, Records, Han 1:112 . 5. See also Wai-yee Li’s discussion of this literary device in his “The Idea of Authority in the Shih chi (Records of the Historian),” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 4, no. 2 (December 1994):383–385. 6. Shiji 7.295–296, 8.3446–346; Watson, Records, Han 1:17–18, 52–53. 7. See Durrant’s perceptive interpretation of these passages in Stephen W. Durrant, The Cloudy Mirror: Tension and Conflict in the Writings of Sima Qian (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), pp. 131–136.

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8. Ying-shih Yü, “The Seating Order at the Hung Men Banquet,” in The Translation of Things Past, ed. George Kao (Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 1982), pp. 49–61. 9. Shiji 7.298–300, 18.887; Watson, Records, Han 1:19–21. 10. Shiji 107.2856, 116.2997–2998; Watson, Records, Han 2:106, 258. 11. Durrant makes much of Sima’s love of the wonderful and strange throughout his monograph; cf. Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority in the Shih chi,” pp. 379–383. 12. Shiji 7.326, Watson, Records, Han 1:40. This story is told a second time (with a slightly different quotation) in 96.2677; Watson, Records, Han 1:208–209. 13. See Frank Algerton Kierman Jr., Ssu-ma Ch’ien’s Historiographical Attitude as Reflected in Four Late Warring States Biographies (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1962), pp. 17–18. 14. Shiji 7.326, 8.373; Watson, Records, Han 1:40, 70. 15. However, I suppose that courses of events could begin with natural phenomena (unless they are portents that respond to some past disaster or future possibility), since these lie outside the realm of human history. 16. Shiji 92.2621; Watson, Records, Han 1:174–175. 17. Shiji 92.2619; Watson, Records, Han 1:172. 18. Shiji 55.2039, 2042; Watson, Records, Han 1:104, 106. 19. Shiji 56.2056; Watson, Records, Han 1:120–121. 20. See Shiji 16,763–764, 48.1955–1956, 89.2575–2576; Watson, Records, Han 1:5–6, 135–136. 21. Shiji 7.331–332, 90.2593; Watson, Records, Han 1:44, 150–151. 22. Shiji 118.3098; Watson, Records, Han 2:351. 23. For another overview of Sima’s literary techniques, with well-chosen illustrations, see Joseph Roe Allen III, “An Introductory Study of Narrative Structure in the Shi ji,” Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews 3 (1981):31–66. Allen focuses on direct quotations, comments, and anecdotes. 24. For instance, both John Wang and Wai-yee Li have noted that Sima’s concluding comments to his “Biography of the Marquis of Huaiyin” (Han Xin) treat the protagonist of that chapter much more harshly than does the narrative itself. See Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority in the Shih chi,” pp. 390–391; and John C. Y. Wang, “The Nature of Chinese Narrative: A Preliminary Statement on Methodology,” Tamkang Review 6, no. 2 and 7, no. 1 (October 1975/April 1976):244. Andrew Plaks explains, “The paradox remains that what you are in the Chinese tradition is not altogether synonymous with what you do—so that the recorded deeds of one’s life need not consistently bear out the final evaluation of the historian.” But there may be more to such contradictions than this. See Andrew H. Plaks, “Toward a Critical Theory of Chinese Narrative,” in Chinese Narrative: Critical and Theoretical Essays, ed. Andrew H. Plaks (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1977), p. 343.

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25. Yang Xiong, Fayan (Sibu congkan ed.), 12/30. 26. Shiji 16.768, 774. 27. Shiji 16.766, 48.1959. 28. Shiji 16.769–770. The event is, however, alluded to in Shiji 7.316. 29. Actually, in the Qin row, the term used is duan yue, but commentators explain that this was the Qin equivalent of zheng yue and was employed to avoid the use of the taboo character zheng, which was prohibited because it was the personal name of the First Emperor. Shiji 16.766. Note also that only Qin at the beginning and Han thereafter use the word yue with every month. 30. Shiji 16.768. 31. In Shiji 14, twenty-four out of twenty-six heavenly portents are recorded in Lu’s row. In Shiji 15, eighteen out of twenty are in Qin’s. 32. There are problems with the idea that Sima was simply following sources. For instance, Shiji 14 lists only twenty-three eclipses, even though thirty-six are clearly noted in one of Sima’s major sources for this table, the Spring and Autumn Annals. 33. Qian Gongzhan has argued that Sima avoided using Han in the title in order to dissociate it from the hated Qin regime, but this strikes me as implausible. See Liang Yusheng (1745–1819), Shiji zhiyi, 3 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1981), 1:455. 34. For an extended comparison of Xiang Yu and Gaozu focusing on character and destiny rather than historical factors, see Durrant, Cloudy Mirror, pp. 129–143. 35. This event is difficult to judge. Gaozu certainly treated it as unjust promise breaking, but it should be noted that although Xiang Yu suspected that Gaozu wanted to overthrow him, he nevertheless appointed him as a king (but only because he was afraid that his other generals would revolt if the agreements seemed to be renegotiable). However, he twisted the terms of the agreement in order to keep the letter of his promise while still granting Gaozu a less strategic territory. So it was less than a good-faith action but more than out-and-out deceit. Shiji 7.316; Watson, Records, Han 1:33–34. 36. Shiji 130.3302; Watson, Records, Han 1:17. 37. Shiji 7.339, 91.2600, 92.2612, 97.2695, 2697; Watson, Records, Han 1:48, 156, 166, 222–223, 225. 38. Shiji 8.370, 376. Watson, Records, Han 1:67, 72–73. 39. Even as close a reader as Homer Dubs can be swayed by the Sima Qian’s arrangement of historical material. In his annotated translation of the annals of Gaozu in the Han shu (for the most part adapted from the Shiji), on one page he asserts that Xiang Yu “was not particularly treacherous,” and on another he argues that Gaozu was justified in breaking his treaty with Xiang Yu because Xiang Yu “had shown himself quite unscrupulous, so that he had no real claim upon Kao-tsu [Gaozu] that might require him to keep his agreement. Kao-tsu was merely requiting Hsiang Yü [Xiang Yu] with the sort of treatment he had

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received from him.” Homer H. Dubs, trans., The History of the Former Han Dynasty, 3 vols. (Baltimore: Waverly Press, 1938–55), 1:48, 94. 40. Shiji 6.236, 8.376, 92.2612; Watson, Records, Qin: 42, Han 1:73, 166. 41. Shiji 55.2037; 7.311–315, 321, 331; 8.377; Watson, Records, Han 1:101–102, 28–33, 36–37, 43–44, 74. 42. Sunzi, 1/1; Ralph D. Sawyer, trans., The Seven Military Classics of Ancient China (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1993), p. 158. In fact, Sima Qian explicitly notes that General Chen Yu was defeated because, as an upright Confucian, he refused to employ deceitful stratagems. Shiji 92.2615, 2618; Watson, Records, Han 1:168, 171. 43. Shiji 130.3302; 8.356–357, 362; 92.2612; 16.759. Watson, Records, Han 1:51, 58, 62, 166–167, 87. 44. Shiji 7.312, 328, 329; Watson, Records, Han 1:42, 30, 41. 45. Shiji 55.2037–2038 (note especially the variant version cited by Pei Yin in n. 1); Watson, Records, Han 1:137–138. 46. Shiji 7.302; 8.354, 358; Watson, Records, Han 1:21, 57, 60. 47. Shiji 7.322, 328; Watson, Records, Han 1:38, 41. 48. Shiji 7.312; 92.2622; Watson, Records, Han 1:30, 175. 49. Shiji 8.362, 365; 2612; Watson, Records, Han 1:62, 63–64, 166–167. 50. Shiji 7.321; 94.2645–2646; Watson, Records, Han 1:37, 199. Like most events in the Shiji (and in life) the massacres in Qi had multiple causes. Xiang Yu seems to have blamed Tian Rong, the rebelling general of Qi, for the death of his uncle Xiang Liang. See Shiji 94.2644; Watson, Records, Han 1:198. 51. Shiji 91.2600, Watson’s translation, Records, Han 1:156. 52. Shiji 92.2612; Watson, Records, 1:166. 53. Shiji 91.2598, 8.367; Watson, Records, Han 1:154, 65. 54. Shiji 7.321, 325, 8.371; Watson, Records, Han 1:37, 39, 68. Sizes of armies recorded in ancient histories are always suspicious, but Sima Qian was certainly aware of the problem. Elsewhere he writes, “At this time, Xiang Yu’s army numbered 400,000 (though he claimed one million), and the Lord of Pei [Gaozu] had 100,000 (which he claimed was 200,000).” Shiji 8.364; Watson, Records, Han 1:63. 55. Dubs, History, 1:14. 56. Shiji 7.321; Watson, Records, Han 1:36. 57. Shiji 92.2612, 8.376; Watson, Records, Han 1:166, 73. 58. Shiji 7.316; Watson, Records, Han 1:33. 59. Shiji 97.2695; 55.2040–2041; Watson, Records, Han 1:222, 104–106. 60. Shiji 48.1952, 89.2573; Watson, Records, Han 1:3, 132–133. 61. Shiji 7.300; Watson, Records, Han 1:20–21. 62. Shiji 7.298, 300, 16.768, 18.887, 91.2598; Watson, Records, Han 1:19. Another counterexample may be Zhou Shi, one of Chen She’s generals who also refused a kingship (this incident rates a direct quotation in the chronological table).

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Zhou’s end, however, may not have turned out as well as Chen Ying’s, for Sima Qian discreetly makes no mention of it. The last we hear of Zhou is that his army was defeated in the sixth month of 208 b.c.e. See Shiji 48.1956, 90.2589, 16.765, 767; Watson, Records, Han 1:6, 147. 63. Shiji 56.2054, 97.2695, 92.2612; Watson’s translation, Records, 1:119, 223, 166. 64. Shiji 7.325, 8.373, 56.2055–2056; Watson, Records, Han 1:39, 69, 120. 65. See, for example, Shiji 7.308; Watson, Records, Han 1:26. 66. Shiji 8.381; Watson’s translation, Records, Han 1:76. 67. Shiji, 90.2590, 91.2602, 2603, 97.2692; Watson, Records, Han 1:148, 157–158, 220. 68. Shiji 8.358; Watson, Records, Han 1:59. 69. Shiji 8.381, 92.2628; Watson, Records, Han 1:76, 181. 70. Shiji, 53.2015–2017; Watson, Records, Han 1:92–94. 71. Shiji 56.2055; Watson’s translation (slightly modified), Records, Han 1:119. 72. See Shiji 7.311, 312; Watson, Records, Han 1:28, 30. 73. See Shiji, 7.312, 334; Watson, Records, Han 1:29–30, 45. 74. Shiji 7.315; Watson, Records, Han 1:33. 75. Shiji 8.381; Watson, Records, Han 1:76. 76. Shiji 7.336; Watson, Records, Han 1:46. A clear example of the consequences of untaken advice occurs in the biography of Han Xin, in which Chen Yu rejects a plan offered by Lord Guangwu and is defeated. Later, Han Xin informs Lord Guangwu that had Chen Yu taken his advice, Chen would have prevailed. See Shiji 92.2615–2618; Watson, Records, Han 1:168–171. 77. Shiji 7.311; Watson, Records, Han 1:28. 78. Shiji 89.2581; Watson, Records, Han 1:141. 79. Shiji 55.2036; Watson, Records, Han 1:101. 80. Shiji 97.2695; Watson, Records, Han 1:223. 81. Shiji 97.2697; Watson, Records, Han 1:225. 82. Shiji 92.2628, 8.391; Watson, Records, 1:181, 83. 83. Li Yiji at one point quotes Guanzi and defines “Heaven” as the people. See Shiji 97.2694; Watson, Records, Han 1:221. 84. An appropriate genealogy was later invented for Gaozu, which is what Ban Gu adduces as the key to his success in his own assessment of Gaozu’s rise. Han shu 1B.81–82; Dubs, History, 1:146–150. Sima does speculate that Xiang Yu’s noble heritage may have had something to do with his astonishing success, temporary though it was. Shiji 7.338–339; Watson, Records, Han 1:47–48. 85. Shiji 16.759–760; Watson, Records, Han 1:87–88. 86. For a few examples of portents and other signs of Heaven’s favor, see Zhou Hulin, Sima Qian yu qi shixue (Taipei: Wenshizhe, 1978), pp. 229–232. 87. Shiji 48.1950; Watson, Records, Han 1:2–3. 88. Shiji 8.350, 92.2623; Watson, Records, Han 1:55, 176. 89. Shiji 7.339; Watson, Records, Han 1:48. See also Sima’s criticism of Meng Tian’s

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cosmological explanation of his wrecked career. Shiji 88.2570; Watson, Records, Qin: 213. 90. Shiji, 16.760; Watson, Records, Han 1:88; repetition in the original. 91. Shiji 55.2049; Watson, Records, Han 1:113. 92. Shiji 7.338; Watson, Records, Han 1:48. I would like to thank Hugh Stimson for pointing out that Sima exaggerates a bit here—Xiang Yu did not start out as a commoner; rather, his family had been generals in the state of Chu for generations. 93. Shiji 7.331; Watson, Records, Han 1:43–44. 94. Shiji 97.2698; Watson, Records, Han 1:226. 95. Shiji 7.307; Watson, Records, Han 1:25. 96. Shiji 53.2014; Watson, Records, Han 1:91–92. 97. Shiji 8.393–394; Watson, Records, Han 1:85–86. 98. Shiji 100.2734; Watson, Records, Han 1:252. 99. Shiji 100.2733; Watson, Records, Han 1:251. This is the only reference to this crucial event in the entire Shiji. 100. Shiji 55.2039; Watson, Records, Han 1:104. 101. Nathan Sivin, “Next Steps in Learning About Science from the Chinese Experience,” in Proceedings / XIVth International Congress of the History of Science, Tokyo & Kyoto, Japan, August 19–27, 1974 (Tokyo: Science Council of Japan, 1975), p. 14. For Needham’s original conception, see Joseph Needham, Science and Civilization in China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1956), 2:279– 303; he introduces the term organicism on p. 281. See also Derk Bodde, Chinese Thought, Society, and Science (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1991), pp. 345–347, 194–200. The latter passage concerns the Confucian ideal of organicism in the social realm, although for Sima Qian and other Han Confucianists such as Dong Zhongsu, the social and natural worlds were intimately connected.

Notes to Chapter 5 1. The first universal history was that of Ephorus (ca. 400–ca. 336 b.c.e.), who wrote a history of all the Greek city-states, with additional material about the barbarians, from 1069 b.c.e. to his own day. His arrangement of his material into geographical divisions would have allowed for interesting comparisons with the organization of the Shiji, but unfortunately only a few fragments of Ephorus’s work have survived. See Charles William Fornara, The Nature of History in Ancient Greece and Rome (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1983), pp. 42–46. 2. Diodorus, Diodorus of Sicily, trans. C. H. Oldfather et al., Loeb Classical Library, 12 vols. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1933–1967), 1:5. 3. James Westfall Thompson, A History of Historical Writing, 2 vols. (New York: Macmillan, 1942), 1:104.

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4. Ban Gu, Han shu, 62.2738; see Burton Watson, Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China (subsequently cited as Grand Historian) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), p. 68. For a recent, thorough discussion of the relationship between Sima Qian and Confucius, see Stephen W. Durrant, The Cloudy Mirror: Tension and Conflict in the Writings of Sima Qian (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), chaps. 1–3. 5. Shiji 130.3295; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 49. 6. See also Mencius 2B.13. 7. Pei Yin, Jijie, cited in Shiji 130.3296, n. 3. 8. Shiji 130.3296; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 50. 9. Confucius is quoted in the comments in chaps. 3, 10, 23, 25, 31, 33, 38, 55, 61, 62, 85, 103, 104, 109, 122, and 125, and his example is cited in the comments in chaps. 1, 2, 13, 14, 24, 27, 46, 47, 104, 110, 117, 121, and 130. 10. The Documents and Poetry are quoted in the comments in chaps. 18, 20, 102, and 118 and referred to in chaps. 15, 30, 117, and 129; the Analects are cited in chap. 67, and the Annals in chap. 91. 11. Laozi is quoted in chaps. 99, 105, and 122, and referred to in chaps. 56, 63, and 80. 12. See Shiji 7.315; Watson, Records Han 1:33. 13. Shiji 130.3319; Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 55–56. 14. Shiji 126.3197. The Classic of Music is no longer extent and probably was not even available to Sima Qian. 15. Shiji 130.3310; not in Watson’s translations. 16. Shiji 130.3319–3320; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 57. 17. Shiji 130.3300; this claim is repeated in Sima Qian’s letter to Ren An, see Han shu 62.2735; Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 54, 65. 18. Shiji 130.3300. See Watson’s comments on Sima Qian’s theory of literature as the result of suffering and anger in Grand Historian, pp. 154–158. 19. Han shu 62.2723; Watson’s translation, Grand Historian, p. 65. I have added the explanation “in suicide.” 20. I have already quoted Sima’s allusion to the writing of the Annals between Chen and Cai. The postunicorn version appears in Shiji 47.1942–1943 and 121.3115; Watson, Records, Han 2:355–356. See Liang Yusheng (1745–1819), Shiji zhiyi, 3 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1981), 3:1470. 21. The following comments cover well-traveled ground in Sima Qian studies. See Stephen W. Durrant, “Self as the Intersections of Traditions: The Autobiographical Writings of Ssu-ma Ch’ien,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 106, no. 1 (January/March 1986):36–39; and Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority in the Shih chi (Records of the Historian),” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 4, no. 2 (December 1994):358–363. 22. Shiji 130.3320; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 57. The “famous mountain” may

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be the name of an imperial archive. See Sima Zhen’s comment in Shiji 130.3321, n. 14. 23. Gongyang, Duke Ai, 14.1. 24. Shiji 130.3300; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 55. 25. See Liang Yusheng, Shiji zhiyi 3:1471–1472; Gu Jiegang, Shilin zashi (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1963), pp. 230–233; and the comments in Takigawa Kametar¯o, ed., Shiki kaich¯u k¯osh¯o, 10 vols. (Tokyo: T¯oh¯o bunkagakuin, 1934):130.29–30. 26. Shiji 47.1947. 27. Others have suggested different ways to connect the Shiji to the Spring and Autumn Annals—for example, Fan Wenlan thought that the twelve Basic Annals corresponded to the twelve dukes of the Annals—but the firm connection between Confucius and Sima Qian is a constant feature of criticism of the Shiji. Fan Wenlan, Zhengshi kaolüe (Beijing: Beijing wenhua, 1931), p. 9. For more details of Sima’s relationship to Confucius, see Li Zhangzhi, Sima Qian zhi renge yu fengge (Shanghai: Kaiming, 1948), pp. 44–78. 28. Shiji 47.1943–1944; Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang, trans., Records of the Historian (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 1974), pp. 24–25. 29. Gongyang, Duke Min, 1.6. 30. Shiji 4.154; 14.632; 39.1668. Another example of Confucius’s practicing of “avoidance” is reported in Shiji 67.2218, where Confucius refuses to speak ill of his sovereign. See William H. Nienhauser Jr. et al., trans., The Grand Scribe’s Records (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 7:82. 31. Zuo zhuan, Duke Xuan, 2.4; Shiji 39.1675. For further information on these two standard examples, see Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 82–83. 32. Shiji 130.3299–3300; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 54. 33. I have in mind chapters such as the treatise on the economy (chap. 30), where Sima hints that Emperor Wu’s policies have impoverished the people; the “Annals of Emperor Wen” (chap. 10), which note that this would have been an appropriate time to change the calendar and resume the sacrifices, implying the inappropriateness of these acts during Wu’s reign, when they were actually performed; and the “Biography of Cruel Officials” (chap. 122), all of whom lived during the Han dynasty. On these sorts of interpretations, see Yin Menglun, “Lüetan Sima Qian xianshizhuyi de xiezuo taidu,” in Sima Qian yu Shiji, ed. Wenshizhe zazhi bianji weiyuanhui (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1957), pp. 66–74; Xu Wenshan, Shiji pingjie (Taipei: Weixin, 1973), pp. 94–96; and Zhou Hulin, Sima Qian yu qi shixue (Taipei: Wenshizhe, 1978), pp. 211–221. 34. Analects 7.1. 35. Compare Watson, Grand Historian, p. 90, with Durrant, “Self,” p. 38. 36. Xiao Li and Zhou Hulin offer numerous examples to demonstrate that Sima Qian did not indulge in Confucian “avoidance.” See Xiao Li, Sima Qian pingzhuan (Jilin: Jilin wenshi, 1986), pp. 113–119; and Zhou Hulin, Sima Qian yu qi shixue, pp. 211–213.

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37. Introduction to Ban Gu’s “Dianyin,” Liu-chen-zhu Wenxuan, ed. Xiao Tong et al., Sibu congkan ed., 48.919. See Watson, Grand Historian, p. 150. 38. Hou Han shu 60B.2006. In a preface to the Ming anthology Shiji pinglin, we read comments by Li Chingchen (1032–1102) and Chao Wujiu (1053–1110) asserting that Sima Qian wrote the Shiji to criticize Emperor Wu. Ling Zhilong, ed., Shiji pinglin, enlarged and supplemented by Li Guangjin and Arii Norihira, 5 vols. (Taipei: Lantai, 1968 reprint), 1:42–54. 39. These observations are very commonly made. See, for example, Liu Weimin, Sima Qian yanjiu (Taipei: Wenjing, 1975), pp. 310–318. 40. Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 85–86. See Grand Historian, p. 96, for an example of how Watson allows some interpretation in the organization of the Shiji. 41. Confucius praises the two men in Analects 5.23, 7.14, 16.12, and 18.8. Their Shiji biography has been translated by Watson in Grand Historian, pp. 187–190, and also by Nienhauser. 42. Shiji 61.2124. Note that the ever-eclectic Sima Qian quotes from Daodejing 79 to address a very Confucian moral issue. He goes on to compare Yan Hui and Robber Zhi, whom he views as opposites on the moral spectrum, and it is worth contrasting his discussion with that of the Daoist philosopher Zhuangzi, who ridiculed similar comparisons between Bo Yi and Robber Zhi. See Nanhuazhenjing (Zhuangzi ) (Sibu congkan ed.), 4/70 and 9/210; Burton Watson, trans., The Complete Works of Chuang Tzu (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968), pp. 102, 329. In the ongoing debate about evil, personified by Robber Zhi, Sima Qian clearly weighs in on the Confucian side. 43. Shiji 61.2125. 44. See Ronald Egan, “Narratives in Tso chuan,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 37 (1977):326–329. 45. Shiji 61.2121. 46. Note that in Chinese thought, this type of response does not depend on the existence of an all-knowing, all-powerful God. 47. Watson, Grand Historian, p. 85. 48. Egan, “Narratives,” pp. 324–325. 49. John Wang noted the same pattern in the Zuo zhuan: “Just as the evil, the stupid, and the haughty will usually bring disaster upon themselves, the good, the wise, and the humble tend to meet their just rewards.” But Wang goes on to point out that the Zuo zhuan is not simplemindedly didactic; there are a lot of exceptions to this general rule. See John C. Y. Wang, “Early Chinese Narrative: The Tso-chuan as Example,” in Chinese Narrative: Critical and Theoretical Essays, ed. Andrew W. Plaks (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1977), pp. 14–15. 50. These various explanations are contained in the comment sections of chaps. 7, 8, 16, 55, 56, and 99. See also Sima’s brief description of Gaozu’s annals in Shiji 130.3302.

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51. It has been suggested that Sima Qian’s comments at the end of Gaozu’s biography are an example of Sima’s general reluctance to point out a person’s faults in his own biography (though such faults are often readily apparent in other chapters). This tendency, noted earlier, often seems to be a factor in the distribution of data among Shiji chapters, but I am not sure that this reluctance extends to Sima’s personal comments. In chaps. 7, 68, 76, 89, 92, 101, 107, and 118, all the concluding remarks directly criticize the subject of the biography. Of course, criticizing the founder of one’s dynasty would have been a particularly delicate matter. 52. See, for example, John Meskill, ed., The Pattern of Chinese History: Cycles, Development, or Stagnation? (Boston: Heath, 1965), pp. 2–3. Note that Wai-yee Li reads this passage as a criticism of Emperor Wu, whose regime was severely lacking in the good faith that should have characterized the Han Dynasty. See Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority,” p. 402. 53. For examples, see the personal comments at the following chapters: chaps. 7, 19, 41, 91, 114, 116 (inherited virtue) chaps. 47, 76, 100 (posthumous influence) chap. 15 (long-term perspective) chaps. 17, 79 (unfavorable times) chaps. 58, 101, 107, 112 (overly favorable times) chaps. 9, 69, 103, 122, 124 (revised historical assessments) 54. Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, trans. Siân Reynolds, 2 vols. (New York: Harper & Row, 1972), 1:18. 55. H. D. F. Kitto, Poesis: Structure and Thought (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1966), p. 261. 56. Shiji 130.3319; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 56. 57. In a few Shiji passages, Sima Qian explicitly notes some of his principles of inclusion. He describes rebels against the Zhou only briefly but gives extra attention to those who supported the royal house (35.1570). He omits information that is uncertain (13.487, 18.878, 27.1343, 67.2226, 127.3221; twice citing the example of Confucius) and leaves out accounts of insignificant states (36.1585). He also avoids repeating information that he feels is readily available elsewhere (62.2136, 64.2160, 74.2349); he sometimes notes that there were others “too numerous to mention” (28.1369, 29.1414, 74.2346, 79.2425); and he finds some individuals so despicable that he cannot bear to write about them (122.3154). Finally, at least one historical principle seems to him to be too obvious to need discussion: “If one’s position is strong [that is, the most strategic regions are in the hands of close relatives], the royal household will be secure. From ancient times to the present, the results of this have been long lasting. There are not any contrary examples. Therefore, I have written this without further explanations” (60.2114).

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58. Zhao Yi (1727–1814), Nianershi zhaji (Sibu beiyao ed.), 1.4b. 59. Analects 8.1; Shiji 31.1475. See Zhang Dake, Shiji chuanben xinzhu, 4 vols. (Xi’an: San Qin, 1990), 2:901. Unfortunately, not much else is known of Tai Bo, and the narrative of his life is accordingly quite brief. 60. See Grant Hardy, “The Interpretive Function of Shih chi 14, ‘The Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords,’ ” Journal of the American Oriental Society 113, no. 1 (January/March 1993):17. 61. Liu Weimin, Sima Qian yanjiu, pp. 292–293. 62. Ibid., pp. 319–326. 63. See Watson’s comments in Records, Han, 1:xviii. Watson does not believe that Sima used different names to communicate covert judgments, and so in his translation he regularizes usages to make it easier for readers to follow the stories. 64. One wonders why this chapter is not entitled “The Table by Months of the Conflict Between Chu and Han,” since the Qin dynasty ceases to exist after less than half the chapter. 65. Shiji 5.179. The same event appears to be referred to in 14.532. 66. Shiji 15.685, Watson’s translation. Watson, Grand Historian, p. 185. 67. One might compare my summary of Shiji literary devices, both those listed earlier and the five just mentioned, with that of Xu Wenshan. I have noted many of the same features but tried to be a little more systematic than Xu. See Xu Wenshan, Shiji pingjie, pp. 205–214. 68. Shiji 130.3297; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 51. 69. Analects 20.1. 70. Mencius 3B.9. 71. See Herbert Fingarette, Confucius—The Secular as Sacred (New York: Harper & Row, 1972). 72. Analects 2.3, D. C. Lau’s translation, in D.C. Lau, trans., Confucius: The Analects (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1979), p. 63. 73. Analects 13.3. Sima Qian refers to this conversation twice in the Shiji, in 23.1159 and 47.1933–1934. 74. Analects 12.11; cited in Shiji 47.1911. 75. Fingarette, Confucius, pp. 11–15. 76. David L. Hall and Roger T. Ames, Thinking Through Confucius (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1987), pp. 268–269. 77. See Chad Hansen’s provocative comments on the difficulties of using specific definitions to ensure proper naming. Chad Hansen, A Daoist Theory of Chinese Thought (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), pp. 65–71. 78. Shiji 130.3298; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 52. 79. In writing about the New Testament, Norman Perrin uses the term salvation history rather than redemptive history as a translation of Heilsgeschichte “to avoid suggestion that history itself is redemptive; in the thought of the author of Luke-

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Acts it is not that history is redemptive but that redemption has a history.” Redemptive history, with the meaning rejected by Perrin, seems to me a fair description of how Sima Qian would have regarded his own historical efforts. See Norman Perrin and Dennis C. Duling, The New Testament: An Introduction, 2nd ed. (San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982), p. 301, n. 11. 80. See Analects 2.23, 3.21, and 15.11. 81. Shiji 23.1161. 82. Shiji 23.1170; Watson’s translation, from Hsün Tzu: Basic Writings (New York: Columbia University Press, 1963), p. 94. The two Chinese texts are identical. 83. There may be a textual problem here, however, for the phrase “The Grand Astrologer remarks” is simply a substitute for fourteen characters in Xunzi’s essay, which then continues unchanged. Takigawa thought this a “reckless insertion” by later copyists. See Takigawa, Shiki kaich¯u k¯osh¯o, 23.22. 84. Shiji 130.3290; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 45. 85. A technical term that may be related to this process appears toward the end of the “Biography of Meng Tian,” where Meng quotes an otherwise unknown passage of the Classic of Documents to the effect that one “must put things into threes and fives” (bi san er wu zhi ). He later observes that this is something that sages do, and the context makes it clear that this categorizing involves some sort of discernment of the true situation. Shiji 88.2569–2570; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:365–366 (though Nienhauser evades the implications of the term by emending “five” to “four”). The phrase also shows up in other early texts; see Wang Shumin, Shiji jiaozheng (Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan lishi yuyan yanjiusuo, 1982), 8:2653–2654. 86. Hall and Ames, Thinking Through Confucius, p. 64.

Notes to Chapter 6 1. D. C. Lau’s translation, in D.C. Lau, trans., Confucius: The Analects (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1979), p. 97. 2. Shiji 79.2409 and 44.1857–1862; Burton Watson, trans., Records of the Grand Historian (subsequently cited as Records), 3 vols. (Qin, and Han 1 & 2), rev. ed. (Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1993; original ed., 2 vols. [Han only], New York: Columbia University Press, 1961), Qin: 139. Note also Sima’s comments in 44.1864 where he tries to correct current notions of Wuji’s political importance. Nienhauser notes another example in which an unflattering anecdote appears in someone else’s biography. See William H. Nienhauser Jr. et al., trans., The Grand Scribe’s Records (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 7:169, n. 25. 3. Shiji 66 was translated by Richard Rudolph in “The Shih chi Biography of Wu Tzu-hsü,” Oriens Extremus 9 (1962):105–120; and by Burton Watson in Records, pp. 16–29. For an analysis of the sources used by Sima Qian in this chapter, see

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David Johnson, “Epic and History in Early China: The Matter of Wu Tzu-hsü,” Journal of Asian Studies 40 (1981):255–271. 4. Shiji 66.2178–2181. The sentence count here is taken from the Zhonghua punctuated edition, but sentences in Chinese bear only a loose relation to sentences in an English translation. 5. Chap. 120 was translated by Watson in Records, Han 2:307–318. 6. See Shiji 24.1178, 29.1409, 112.2950–2951. 7. Shiji 112.2950. 8. Shiji 120.3107, 3109. Note that although this last quotation does not mention Ji An by name, Sima’s introduction of the king of Huainan’s remarks makes it clear that Ji An is the subject. See also Joseph R. Allen, “An Introductory Study of Narrative Structure in the Shi ji, Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews 3 (1981):41–42. 9. Han shu 19B.770–775. 10. For two exemplary articles that investigate the literary meaning of various Shiji chapters, see Allen, “Introductory Study”; and Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority in the Shih chi (Records of the Historian),” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 4, no. 2 (December 1994):388–391. 11. Shiji 66.2174, 2177; see Watson, Records, pp. 19–20, 23. 12. Shiji 31.1449, 1461–1463; see Edouard Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques de Se-ma Ts’ien, 6 vols. (Paris: E. Leroux, 1895–1905 and 1969 [vol. 6]), 4:6, 15–21. 13. Shiji 86.2516–2518; see Watson, Records, pp. 46–48. Zuo zhuan, Duke Zhao, 27.3 . 14. Shiji 10.433; see Watson, Records, Han 1:305–306. 15. Shiji 97.2701; see Watson, Records, Han 1:229. 16. Shiji 113.2970; see Watson, Records, Han 2:210. 17. Shiji 97.2701; see Watson, Records, Han 1:229. 18. Shiji 79.2420–2424 (the quotation is from 2420); Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:247–252; Zhanguoce, 3 vols. (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1985), 1:211– 221. See J. I. Crump’s translation in Chan-kuo Ts’e (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), pp. 132–135 (no. 108). 19. Shiji 76.2373; Nienhauser, 7:210; Zhanguoce, 2:692–693; Crump’s translation, from his Chan-kuo Ts’e, p. 339 (no. 265). 20. For example, the Shiji obviously draws on preexisting accounts of the Warring States era, some of which were arranged into the Zhanguoce by Liu Xiang (77–6 b.c.e.) several years after Sima Qian’s death . But when Shiji accounts do not match the Zhanguoce, it is difficult to know whether this is due to Sima’s or Liu’s editing or problems in textual transmission (Sima’s Tang dynasty commentators occasionally refer to Zhanguoce stories that are not in our modern editions). 21. Zuo zhuan, Duke Ai, 16.3. A complete translation can be found in James Legge, trans., The Ch’un Ts’ew and the Tso Chuen, Chinese Classics vol. 5 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1872; Taiwan reprint, n.d.), pp. 846–848; and in Burton

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Watson, trans., The Tso chuan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989), pp. 201–206. 22. Legge’s translation, in Legge, Ch’un Ts’ew, p. 847. 23. Shiji 14.675, 40.1718. 24. Shiji 66.2182; see Watson, Records, pp. 27–28. 25. This point is emphasized in the Zuo zhuan account of Zixi’s death, in which his last act was to cover his face with his sleeve in shame. 26. For the Shiji’s modifications of the Zuo zhuan’s language, see Bernhard Karlgren, “On the Authenticity and Nature of the Tso chuan,” Göteborgs Högskolas Årsskrift 32 (1926):21–30; and Kamada Tadashi, Saten no seiritsu to sono tenkai (Tokyo: Daish¯ukan, 1963), pp. 109–145. 27. Sometimes parallel accounts of the same speech vary slightly in different Shiji chapters, but they are often identical. 28. See Allen, “Introductory Study,” pp. 51, 57–58. 29. Shiji 66.2182; see Watson, Records, p. 27. 30. Shiji 86.2522–2526; Zhangguoce, 2:993–1002. For translations, see Watson, Records, pp. 50–54; and Crump, Chan-kuo Ts’e, pp. 455–458 (no. 383). 31. Perhaps Sima omitted this to avoid serious chronological difficulties. According to Shiji 16.711 and 718, twenty-six years separated the assassinations of Prime Minister Xialei and Marquis Ai. 32. The theme of recognizing men of talent figures prominently in chaps. 75, 76, and 77, and in the narrative of Yu Rang, which immediately precedes Nie Zheng in chap. 86. In addition, Sima discusses this theme in his letter to Ren An. See Eric Henry, “The Motif of Recognition in Early China,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 47 (1987):12–13. We return to this topic in the last chapter. Note also that in the Shiji version of Rong’s story, her suicide is played down, which, of course, was another delicate subject for Sima Qian. 33. For another detailed reading of this narrative, see Stephen W. Durrant, The Cloudy Mirror: Tension and Conflict in the Writings of Sima Qian (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), pp. 99–122. Our interpretations overlap at several points, but Durrant gives more attention to how the tale of Nie Zheng’s sister intersects with Sima Qian’s own life story. See also Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority,” pp. 372–375. 34. Shiji 75.2358; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:196; Zhanguoce, 1:169. For another translation, see Crump, Chan-kuo Ts’e, pp. 86–87 (no. 80). 35. The Qing scholar Liang Yusheng (1746–1819) identified many of these conflicting dates in his Shiji zhiyi. 36. Shiji 75.2362–2363; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:199–200. This account itself seems to be a variant of that recorded in Zhanguoce, 1:406, which concerns rival officials rather than unfaithful retainers. See Crump, Chan-kuo Ts’e, pp. 192–193 (no. 155). 37. See Burton Watson, Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China (subsequently

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cited as Grand Historian) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), pp. 118–119; and Takigawa Kametar¯o, ed., Shiki kaich¯u k¯osh¯o, 10 vols. (Tokyo: T¯oh¯o bunkagakuin, 1934), 47.1–3. 38. Four other philosophers are mentioned sporadically in the tables: Sunzi becomes a general at 15.725, Shen Buhai is made prime minister at 15.723 and dies at 15.727, Hanfeizi is killed at 15.754, and Mencius is quoted at 15.727. Guan Zhong and Yanzi, who were probably more important as statesmen than as philosophers, are referred to in four and seven entries, respectively. But Confucius appears ten times in the “Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords” (chap. 14), beginning with his birth in 551 b.c.e. and ending with his death in 479 b.c.e. 39. I should point out, however, another philosophical figure who is granted his own biography (chap. 68), who is referred to by an honorific title, and whose life is marked by six entries in the chronological tables—Lord Shang of Legalist fame. But unlike most other philosophers, Lord Shang enjoyed a very prestigious political career, which may account for the attention he receives in the Shiji, or Sima may have been acknowledging his profound influence. After all, Legalism was one of the foundations of the imperial system. At any rate, Sima expresses extreme disapproval of Lord Shang in his concluding comments to the biography, noting that his bad reputation was richly deserved. See Shiji 68.2237; Watson, Records, Qin: 99. Another quasi-philosophical figure who receives his own biography (although it is very short) is Sima Rangju, who wrote a book of military strategy. However, he never appears in the tables. See Shiji 64. 40. H. G. Creel, Confucius: The Man and the Myth (New York: John Day, 1949), pp. 244–248; the quotation is from p. 246. Once again, Stephen Durrant has written an insightful essay that parallels at many points my own analysis of an important Shiji chapter; see his Cloudy Mirror, pp. 29–45, where he adroitly handles the sources and significance of the “Hereditary House of Confucius.” I find Durrant’s entwining of the lives of Confucius and Sima Qian quite persuasive. 41. See Robert B. Crawford, “The Social and Political Philosophy of the Shih chi,” Journal of Asian Studies 22, no. 4 (August 1963):401–416 ; Han shu 62.2737–2738. 42. Han shu 30.1732. 43. Han shu 30:1714; cf. Han shu 62.2735, already cited, where Sima writes “I have gathered together the old traditions of the world which were neglected and lost, and investigated their deeds and affairs. I have searched into the principles behind their successes and failures, their rises and declines, [making] in all, 130 chapters.” 44. See Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 170–174; for descriptions of historical and chronological problems, see Creel, Confucius, pp. 245–246; Lau, Confucius, pp. 181–194; Liang Yusheng (1745–1819), Shiji zhiyi, 3 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua,

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1981), 3:1111–1142; and the notes to Chavannes’s translation, in Les mémoires, 5:283–435. 45. Chap. 47 reverses the order of these two events, making Confucius a prime minister four years after his successful handling of the conference with Qi, but most other Shiji chapters treat them as both having occurred in 500 b.c. 46. Translations of the “Hereditary House of Confucius” can be found Chavannes, Les mémoires, 5:283–435; Yang Hsien-i and Gladys Yang, trans., Records of the Historian (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 1974), pp. 1–27; and Lin Yutang, trans., The Wisdom of Confucius (New York: Random House, 1938), pp. 53–100. 47. Shiji 47.1909. 48. Shiji 63.2140; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:22. 49. Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 170–171. Despite this particular complaint, my analysis is indebted at several points to Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 167–174. 50. Shiji 47.1911. 51. Shiji 47.1913; Guoyu, Lu, 5.18 (1:213). 52. Shiji 47.1914. 53. Zuo zhuan, Duke Ding, 10.3. See Lau, Confucius, pp. 185–187. 54. Shiji 14.509, 121.3115. 55. Shiji 47.1927. 56. Zuo zhuan, Duke Ai, 3.6; Legge, Ch’un Ts’ew, p. 802. In the Zuo zhuan, Ji Huanzi takes sick and orders an attendant to make Ji Kangzi chief minister only if the child about to be born to Nan Ruzi turns out to be a girl. 57. Shiji 47.1930. 58. Shiji 47.1909. 59. Shiji 74.2345, 124.3182, 130.3300; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:181; Watson, Records, Han 2:410; Watson, Grand Historian, p. 54. 60. Shiji 130.3300, Watson’s translation, with modifications of book titles and romanization. Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 54–55. Confucius is noted in a similar list in Sima’s letter to Ren An, preserved in Han shu 62.2735. 61. Shiji 47.1935. 62. Shiji 76.2376; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:212. 63. Shiji 47.1941; cf. Analects 9.6. I have followed Chavannes’s identification of quotations in the “Hereditary House of Confucius.” See Chavannes, Les mémoires, 5:391–414. 64. Gongyang, Duke Ai, 14.1. 65. Shiji 47.1942. 66. Shiji 67.2187–2188. 67. Shiji 47.1942–1943. 68. Compare Shiji 67.2194, 37.1601, 121.3116; and Zuo zhuan, Duke Ai, 15.3. Sima Qian usually follows the Zuo zhuan, but in that book, Confucius’s lament is a prediction of the outcome of the turmoil in the state of Wey and so might distract readers from the contemplation of Confucius’s last days.

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69. Shiji 47.1944. 70. Shiji 47.1945, Zuo zhuan, Duke Ai, 16.4. 71. Shiji 47.1947. 72. Lau, Confucius, p. 162. 73. See R. P. Kramers, K’ung Tzu Chia Yü (Leiden: Brill, 1950). 74. Nie Shiqiao, Sima Qian lungao (Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue, 1987), pp. 151–152. 75. Shiji 47.1911, 1914, 1924, 1926, 1932, 1935, 1945. This pattern was noted by the Ming scholar Chen Renxi. See Takigawa, Shiki kaich¯u k¯osh¯o, 47.2.

Notes to Chapter 7 1. The Shiji chapters dealing with the Qin Dynasty have been conveniently collected and translated in two sources: Burton Watson, trans., Records of the Grand Historian (subsequently cited as Records), 3 vols. (Qin, and Han 1 & 2), rev. ed. (Hong Kong: Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1993; New York: Columbia University Press, 1961); and Raymond Dawson, trans., Sima Qian: Historical Records, World’s Classics Series (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994). See also William H. Nienhauser Jr.’s translations of Shiji 5 (“Basic Annals of Qin”) and 6 (“Basic Annals of the First Emperor of Qin”) in the first volume of The Grand Scribe’s Records (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994). And for a brief but thorough account of the rise and fall of the Qin Dynasty, see Derk Bodde, “The State and Empire of Ch’in,” in The Cambridge History of China: The Ch’in and Han Empires, 221 b.c.–a.d.220, ed. Denis Twitchett and Michael Loewe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), pp. 20–102. 2. The archaeological evidence suggests that human sacrifices mainly occurred in the semibarbarian states of Qin and Chu. See Li Xueqin, Eastern Chou and Qin Civilizations, trans. K. C. Chang (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1985), pp. 161, 227–228, 475–476. 3. Zuo zhuan, Duke Xi, 19.5; cf. Duke Wen, 6.2, and Duke Zhao, 10.3, 11.10. These are the only occurrences of human sacrifice in the Zuo zhuan, and each includes a forceful condemnation. See also Duke Xi, 21.3, where the duke of Lu is dissuaded from sacrificing a shaman to relieve a drought. 4. Shiji 5.183, 194; Watson, Records, Qin: 8, 17. 5. Shiji 15.685. See Watson, Records, Qin: 85; or Burton Watson, Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China (subsequently cited as Grand Historian) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), p. 86. 6. Shiji 44.1857. 7. It is sometimes asserted that the Qin’s use of iron weapons was a critical component of their success. Although iron casting was known at the time, archaeology has not produced evidence of widespread iron weaponry. As far as we know, the soldiers of Qin were armed primarily with bronze. See Bodde, “State and Empire,” pp. 46–47.

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8. There are problems with the conventional notion of the Great Wall, but it is clear that the First Emperor’s fortification and wall-building efforts were considerable. See Arthur Waldron, The Great Wall (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), pp. 15–21. 9. Shiji 6.235–236; see Watson, Records, Qin: 42. 10. Shiji 6.236; Watson, Records, Qin: 42. 11. Shiji 6.236; Watson, Records, Qin: 43. 12. Shiji 6.236; Watson, Records, Qin: 43. 13. Shiji 6.249, 262; Watson, Records, Qin: 50, 61. 14. Shiji 6.236, 245, 250, 252, 261. 15. Shiji 6.245, Watson’s translation, Records, Qin: 47–48. For an account of the surviving archaeological evidence related to the stone inscriptions, see Li Xueqin, Eastern Chou, pp. 247–249. 16. Most of the inscriptions are similarly general, with the exception of the last, which offers specific instructions about sexual morality. Shiji 6.262; Watson, Records, Qin: 61. 17. Shiji 6. 246–247, 267; Watson, Records, Qin: 49, 65. The two supplemental texts were carved alongside the First Emperor’s original inscriptions. One was added by his ministers and the other by his son, the Second (Generation) Emperor. For additional archaeological references to inscriptions of the First Emperor written on metal and stone, see Edouard Chavannes, Les mémoires historiques de Se-ma Ts’ien, 6 vols. (Paris: E. Leroux, 1895–1905 and 1969 [vol. 6]), 2:199, n. 2, and 553. 18. Zuo zhuan, Duke Xiang, 19.2; James Legge, trans., The Ch’un Ts’ew and the Tso Chuen, Chinese Classics vol. 5 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1872; Taiwan reprint, n.d.), p. 483. Other inscriptions noted in the Zuo zhuan include a boast of an assassination, a warning to posterity, and a record of humble demeanor. See Duke Xi 25.1; Duke Zhao 3.2, 7.6. 19. See K. C. Chang, Art, Myth, and Ritual: The Path to Political Authority in Ancient China (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983), pp. 95–106. On bronze inscriptions generally, see Edward L. Shaughnessy, Sources of Western Zhou History: Inscribed Bronze Vessels (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1991). 20. Shiji 6.248, 28.1365; Watson, Records, Qin: 49. These cauldrons are also mentioned in Shiji 5.218, 28.1365, 1383, 1392; Watson, Records, Qin: 32, Han 2: 11, 23, 34–35. They were supposedly made by Emperor Yu, the founder of the Xia dynasty, and then were transferred along with the Mandate of Heaven to the Shang and Zhou rulers in turn. A few sources claimed that the state of Qin had, at some point, gained possession of these sacred vessels, but obviously by the time of the First Emperor, they could no longer be located. For Han interpretations of the First Emperor’s failure to obtain the cauldrons, see Wu Hung, The Wu Liang

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Shrine: The Ideology of Early Chinese Pictorial Art (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1989), pp. 59, 92–96. 21. Shiji 6.236, 239. But see also 6.247, where the “glory of the ancestral temple” is cited in an inscription raised by his ministers. 22. See Derk Bodde, China’s First Unifier (Leiden: Brill, 1938), pp. 124–132. Bodde regards the use of huangdi by the First Emperor as primarily political rather than religious. See also Howard J. Wechsler, Offering of Jade and Silk (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1985), p. 86. The ex-chancellor Li Si does use the term Son of Heaven once in referring to the First Emperor: Shiji 87.2561; Watson, Records, Qin: 202. The evil eunuch Zhao Gao also used this term when attempting to intimidate the Second Emperor: Shiji 87.2558, 2562; Watson, Records, Qin: 198, 204. 23. Chavannes, Les mémoires, 2:145. See also Chavannes’s identifications of Confucian quotations in other inscriptions in 2:142, 159–60, 161–162. It is also noteworthy that the First Emperor consulted with the Confucian scholars of Lu before commissioning the inscription on Mount Zouyi. See Shiji 6.242; Watson, Records, Qin: 45. 24. Shiji 6.247; Watson, Record, Qin: 49. See Bodde, “State and Empire,” pp. 72–81. 25. Shiji 6.237–238; Watson, Records, Qin: 43–44. 26. K. C. Chang, Art, Myth, and Ritual: The Path to Political Authority in Ancient China (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1983), p. 35. Daoist rulers were supposed to do nothing (wu wei ) and allow all things to follow their natural course, whereas Legalist rulers were encouraged to enact laws so comprehensive and severe that the state would virtually run on its own. 27. Shiji 6.246–247; Watson, Records, Qin: 49. 28. Shiji 6.238–239; Watson, Records, Qin: 44. 29. Shiji 6.254; Watson, Records, Qin: 54. 30. Shiji 6.254–255; Watson’s translation, Records, Qin: 54–55. 31. Bodde, China’s First Unifier, pp. 162–166. 32. Shiji 6.258; Watson, Records, Qin: 58. 33. Shiji 6.242; Watson, Records, Qin: 45–46; cf. Shiji 28.1366–1367; Watson, Records, Han 2:12–213. 34. Shiji 6. 248; Watson, Records, Qin: 49–50. Bodde, who takes the word zhe to mean “to paint red,” considers this story too fantastic to believe, but I am more credulous. Zhe could mean “to sprinkle red earth upon,” “to denude (so as to expose reddish earth),” or even “to burn” (as in the Cihai dictionary, which cites this passage). See Bodde, “State and Empire,” p. 98. 35. Herodotus, 7.35. 36. Shiji 6.256; Watson, Records, Qin: 56. Note that this symbolic configuration seems to replace an earlier one described in 6.241; Watson, Records, Qin: 45. The connection between the Heavenly Apex (which included the Pole Star) and the emperor has at least three aspects: everything revolved around them;

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both were at the apex of their systems; and both occupied the northernmost positions (rulers in China always faced south in their official capacities). See Shiji 27.1289–1290; and Joseph Needham, Science and Civilization in China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959), 3:230, 240, 259–262. 37. Shiji 6.256–257; Watson, Records, Qin: 56–57. 38. Shiji 6.264; Watson, Records, Qin: 62. 39. Shiji 6.263–264; Watson, Records, Qin: 61–62. 40. On correlative thinking, see John B. Henderson, The Development and Decline of Chinese Cosmology (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984), chap. 1. 41. Shiji 5.179; Watson, Records, Qin: 5. 42. Bodde, “State and Empire,” p. 20. 43. Perhaps one subtle reminder of their competition is the fact that they traveled to many of the same places, though under very different circumstances: The First Emperor as the emperor of all under heaven, and Sima Qian as a simple farm boy on leave. 44. Remember that the restoration of extinct states and the continuation of genealogical lines (at least in memory) were crucial parts of the Confucian program. 45. Shiji 130.3319; Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 55–56. 46. Shiji 15.686; Watson, Records, Qin: 87. 47. Shiji 6.232; Watson, Records, Qin: 40. 48. Shiji 6.260; Watson, Records, Qin: 60. A li is about one-third of a mile. Perhaps these sacrifices denote some change of heart: Shun and Yu were two of the sage-rulers whom the First Emperor consistently denigrated. 49. Shiji 74.2344; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:181. 50. Vitaly A. Rubin, “Ancient Cosmology and Fa-chia Theory,” in Explorations in Early Chinese Cosmology, ed. Henry Rosemont Jr. (Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1984), p. 97. 51. Needham, Science and Civilization in China, 2:235. Note that the celebrated poet Sima Xiangru gets a similar Confucian makeover; see Shiji 117.3073; Watson, Records, Han 2:306. 52. Shiji 6.256; Watson, Records, Qin: 56. An even more frightening example of losing the power of naming occurs in the brief reign of the Second Emperor. The fate of this ruler is sealed when the evil eunuch Zhao Gao calls a deer a horse and then punishes all those who sided with the emperor in protesting that the animal was indeed a deer. See Shiji 6.273; Watson, Records, Qin: 70. 53. Shiji 6.259; Watson, Records, Qin: 59. 54. Shiji 6.259; Watson, Records, Qin: 59. This event is also noted in the table in Shiji 15.758. 55. For a good summary of standard interpretations of passages in which Sima Qian is critical of Emperor Wu, see Su Chengjian, “Shiji shi dui Han Wudi de pipan shu,” in Sima Qian he Shiji, ed. Liu Naihe (Beijing: Beijing, Chubanshe 1987),

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pp. 75–100. Su is correct in pointing out that the Shiji is much more than an attack on Emperor Wu, and Shi Ding’s spirited argument that Sima Qian was capable of some degree of objectivity with regard to his sovereign is well taken, but on the whole, Sima Qian’s treatment of Emperor Wu is decidedly negative. See Shi Ding, “Sima Qian xie ‘jin shang (Han Wudi),’ ” in Sima Qian yanjiu xinlun, ed. Shi Ding and Chen Keqing (Henan: Henan jenmin, 1982), pp. 137–162. 56. See Shiji 17.801–803; Watson, Records, Han 1:427–429. For a modern account of the rise and fall of early Han kingdoms and marquisates, see Twitchett and Loewe, The Cambridge History of China, vol. 1, pp. 124–127, 139–144, 156–160. 57. Here I count Empress Lü as a de facto emperor, as Sima Qian does. 58. Shiji 18.877–878; Watson, Records, Han 1:427–428. 59. See Shiji 60.2114. 60. Shiji 130.3295. See Zhang Dake, Shiji yanjiu, 4 vols. (Xi’an: San Qin, 1990), pp. 393–396; Shi Ding, “Sima Qian xie ‘jin shang (Han Wudi),’ ” pp. 140–143. 61. Once again, I would like to refer readers to Wai-yee Li’s fine article on Sima Qian’s narrative authority. I am persuaded, for the most part, by her analysis and examples, although I would differ with her reconstruction of the transition from magical authority to moral authority. I think that Sima Qian’s Shiji still shares in designs that our culture might consider magical. 62. Han shu 80.3324–3325; see Stephen W. Durrant’s account in his The Cloudy Mirror: Tension and Conflict in the Writings of Sima Qian (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), pp. 102–103. 63. Shiji 113.2969–2970; 118.3076, 3085; Watson, Records, Han 2:209–210, 323, 334. 64. Shiji 121.3122–3123, 3128; Watson, Records, Han 2:363–364, 369. 65. See Shiji 111.2933; Watson, Records, Han 2:173–174. 66. This is something that emperors did on occasion, as when Emperor Gaozu established perpetual sacrifices for historical figures he particularly admired or enfeoffed their descendants. See Shiji 48.1961, 77.2385, 80.2436; Watson, Records, Han 1:9–10, Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:221, 260. See also Shiji 4.170; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 1:83–84. The authority to officially reevaluate the past is still jealously guarded in China, as can be seen in the government’s resistance to annual calls for a reassessment of the Tiananmen Square massacre of 1989.

Notes to Chapter 8 1. Han shu 62.2735; Burton Watson, Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Grand Historian of China (subsequently cited as Grand Historian) (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), p. 66. 2. Shiji 28.1371; Burton Watson, trans., Records of the Grand Historian (subsequently cited as Records), 3 vols. (Qin, and Han 1 & 2), rev. ed. (Hong Kong:

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Chinese University of Hong Kong, 1993; original ed., 2 vols. [Han only], New York: Columbia University Press, 1961), Han 2:16. 3. Shiji 129.3256, 3259; Watson, Records, Han 2:436, 439. 4. For more on Sima Qian’s use of patterns and cycles, see Stephen W. Durrant’s account in The Cloudy Mirror: Tension and Conflict in the Writings of Sima Qian (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), pp. 126–129. Ruan Zhisheng has written perceptively about moral patterns in the Shiji, and in particular about how Sima Qian followed Confucius in promoting ritual as an antidote to social disorder. See his “Shi lun Sima Qian suo shuo de ‘tong gu jin zhi bian,’ ” in Zhongguo shixue shi lunwen xuanji, ed. Du Weiyun and Huang Jinxing, 3 vols. (Taipei: Huashi, 1976–1980), 3:185–224. 5. Shiji 30.1442; Watson, Records, Han 2:84. 6. Shiji 78.2388; William H. Nienhauser Jr., The Grand Scribe’s Records (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 7:23. 7. Shiji 72.2330; Watson, Records, Qin: 119. 8. Shiji 87.2547; Watson, Records, Qin: 186. 9. Shiji 85.2507–2508; Watson, Records, Qin: 161. 10. Shiji 68.2228, 2237; Watson, Records, Qin: 90–91, 99. 11. Shiji 74.2345; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:181–182. 12. Perhaps the implication is “yes, with a little rounding of the sharp edges.” 13. Shiji 74.2345; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:182. 14. See Wai-yee Li, “The Idea of Authority in the Shih chi (Records of the Historian),” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 4, no. 2 (December 1994):380– 382. 15. Shiji 47.1914, 1924; Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys Yang, trans., Records of the Historian (Hong Kong: Commercial Press, 1974), pp. 6, 13. 16. Shiji 47.1920, 1923; Yang and Yang, Records of the Historian, pp. 10–11, 12. 17. See Shiji, 47.1928–1929, 1933; Yang and Yang, Records of the Historian, pp. 16–17, 19–20. 18. David Hall and Roger Ames have argued that Confucian morality was, in fact, more flexible than is generally assumed. They provocatively suggest that the Confucian term yi 1, usually translated as “righteousness,” referred to an adaptable, individualistic standard rather than a rigid, transcendent code of ethics. See David L. Hall and Roger T. Ames, Thinking Through Confucius (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1987), pp. 81–110. On pp. 125–127, they apply this idea to the story of Bo Yi and Shu Qi. We might note also Andrew Plaks’s observation that “moving with the times” was a crucial component of the heroic ideal in classical Chinese literature. Andrew H. Plaks, “Toward a Critical Theory of Chinese Narrative,” in Chinese Narrative: Critical and Theoretical Essays, ed. Andrew H. Plaks (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1977), p. 343. 19. Shiji 66.2183; Watson, Records, p. 28.

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20. Shiji 81.2439–2442, 86.2515–2516; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:263– 266, 319; Watson, Records, pp. 45–46. 21. See Shiji 65, 82 and 92. 22. Shiji 97.2696; Watson, Records, Han 1:224. 23. Shiji 7.314; Watson, Records, Han 1:32. 24. Shiji 124.3181; Watson, Records, Han 2:409–410. 25. Shiji 124.3183; Watson, Records, Han 2:411. 26. Shiji 129.2258; Watson, Records, Han 2:438. 27. Shiji 99.2723; Watson, Records, Han 1:243. 28. Shiji 99.2726; Watson, Records, Han 1:246. The quotation seems to be related to the Daodejing, chap. 41. 29. For example, in his essay on the six philosophical schools, Sima Tan noted that Daoists “shift with the times, in accordance with things as they change.” Shiji 130.3289; Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 44–45. 30. See Shiji 79.2401, 86.2527, 89.2572, 92.2610; Watson, Records, Qin: 131–132, 167–168, Records, Han 1:132, 163–164. 31. Shiji 90.2595; Watson, Records, Han 1:152. For another example of Sima admiring someone who chose humiliation over suicide, see his comments on Ji Bu in Shiji 100.2735; Watson, Records, Han 1:253. 32. Shiji 15.686, 112.2963; Watson, Records, Qin: 87, Han 2:206. 33. Shiji 109.2867, 107.2856; Watson, Records, Han 2:117, 106. 34. Shiji 7.333; Watson, Records, Han 1:45. 35. For a translation of Sima’s poem, see James Robert Hightower, “The Fu of T’ao Ch’ien,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 17 (1954):197–200. 36. Gongsun Hong is in many ways an ethically repellant figure. See the negative judgments attributed to the king of Huainan, Yuan Gu, and Dong Zhongshu in Shiji 120.3109, 121.3124, 3128; Watson, Records, Han 2:311, 365 , 369–370. 37. See Joseph Roe Allen III, “An Introductory Study of Narrative Structure in Shiji,” Chinese Literature, Essays, Articles, Reviews 3 (1981):47–66. 38. There are even passages in the Shiji where Sima criticizes individuals for altering or not emulating the ancient ways. See Shiji 7.339, 101.2748; Watson, Records , Han 1:48, 466. 39. Shiji 79.2422; Watson, Records, Qin: 152. The identifiable quotations are from the Analects 15.7 and 7.16, and the Classic of Change, qian hexagram. Note that Cai Ze, like Sima Qian, assumes that his listeners will understand the meaning of these detached quotations and be able to grasp his point. 40. Shiji 6.278; Watson, Record, Qin: 77. 41. Shiji 18.878; Watson, Records, Han 1:428–429. 42. Shiji 87.2549; Watson, Records, Qin: 187. 43. Shiji 87.2550; Watson, Records, Qin: 189. 44. See Shiji 87.2539, 2540, 2549, 130.3315; Watson, Records, Qin: 179 (2x), 180, 188. 45. Shiji 87.2561; Watson, Records, Qin: 202.

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46. It would be interesting to know how Sima Qian saw himself in comparison with Zhao Gao. Both men were eunuchs who overthrew the legacy of the First Emperor—Zhao literally and Sima ideologically—but they did so through opposite means. 47. “The Biographies of the Diviners of Lucky Days” include some provocative criticisms of the way debaters use historical arguments as a tool for advancing their personal agendas, although Sima Qian’s authorship of this chapter is disputed. See Shiji 127.3219; Watson, Records, Han 2:430. 48. See the criticisms of Sima Tan that his son passes on to us, in Shiji 130.3290; Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 45–46. Although Sima Qian admires Confucius, he can be quite critical of contemporary Confucian scholars. See Nie Shiqiao, Sima Qian lungao (Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue), pp. 106–111. 49. On human nature, renqing, see Shiji 30.1432, 87.2540, 129.3271; Watson, Records, Qin: 180, Han 2:73, 446. Note also Feng Huan’s comment that one of the certainties in human affairs is that there will be many who wish to serve the wealthy, whereas the poor have few friends. Shiji 75.2362; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:200. 50. See Nathan Sivin, “Cosmos and Computation in Early Chinese Mathematical Astronomy,” T’oung Pao 55 (1969):1–73. 51. A. C. Graham, Disputers of the Tao (LaSalle, Ill.: Open Court, 1989), p. 383, emphasis in the original. 52. Graham notes that the Confucian doctrine of shu, “likening to oneself,” encourages multiple viewpoints. I would add that some Han scholars celebrated the multiple perspectives offered by the Confucian Classics. At the end of the “Biography of Sima Xiangru,” Sima Qian notes the dissimilarities among the Spring and Autumn Annals, the Classic of Change, and the various sections of the Classic of Poetry but concludes, “Even though their modes of discourse are very different, they all come together in focusing on virtue.” Shiji 117.3037; Watson, Records, Han, 2:306. 53. Shiji 10, 14, 15, 31, 65, 66, 74, 83, 93, 107, 112, 120, 121, 124. 54. Shiji 47, 55, 62, 84. 55. Shiji 74.2343; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:179. There is something almost comic about this description, for the passage in question is the very first in the Mencius. Other comments in which Sima sets his book aside with a sigh are found in chaps. 14 and 74; he reads and weeps in chaps. 24 and 80; he offers an exclamatory response to his reading material in chaps. 18, 19, and 62; and he simply reports reading in chaps. 1, 15, 31, 37, 47, 64, 67, 68, 84, 97, and 123. 56. Shiji 30.1430–1431, 1439–1441; Watson, Records, Han 2:72–75, 80–83. 57. For example, Gan Luo and the boy from Waihuang. See Shiji 71.2319–2320, 7.329; Watson, Records, Qin: 110–112, Han 1:42. 58. Shiji 117.3054; Watson, Records, Han 2:294. 59. Yan Kejun (Qing), ed., Quan shanggu sandai Qin Han Sanguo Liuchao wen

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(Beijing: Zhonghua, 1958), Han wen 26.4b-5a; Hightower’s translation, in his “The Fu of T’ao Ch’ien,” pp. 199–200. 60. Analects 2.3; D. C. Lau’s translation, in his Confucius: The Analects (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books. 1979). 61. Shiji 75.2355; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:194. 62. Shiji 76.2366–2368; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:204–205. 63. Shiji 77.2378–2381; Nienhauser, The Grand Scribe’s Records, 7:215–218. 64. See, once again, Eric Henry’s fine article on the theme of recognition in early China. Most of the stories cited by Henry from a variety of sources were repeated somewhere in the Shiji, and Henry notes the role Sima Qian played in establishing this as a standard motif in Chinese literature. See Eric Henry, “The Motif of Recognition in Early China,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 47, no. 1 (June 1987): esp. pp. 12–13. 65. Shiji 130.3300, Han shu 62.2735; Watson, Grand Historian, pp. 54–55, 65. Sima’s editing also reveals a fascination with individuals who were able to express their true selves through letters; see the examples of Su Dai (chap. 72), Yo Yi (chap. 80), and Lu Zhonglian (chap. 83).

Notes to Epilogue 1. Xie Ao, “Deng Xitai tongku ji,” in Zhongguo lidai wenxue zuopin xuan, ed. Zhu Dongrun (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1980), 4:405. 2. Brief references to Greek historians are frequently made in studies of Sima Qian, both in China and in the West, but as far as I know, only two articles investigate parallels in some depth. See S. Y. Teng, “Herodotus and Ssu-ma Ch’ien: Two Fathers of History,” East and West, New Series, 12:4 (December 1961):233–240; and N. I. Konrad, “Polybius and Ssu-ma Ch’ien,” Soviet Sociology 5, no. 4 (1967):37–58. 3. For good introductions to Plutarch, see D. A. Russell, Plutarch (London: Duckworth, 1973); Alan Wardman, Plutarch’s Lives (Berkelely and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974); and C. P. Jones, “Plutarch,” in Ancient Writers: Greece and Rome, ed. T. James Luce, 2 vols. (New York: Scribner, 1982), 2: 961–983. 4. Plutarch, Lives, Alexander, I.1–2. Bernadotte Perrin’s translation in the Loeb edition (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1919), 7:225. 5. In speculating on why history in the West has adopted this form, I would look to the importance of persuasive public speaking in ancient Greece, the influence of the logically compelling arguments of geometry, and the later belief in a single, all-knowing deity (with its attendant notion that ever more accurate accounts of the past would gradually approach his one, eternal, unchallengeable viewpoint). 6. Shiji 61.2124–2125; Burton Watson, Ssu-ma Chi’en: Grand Historian of China (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), pp. 188–189.

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GLOSSARY

Academicians (boshi) Ai, duke of Lu Ai, marquis of Hann An, king of Hann Bai Gui Bailixi Ban Zhao baobian (praise and blame) Basic Annals (benji) bei fu (“how pitiful”) Ben Beng (place-name) bi san er wu zhi Biannianji Bin (place-name) Bixi Bo, Lady Bo Yi boshi (academician) bu dang shi bu liu yi zhi que bu neng yong Bu Shi bu yi busi zhi yao (elixir of immortality) Cai (state)

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g l o s s a ry

Cai Ze Cao (state) Cao Can Cao Jiu Cao Mei Categorized biographies (lie zhuan) Cavalry General (Huo Qubing) Chao Cuo Chao Wujiu Chen (state) Chen Ping Chen Renxi Chen She Chen Ying Chen Yu Cheng Jing Chengfu (place-name) Chenggao (place-name) Chengyang (place-name) Chief of the West (King Wen) Chou Chronological tables (biao) Chu (state) Chu Shaosun Chunshen, Lord Chunyu Yue Cihai Classic of Change (Book of Changes; Yijing) Classic of Documents (Shujing) Classic of Poetry (Shijing) Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government (Zizhi tongjian) Daifu Zhong dao (way) dao gu yi hai jin Daodejing Daohui, king of Qi Daxia (place-name) Daye (place-name) de (power)

g l o s s a ry di (emperor) Di (barbarian tribe) ding (to pacify) Ding, duke of Lu Ding, Lord Dong Hu Dong Zhongsu Dou Ying Duan duan yue (correct month) Duo Jiao E, Marquis Eastern Commandery edicts (zhi) Eminent Grand Astrologer (taishigong ) Encampment (constellation) Epang Palace fan (to revolt) Fan Ju Fan Kuai Fan Zeng feng (sacrifice) Feng Huan First Emperor (shi huangdi ) Five Emperors Five Phases fu (type of poetry) Fu Cha, king of Wu fu neng yong ye Fuchun, Mount Gai, Duke Gaixia (place-name) Gan, Lord Gan Luo Gao Qi Gaoyang (place-name) Gaozu Gong (place-name) Gongfu Wenbo

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g l o s s a ry

Gonghe (reign period) Gongshan Buniu Gongsun Gu Gongsun Hong Gongsun Qing Goujian, king of Yue Great Treatise (Xici) Guan (state) Guan Zhong Guangwu, Lord hai nei yi tong Han (state) Han (dynasty) Han Guang Han Xin Hann (state) Han shu hao (literary name) Heart (constellation) Heavenly Apex (constellation) Heavenly Plank Road Helü, king of Wu Henei (place-name) Hereditary houses (shi jia) Heyang (place-name) Hongmen (place-name) Hou Ying Hu Sui Hua Du Huai, the Righteous Emperor Huaiyin, marquis of (Han Xin) Huan, duke of Lu Huan, duke of Wey Huan Tui Huang-lao Huayang, dowager–queen of Qin Huhai (Second Emperor) hui (avoidance) Hui, duke of Lu

g l o s s a ry Hui, Emperor Hui, king of Chu Hui, king of Liang hujianfa (technique of complementary viewpoints) hun (soul) Ji An Ji Bu Ji Ci Ji Huanzi Ji Kangzi jia (family/school) Jia, Master Jia Yi jian (mirror) or Jiantu (place-name) jie (calendrical term) Jin (state) Jing (region) Jing, duke of Qi Jing, Emperor Jing Ju Jing Ke Jiran jizhuanti (annals-biography form) ju Ju Shang junzi (gentleman) Kangshu Kongfu Kuai Tong Kuaiji (place-name) Kuang (state) Lao Laozi li (unit of distance) li (ritual) Li, king of Zhou Li, Master Li, Mount

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g l o s s a ry

Li Guang Li Ling Li Qingchen Li Si Li Yiji (Master Li) Liang (state) lie zhuan (categorized biographies) lin (unicorn) Lin Xiangru Ling, duke of Wey Linjin (place-name) Liu Bang (Gaozu) Liu Ji (Gaozu) Liu Xiahui Lo (name of a river) Long Ju Lou Huan Loyang (place-name) Lu (state) Lu Jia Lu Zhonglian Lü, Empress Lü Buwei Lü Li Lülan Luan Bu Ma Duanlin Mao Sui Mawangdui (place-name) Meng Tian Mengchang, Lord Mengzi (Mencius) Ming, Emperor mingtang (Hall of Brightness) Mo Di Mu, duke of Qin Nan Ruzi Nanzi Nie Zheng

g l o s s a ry pan 1 (to rebel) pan 2 (to rebel) Panyu (place-name) Pei, lord of Peng Yue Pengcheng (place-name) pian (bundles) Ping Pingjin, marquis of Pingyuan, Lord (Gongsun Hong) po (soul) Pu (state) Pu (place-name) qi (interrogatory particle) Qi (state) Qian Gongzhan Qii (state) Qin (state) Qin Jia Qing (dynasty) Qing (place-name) Qing (Song Yi) Qing Bu Qiong (place-name) qu (to abandon) Qu Yuan quanshi (comprehensive history) Rang, marquis of Records of the Ritualists (Liji) ren (benevolence) Ren An renqing (human nature) Righteous Emperor (Yi di) Rong (barbarian tribe) Rong Scholars of wide learning (boshi) shan (sacrifice) shang mo ran Shang (dynasty)

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g l o s s a ry

Shang, Lord Shang, duke of Song Shangdi Shao (type of music) Shao Lian She (state) She, Lord of Shen Buhai Shen Dao Shennong sheng (honorific) Sheng shengren (sage) Shengzi Shenzi (Shen Buhai) Shepu Park shi (diviner’s board) shi (scribes) Shi Hou Shi huangdi (First August Emperor) Shi Que Shu (state) shu (likening to oneself ) shu (to transmit) shu er bu zuo Shu Qi Shuihudi (place-name) Shun, Emperor Shusun Shi Shusun Tong Si (name of a river) Sima Guang Sima Rangju Sima Tan Sima Xiangru Song (dynasty) Song (state) Song Yi Southern Yi (barbarian tribe)

g l o s s a ry Southern Yue (state) Spring and Autumn Annals (Chunqiu) Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Lü (Lüshi chunqiu) Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Yu (Yushi chunqiu) Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Zuo (Zuoshi chunqiu) Su Dai Subtleties of Mr. Duo (Duoshi wei) Sui He Sun Bin Sunzi Sunzi’s Art of War (Sunzi bingfa) Tai, Mount Tai Bo, duke of Wu Tai Wang Taishan (place-name) Taishigong shu taishiling (Grand Astrologer) tan li (covetousness and violence) Tang (place-name) Tang, King Teng Tian (Heaven) Tian Dan Tian Guang Tian Jingzhongwan Tian Rong tianming (Mandate of Heaven) tianzi (Son of Heaven) Treatises (shu) Tuqiu (place-name) Waihuang (place-name) Wan (Duke Huan of Wey) wang (king) Wang Feng Wang Ling Wang Wan Wang Yun wang zheng yue (king’s correct month) Wei (family name)

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g l o s s a ry

Wei (name of a river) Wei (state) Wei, General Wei, king of Chu Wei, Madame Wei, viscount of Song Wei Bao Wen (literary culture) Wen, Emperor Wen, king of Zhou Wen Tianxiang Wey (state) Whey, Prince ( in Zuo zhuan) Wu (state) Wu, duke of Qin Wu, Emperor Wu, king of Zhou Wu Chen Wu cheng (chapter of Mencius) wu hu (“alas”) Wu Qi Wu She wu wei (nonaction) Wu Zixu Wuan, marquis of Wuji, prince of Wei wushen (date) Xi Xi (Duke Yin of Lu) Xia (dynasty) Xialei xiang (assistant) xiang (to surrender) Xiang, duke of Qin Xiang, Mount Xiang Liang Xiang Yu Xianyang Xiao, marquis of Jin

g l o s s a ry Xiao He Xiaocheng, king of Zhao xin (heart, mind) Xin, king of Sai Xin’an (place-name) xing (calendrical term) xing (nature images) Xingyang (place-name) Xiongnu (barbarian tribe) Xu (place-name) Xu Fu Xuan, duke of Wey xun (calendrical term) Xun Qing Yan (state) Yan Hui Yan Shigu Yan Zhongzi yang Yanzi Yao, Emperor ye he (rustic union) Yellow Emperor (Huangdi ) yi 1 yi 2 Yi, king of Di yi bing (soldiers of righteousness) yi tong (unification) Yi Yi Yi Yin yi yue (first month) yin Yin (Shang dynasty) Yin, duke of Lu Yingchuan (place-name) Yingyang (place-name) Yo Yi you xia (local bosses) You, king of Zhou

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g l o s s a ry

Youli (place-name) Yu Yu, Emperor Yu Qing Yu Rang Yu Zhong Yuan, king of Chu Yuan Gu Yuan Xian yue (month) Yue (state) Yun yu ren (ignoramus) zai (exclamatory particle) Zang Tu Zang Xibo Zhang Cang Zhang Er Zhang Han Zhang Liang Zhao (state) Zhao, king of Qin Zhao, marquis of Jin Zhao Gao Zhao Tuo Zhe (name of a river) zhen (to control) Zheng (state) Zheng, king of Qin Zheng Dangshi zheng yue (correct month) zhengming (rectification of names) zhengshi (standard histories) zhenren (true man) zhi (to redden) Zhi (place-name) Zhi, Robber zhong (middle) Zhongguo (Middle Kingdom)

g l o s s a ry Zhongshan (state) Zhongwu Zhou (dynasty) Zhou (name of a tyrant) Zhou (state) Zhou, Duke of Zhou Bo Zhou Ke Zhou Shi Zhouxu zhu (to punish) Zhu Hai zhuan (biography/commentary) Zhuang, duke of Wey Zhuang, king of Qin Zhuang Zhu Zhuangxiang, king of Qin zi (courtesy name) zi (honorific) Zigong Zilu Zixi Zixia Ziying zong (to follow) Zou (place-name) Zou Yan Zou Yang Zouyi, Mount zuo (to create) Zuo Qiuming (Zuo Qiu)

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INDEX

Academicians (boshi), 165–166, 180, 188 Adam, 174 Ai, duke of Lu, 164 Ai, marquis of Hann, 151, 250n31 Alexander the Great, 214 Allen, Joseph Roe III, 239n23 Ames, Roger, 6, 138, 140–141, 234n6, 259n18 An, king of Hann, 186 Analects, 64–65, 161, 163–164, 167, 235n7, 260n39 Ancestor worship, 5–6, 9, 12, 16, 48–49, 177, 182 Annals, see Basic annals Archives, 42, 56, 117 Aristotle, 3 Armies, size of, 241n54 Ashoka, 174, 177 Astrology, 18, 51, 110, 196, 224n67 Austin, J. L., 137 Avoidance, see Confucius Bai Gui, 196 Bailixi, 198 Balazs, Etienne, 10 Bamboo, books written on, 1, 49–50, 183

Ban Biao, 154 Ban Gu, 86–87, 191, 242n84; criticism of Sima Qian, 16, 115, 154 Ban Zhao, 86 Baobian, see Praise and blame Basic annals, 29, 88, 123, 195 Ben, 151 Benevolence (ren), 167, 177, 187 Beng (place-name), 62 Biannianji (Chronological record), 2 Bin (place-name), 197 Biographies, see Categorized biographies Bixi, 198 Bo, Lady, 77, 80 Bo Yi, 40, 164, 197–198, 246n42, 259n18; see also Categorized biographies, Shu Qi Bodde, Derk, 10, 180, 183, 237n39, 255n22, 256n34 Book of Lord Shang, 6 Boshi, see Academicians Braudel, Fernand, 130 Bronze, 49, 170, 172, 181, 183, 186, 189, 190, 192–193, 217, 232n49; legendary cauldrons, 176–177, 255n20 Bu Shi, 207

290

index

Bureaucracy, 172; and history, 10–13 Burke, Kenneth, 169 Cai, state of, 37, 155; see Confucius Cai Ze, 148, 202, 260n39 Calendar, 101, 133, 177, 189, 193, 226n10, 239n29, 245n30 Calvinism, 111 Cao, state of, 200 Cao Can, 117 Cao Jiu, 83 Cao Mei, 199 Castration, see Sima Qian Categorized biographies (lie zhuan), 38– 41, 130–135, 165, 190, 196, 260n47; “Biographies of Assassin-Retainers,” 147, 150–153; “Biographies of Compassionate Officials,” 39; “Biographies of Cruel Officials,” 39, 130, 190, 208, 245n33; term, 40; “Biographies of Bo Yi and Shu Qi,” 40, 125–127 Cavalry General, see Huo Qubing Chang, K. C., 178 Chao Cuo, 117 Chao Wujiu, 245n38 ´ Chavannes, Edouard, 25, 40, 44, 227n10 Chen, state of, 37, 96, 132, 155; see Confucius Chen Ping, 38, 74, 90, 94–96, 106, 108, 109 Chen Renxi Chen She, 37, 87–88, 92, 95, 106, 123, 241n62 Chen Ying, 92, 106, 241n62 Chen Yu, 90, 105, 200, 240n42, 242n76 Chen Zhi, 226n8 Cheng Jing, 151 Chengfu (place-name), 160 Chenggao (place-name), 83 Chengyang (place-name), 104

Chief of the West, 46, 162; see Wen, king of Zhou Chou, 70 Christianity, 4 Chronicles, 45, 230n37 Chronological tables, xiii, 29–35, 43, 45, 46, 66, 73, 78, 83–84, 98, 106, 121, 134, 191, 203, 213; in Han shu, 86–87; include information not found elsewhere in Shiji, 45, 100, 131, 230n38; significance in, 100–101; states combined in, 225n4; “Table by Months of the Conflict between Qin and Chu,” 99–101, 133, 134, 213, 247n64; “Table by Years of the Six States,” 31–34, 132–133; “Table by Years of the Twelve Feudal Lords,” 55–57, 66, 68–69, 72, 131–132, 134, 251n38; upside-down entries in, 35, 134; 226n8 Chu, state of, 75, 88, 94, 96, 149, 158, 161, 173 Chu Shaosun, 230n40 Chunshen, Lord, 196 Chunyu Yue, 176 Classic of Change, 2, 53–54, 65, 118, 211, 233n62, 260n39 Classic of Documents, 8, 9, 11, 12, 14, 29, 115, 117, 180, 211, 230n39, 249n85 Classic of Music, 156, 244n14 Classic of Poetry, 2, 64, 115, 117, 120, 140–141, 161, 180, 187, 211, 234n6; quoted, 1, 12, 166 Classic of the Way and Its Power, see Daodejing Complementary viewpoints, technique of, see Hujianfa Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government, 12, 15, 66 Confucian Classics, xvii, 7, 115, 128, 156, 158, 162, 170, 177, 224n65, 261n52; experts in, 8; models for Shiji, 24;

index

291

Sima Qian critiques, 43; Sima Qian to continue, 17, 22, 57, 66, 116, 127 Confucianism, 178, 206, and history, 7–10; Han dynasty, xvi, 8, 22, 166, 189, 200; Qin dynasty, 186, 256n22; Warring States, 6–7; see also Han dynasty, Zou Yan Confucius, xi, xvi–xvii, 56, 108, 189, 197, 208, 210, 211, 251n38; as hero, 17, 204; as official in Lu, 159, 166, 252n45; between Chen and Cai, 25, 118, 119, 156, 157, 160–162, 197; cited in Shiji personal comment sections, 41, 116, 131, 208, 228n24, 243n9; hereditary house of, 37, 120, 123, 153–168, 252n40; made deliberate omissions, 45, 228n30, 230n39; quoted, 65, 137; reputed author of Great Treatise, 53; reputed author of Spring and Autumn Annals, xvi, 55, 57, 115, 119, 230n39; studies the past, 12, 115, 117, 163; transmits rather than creates, 6, 58, 122; used literary technique of avoidance, 58, 121, 156, 235n30, 245n36; years of wandering, 159–162, 166, 198; see also Analects, Sima Qian Constellations, see Heavens or names of individual constellations Cosmology, correlative, xvi, 49, 50, 182 Creel, H. G., 154

E, Marquis, 46 Earth Lord, 53 Eastern Commandery, 188 Eclipses, 72–73, 101, 205, 239n31, 239n32 Eliot, T. S., 61 Elixer of immortality, 182 Egan, Ronald, 127–128 Egypt, 170 Eminent Grand Astrologer, see Grand Astrologer Encampment (constellation), 53, 181 Epang Palace, 53, 181, 188 Ephorus, 243n1

Daifu Zhong, 148 Dante, 233n64 Dao, see Way Daodejing, 2, 177, 245n42, 260n28 Daohui, king of Qi, 132 Daoists, 6, 8, 115, 144, 145, 154, 177–178, 200, 206, 256n26, 260n29 Darius I, 174, 177 Daxia (place-name), 93 Daye (place-name), 164

Falkner, William, 74 Fan Ju, 148, 200 Fan Kuai, 199 Fan Wenlan, 244n27 Fan Zeng, 104, 106, 109 Feng sacrifice, 17, 19, 36, 181, 186 Feng Huan, 261n49 Feng Xuan, 153 Filial piety, 20, 21, 23, 115, 177, 195, 198, 224n62

Di barbarians, 171–172 Ding, duke of Lu, 58 Ding, Lord, 112 Diodorus of Sicily, 114–115 Diplomacy, and history, 11, 148 Diviner’s boards (shi ), 52 Dong Hu, 121 Dong Zhongsu, xiii, 17, 55, 56–57, 65, 243n101, 260n36 Dou Ying, 201 Duan, 69–70, 72 Dubs, Homer H., 14, 240n39 Duo Jiao, 56 Durrant, Stephen, xvii, 7, 25, 26, 47, 124, 224n62, 224n64, 238n7, 243n4, 238n11, 251n33, 252n40

292

index

Fingarette, Herbert, 137 First August Emperor (Shi huangdi ), 48, 173–174, 177, 189 First Emperor (Zheng, king of Qin), xi, 91, 103, 188, 202; as world-maker, xvii, 49, 169–183, 173–176; burns books, 10, 11, 117, 179–180, 184, 203; 221n27; eclecticism of, 177–178; inscriptions of, 174–178, 255n17; reforms of, 21, 172–173, 175, 184–185; rumored to be son of Lü Buwei, 237n39; tomb of, 48–50, 59, 88, 140, 181–183, 186, 188; unifier of China, 3, 48, 172; see also Historians, Sima Qian Five classics, see Confucian Classics Five emperors, 29, 30, 53, 175, 178, 179, 181, 185 Five hegemons, 131 Five phases, 52, 65, 177, 186–187, 196 Fu Cha, king of Wu, 150 Fuchun, Mount, 213 Gai, Duke, 117 Gaixia (place-name), 112 Gan, Lord, 110 Gan Luo, 261n57 Gao Qi, 107 Gaoyang (place-name), 236n36 Gaozu (Han, King of Han, Liu Bang, Liu Ji, Lord of Pei), xvii, 82, 91, 191, 199, 201, 210, 258n66; basic annals of, 29, 76, 83, 88, 195, 237n43; and Confucianism, 8, 107, 165, 200; contrasted with Xiang Yu, 102–112, 128, 240n34; founds Han dynasty, 21–22, 30, 88, 128; genealogy, 242n84; and Han Xin, 93–96; names of, 133; shot by Xiang Yu, 100; treatment of family members, 104; and Wei Bao, 75–81; see also Xiang Yu

Gentleman, xvii, 63–64, 68, 120, 122, 135, 152, 161, 164, 171 Gong (place-name), 236n36 Gongfu Wenbo, 148 Gonghe reign period, 57 Gongshan Buniu, 198 Gongsun Gu, 56 Gongsun Hong (Lord Pingyuan), 117, 144–145, 148, 201, 209–210, 260n36 Gongsun Qing, 100 Gongyang commentary, 57, 64, 66, 119, 121, 123, 140, 163–165 Goujian, king of Yue, 143 Graham, A. C., 206, 261n52 Grand Astrologer (Taishiling ), xiii, 16, 18, 22–23, 45, 65, 101, 117, 130, 184, 220n8 Grand Historian, 18, 220n8 Great Treatise, 53–54 Great Unity, 53 Great Wall, 173, 254n8 Greece, ancient, 9, 170 Guan, state of, 37 Guan Zhong (Guanzi), 154, 242n83, 251n38, Guangwu (place-name), 100, 102 Guangwu, Lord, 242n76 Guanzi, see Guan Zhong Guliang commentary, 57, 64, 66, 123 Guoyu, see Narratives of the States Hall, David, 138, 140–141, 234n6, 259n18 Hall of Brightness (Mingtang ), 53, 117, 184 Hamlet, 116 Han, king of, see Gaozu Han, state of, see Gaozu Han dynasty, 183, Confucian scholarship in, xvi, 57, 70, 138, 140, 199, 205, 261n48; cultural consolidation in, 22, 116; founding

index of, xvii, 30, 87; intellectual milieu, xvi, 52–55, 65, 117, 129, 140, 154; partial restoration of feudalism in, 35, 37, 190–191; unification of China, 20, 192; see also Confucianism Han Guang, 95 Han shu, 16, 86–87, 154 Han Xin (Marquis of Huaiying), 77, 80, 90, 107, 117, 191, 199, 200, 242n76; ally of Gaozu, 102–105, 109–110, 112; and a tapped foot, 93–96; see also Gaozu, Xiang Yu Hanfeizi, 12, 56, 154, 162, 211, 251n38 Hann, state of, 88, 34, 37, 150–151, 173, 186, 227n16 Hansen, Chad, 248n77 Heart (constellation), 188 Heaven (Tian), 8, 10, 12, 23, 45, 77, 101, 127, 128, 163–164, 177, 193, 195, 201–202, 208, 210, 216–217, 237n43, 242n83; see also Mandate of Heaven, Way of Heaven Heavenly Apex (constellation), 53, 181, 256n36 Heavenly Plank Road (constellation), 53, 181 Heavens, 48, 49, 50, 53, 181 Hellespont, 181 Helü, king of Wu, 146–147 Henei (place-name), 76 Hengshan, king of, 123 Henry, Eric, 262n64 Hereditary houses, 36–38, 50, 190–191, 196, 227n18 Hermeneutics, 91; see also Shiji, as hermeneutical tool Herodotus, xii, xiv, 3, 27, 44, 45, 79, 214, 262n5 Heyang (place-name), 121 Hierarchy, 5, 86, 87, 100–101, 105, 130–135, 187

293

Historians, rival emperors, 139, 183, 184–193, 210, 211 Historiography, Confucian, xvii, 115, 126, 130, 169, 185, 198, 208, 257n44; Greek, 3, 115, 214, 262n5; Indian, 3–4; Medieval, 63, 230n37; Religious, 4; Western, xiii–xiv, 27–28, 44–47, 58, 63, 73–74, 82–83, 113, 127, 188, 229n31, 262n5 History, as a web, 62–73; comprehensive, 15; cycles in, 17, 112, 116, 128–129, 185, 187, 195–196, 202, 205, 207; didactic, 9, 124–126, 204, 210, 246n49; in philosophical argumentation, 6–7, 129, 178, 179–180, 202, 260n47; judgmental, 115–127; moral order in, xv, 23, 49, 59, 66, 92, 125–127, 168, 169, 193, 217; patterns in, 22, 65, 90–91, 98, 128, 154, 208, 229n31, 258n4; role of, in Chinese culture, 5–13; universal, 14, 114, 217, 243n1; used to criticize present, 11, 22; see also Posthumous justification History of the Peloponnesian War, 25 Homer, xiv, 3; see also Iliad Hongmen (place-name), 91 Hopkins, Gerard Manley, 194 Hou Ying, 209 Hu Sui, 22 Hua Du, 71 Huai, see Righteous Emperor Huainan, king of (Liu An), 123, 145, 191, 260n36 Huaiying, Marquis of; see Han Xin Huan, duke of Lu, 63 Huan, duke of Wey (Wan), 67–68, 70 Huan Tui, 155 Huang-Lao Daoism, 117 Huayang, dowager-queen of Qin, 186 Huhai; see Second Emperor Hui (avoidance), see Confucius

294

index

Hui, duke of Lu, 62 Hui, Emperor, 222n5 Hui, king of Chu, 149 Hui, king of Liang, 197, 207 Hujianfa (technique of complementary viewpoints), 82, 123, 236n39, 261n52; see also Shiji, overlapping narratives Hulsewé, A. F. P., 226n6 Human nature, 139, 261n49 Human sacrifice, 49, 171, 186, 254n3 Hume, David, 124–125 Hun, see Soul Huo Qubing (Cavalry General), 39 Iliad, 9 Impersonators of ancestors, 5 India, 3–4, 174 Injustice, 24, 126, 128, 129; see Posthumous justification Intrigues of the Warring States (Zhanguoce ), 2, 29, 39, 44, 148, 150–153, 250n20, 251n36 Iron, 232n49, 254n7 Islam, 4 Ji An, 144–146, 249n8 Ji Bu, 260n31 Ji Ci, 199 Ji Huanzi, 159–160, 253n56 Ji Kangzi, 160, 162, 253n56 Jia (family/school), 23 Jia, Master, 39, 117 Jia Yi, 202–203 Jiantu (place-name), 121 Jin, state of, 37, 149, 158 Jing, duke of Qi, 137 Jing, Emperor, 55 Jing (region), 96 Jing Ju, 83 Jing Ke, 147, 184, 200, 209 Jiran, 196 Ju Shang, 164

Judaism, 4 Jupiter, 196 Kangshu, 69–70 Keightley, David, 13 Kellner, Hans, 74 Kennedy, George, 233n67 Kingly Way, 56, 115, 136 Kitto, H. D. F., 130 Knoblock, John, 221n17 Knowing and being known, 151–152, 209–212, 213, 251n32 Kongfu, 72 Kongzi jiayu, 167 Korea, 22 Kuai Tong, 110 Kuaiji, governor of, 88 Kuang, state of, 155 Kundera, Milan, 74 Kunlun Mountains, 53 LaCapra, Dominick, 26 Lai Mingde, 220n52 Language, performative, xv, 26, 137–139, 169, 193, 208 Lao, 163 Laozi, 116, 154, 155, 157–158, 228n24, 243n11 Lau, D. C., 167 Law codes, 172, 173, 177, 178, 180, 189, 193, 208 Legalists, 6, 8, 154, 172, 177–178, 187, 189, 200, 252n39, 256n26 Legge, James, 229n32 Letters, 262n65; see also Sima Qian, letter to Ren An Li, see Ritual Li, king of Zhou, 115 Li, Master, 199, 204, 236n36 Li, Mount, 48, 182–183 Li, Wai-yee, 26, 124, 229n34, 238n5, 239n24, 258n61

index Li Guang, 201 Li Ling, 18, 118 Li Qingchen, 245n38 Li Si, 179–181, 196, 203–204, 255n22 Li Xueqin, 232n49 Li Yiji, 90, 102, 104–105, 106, 107, 110, 242n83 Li Zhangzhi, 17, 223n57 Li Zhongtong, 222n30 Liang, state of, 197 Liang Yusheng, 235n13, 235n21, 237n47 Lie zhuan, see Categorized biographies Liji, see Records of the Ritualists Lin Xiangru, 199 Ling, duke of Wey, 197, 198 Linjin (place-name), 75–76 Literature, power of, 24–25, 118–120, 162, 211, 224n69, 244n18 Liu An, see Huainan, king of Liu Bang, see Gaozu Liu Ji, see Gaozu Liu Weimin, 39, 133, Liu Xiahui, 164 Liu Xiang, 250n20 Liu Zhiji, 57 Lo River, 164 Local bosses (you xia), 38, 42, 191, 199 Loewe, Michael, 52 Long Ju, 95 Lord on High (Shangdi ), 53, 134–135, 171, 177 Lou Huan, 148 Loyang (place-name), 236n36 Lu, state of, xvi, 54, 101, 120, 131, 155, 158, 176, 200, 239n31 Lu Jia, 102, 110, 147 Lu Zhonglian, 39, 262n65 Lü, Empress, 35, 258n57; basic annals of, 29, 123, 222n5 Lü Buwei, 54, 56, 162, 197, 211, 237n39 Lü Li, 153

295

Lülan, see Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Lü Luan Bu, 112 Ma Duanlin, 15 Mandate of Heaven (tianming ), 8, 12–13, 17, 30, 80, 103, 104, 109–111, 173, 185–187, 193, 195 Mansvelt Beck, B. J., 226n9 Mao Sui, 209 Mawangdui, 2, 52 Memoirs, see Categorized biographies Mencius (Mengzi), 8, 12, 21, 39, 56, 116, 136, 154, 197, 207, 251n38, 261n52 Meng Tian, 242n89, 249n85 Mengchang, Lord, 143, 152–153, 209–210 Mengzi, see Mencius Merchants, 197, 199–200; see also Treatises Metaphor, 64–65 Microcosms, architectural, 53, 231n45; textual, 52, 53–55 Ming, see Mandate of Heaven Ming, Emperor, 123 Mingtang, see Hall of Brightness Mink, Louis, 58, 82–83 Mirrors, TLV, 2, 52; history as a, 12, 202 Mo Di, see Mozi Models, 48, 50–51, 125, 182, 211 Mohists, 6, 8, 178 Morality, conventional and practical, 108, 111, 198–201, 259n18 Mozi (Mo Di), 12, 154 Mu, duke of Qin, 171, 185, 198 Mythology, 29, 46, 158, 185, 230n40; Confucian dislike of, 9 Names, rectification of (zhengming ), xvii, 137, 139, 156, 169, 184, 193 Names and naming, xv–xvi, 38, 132–133,

296

index

137–139, 173–174, 177–178, 188, 193, 208, 216–217, 248n77, 257n52 Nan Ruzi, 253n56 Nanzi, 198 Narratives of the States (Guoyu), 12, 57, 158, 162, 166 Needham, Joseph, 113, 187 Nemerov, Howard, 169 New Testament, 154, 248n79 Nie Shiqiao, 167 Nie Zheng, 150–153, 209; see also Rong Nienhauser, William, 44, 249n2 Nomos, 139 Nyitray, Vivian-Lee, 26, 124 Objectivity, xiii, xvii, 47, 59, 123, 127, 139, 231n42, 257n55 Oracle bones, 5, 10 Organicism, 113, 243n101 Owen, Stephen, 234n7 Panyu (place-name), 93 Pei, lord of, see Gaozu Pei Yin, 116, 240n45 Peng Yue, 78, 80, 88, 112, 200 Pengcheng (place-name), 75–78, 205 Perrin, Norman, 248n79 Persia, 170, 174 Peterson, Willard, 53, 233n62 Physis, 139 Ping, 68, 70–72 Pingjin, marquis of, 201 Pingyuan, Lord, see Gongsun Hong Plaks, Andrew, 22n67, 239n24, 259n18 Plutarch, 214–215 Po, see Soul Portents, 92, 101, 110, 127, 186, 192–193, 205, 238n15, 239n31; see also Unicorn Posthumous justification, xv, 126, 138, 155, 166, 193, 197, 217, 248n79, 258n66 Praise and blame (Baobian), 115

Precedents, historical, 6–7, 11, 92, 202–204, 260n38 Pr u° ˇsek, Jaroslav, 229n31, 232n52 Pu (place-name), 67, 70 Pu, state of, 159 Qi, state of, 48, 90, 94, 104, 152–153, 155, 158, 173, 227n15, 241n50 Qian Gongzhan, 239n33 Qii, state of, 37, 132, 209, 227n15 Qin, state of, 2–3, 101, 162, 183, 201, 239n31; barbarism of, 13, 170–171, 184, 186 Qin dynasty, 23, 38, 49, 123, 169–193, 185; end of, 87–88, 183 Qin Jia, 83 Qing, see Song Yi Qing (place-name), 67 Qing Bu, 88, 102, 104, 107, 112 Qiong (place-name), 93 Qu Yuan, 39, 162, 211 Rajatarangini, 3 Rang, marquis of, 196 Rashomon, 74 Rationality and intuition, 47, 59, 111, 128, 158, 202–209, 216 Records of the Ritualists (Liji ), 36, 171 Ren, see Benevolence Ren An, see Sima Qian, letter to Ren An Righteous Emperor (Huai), 99–100, 102, 103, 106, 134 Ritual, xvii, 42, 48, 63–64, 120, 137, 139, 156, 166, 167, 171- 172, 189, 193, 200, 208–209, 259n4; see also Feng sacrifice Roman Empire, 114 Rong, 152, 251n32 Rong barbarians, 171–172 Ruan Zhisheng, 258n4 Rubin, Vitaly, 187 Rustic union, 156

index Sages, xv, 8, 59, 86, 110, 111, 126–127, 138, 139, 158, 162, 163, 167, 178, 193, 202, 204, 206, 208–209, 249n85 Scholars of Wide Learning; see Academicians Scribes (shi), 11, 16, 92, 154, 171, 220n8, 222n30 Second Emperor (Huhai), 133, 174, 182, 203, 255n22, 257n52 Shan sacrifice, see Feng sacrifice Shang, duke of Song, 70, 72 Shang dynasty (Yin dynasty), 38, 46, 112, 121, 139, 171; as a mirror, 12; authority of, 13; conquest of Xia, 9; divination, 5, 10 Shang, Lord, 117, 148, 197, 251n39 Shangdi, see Lord on High Shao, state of, 155 Shao Lian, 164 She, lord of, 149 She, state of, 159 Shen Buhai (Shenzi), 117, 154, 251n38 Shen Dao, 154 Shennong, 7 Sheng, 149–150 Shengzi, 62 Shenzi, see Shen Buhai Shepu Park, 63 Shi, see Scribes Shi, see Diviner’s boards Shi Ding, 257n55 Shi Hou, 68 Shi huangdi, see First August Emperor Shi Que, 68–70, 72 Shiji, accuracy in, 43, 47, 51, 59, 84, 123–124, 168, 205, 210, 215; authority of, xiv–xiv, 81–82; comprehensiveness of, 42, 49, 50–51, 93, 98, 215; contradictions in, 74–75, 83–84, 98, 153, 195, 236n35, 237n47, 239n24; corrects Annals, 69–70; cosmological interpretations of structure, 50, 232n51; deliberate

297

omissions in, 43, 45, 90, 228n30, 247n57; as “discourse of a single school,” 22–23, 123, 208, 212; editing in, 127–135, 142–153, 190–193, 210; five sections, xii, 14, 29–41, 130–131; form based on Annals and commentaries, 69, 73; fragmented nature of, 25, 28, 43–46, 58–60, 97, 135, 191, 203; as hermeneutical tool, 127, 140; irony in, 229n34; juxtaposition in, 62–65, 97, 143, 167; lack of interpretive closure, 48, 51, 211; lack of unified narrative, 45–46; literary devices in, 25, 80, 96–99, 124, 135, 248n67; as microcosm, xiv–xv, 26, 47, 48–60, 61, 73, 81, 125, 188, 209, 212, 215–216; narratives lack coherence, 45; narratives lack consistency, 46–47; overlapping narratives, 15, 45–46, 71, 73–85, 130, 142–143, 146–148, 203, 211, 229n31, 250n27; personal comment sections, xiii, 15, 25, 41, 44–45, 52, 59, 78, 122, 128–129, 148, 206–207, 228n30, 229n34, 234n3, 239n24, 243n10, 246n50–53; physical appearance, xi, 188; preserved in a mountain, 23, 49, 119, 244n22; as private history, 18, 217; reading strategies, 64–66, 80–82, 120, 140, 145–146; reconciles accuracy and didacticism, 124–130; as shaper of world, xv, 136–141, 217; significance in, 87–102, 130–135; sources of, 40, 42–43, 125; and Spring and Autumn Annals, xvi, 17–18, 57–58, 63–64, 118–124, 135, 136, 144, 155, 213, 244n27; as first of the Standard Histories, 14–15; synopsis of contents in chap. 130, 41, 228n26, 231n43; title of, xvi, 58, 220n8; trains readers, 59–60, 135, 206, 209, 216; transforms sources, 67–73, 148–153; no unified narrative

298

index

voice in, 44–45; written for future generations, 23–24, 49, 52, 58, 59, 118–120, 148, 211, 216 Shu (likening to oneself ), 261n52 Shu, state of, 162 Shu Qi, 164, 197, 259n18; see also Bo Yi, Categorized biographies Shuihudi (place-name), 1 Shun, Emperor, 181, 187, 257n48 Shusun Shi, 164 Shusun Tong, 8, 117, 200 Si River, 176, 186 Silk, writing on, 2 Sima Guang, 15, 66; see also Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government Sima Qian, ancestors of, 16, 19; author of “Gentlemen Who Did Not Fit Their Times,” 201, 207–208; author of Shiji, 4; autobiography of, 16–17, 19, 23, 24–26, 28, 40, 42, 65–66, 115, 121, 211; aware of own limitations, 59, 228n30; castration of, 4, 18–21, 58, 54, 200; challenges world of First Emperor, 184–193, 211, 217, 260n46; and Confucianism, 16–18, 261n48; emulates Confucius, 24–26, 58, 113, 115–118, 119–122, 124, 126, 168, 211, 223n52, 243n4, 259n4; as successor to Confucius, 17; develops critical methodology, 43, 47, 51, 84, 228n30; Daoist tendencies, 16, 115, 157–158, 207–208; daughter of, 220n9; preference for decentralized authority, 189–192, 217; early Chinese conceptions of, 123, 190; early Western conceptions of, 28, 47, 61, 123, 150; emotional connection to history, 166, 205–207, 210; eclectic, 16, 116, 117–118, 154, 195, 208, 245n42, 261n55; elusiveness of, xii–xiv, 44, 129, 135, 145–146, 211;

favorite themes of, 145–146, 152, 164–212; and history, 14–26; letter to Ren An, 16, 19–21, 24, 90, 118, 195, 211; critical of Emperor Wu’s policies, 189–192; youthful travels, 20, 43, 120, 158, 166, 257n43 Sima Ranju, 251n39 Sima Tan, xiii, 16, 24, 40, 116, 118, 140, 192, 261n48; and Daoism, 16, 115, 158, 224n66, 260n29; death of, 17, 19, 25; work on Shiji, 20, 26, 41, 84, 223n57, Sima Xiangru, 207, 257n51, 261n52 Sima Zhen, 224n65 Sivin, Nathan, 113, 205 Soldiers of righteousness, 103, 173 Son of Heaven, 62, 64, 71, 77, 110, 121, 135, 139, 166, 171, 176, 177, 193, 255n22 Song, state of, 155, 171 Song dynasty, 213 Song Yi (Qing), 89, 102 Sophists, 139 Soul, Chinese conception of, 219n4 Southern Yi (barbarian tribe), 93 Southern Yue, state of, 147 Spring and Autumn Annals, xvi, 14, 29, 40, 101; commentaries interpret, 237n47; as Confucian history, xvii, 58; genre of, 56–58; as microcosm, 54–55; Sima Qian’s conception of, 17, 22, 24, 25–26, 65–66, 121–122, 136–138, 165–167, 194; source of Shiji information, 67, 239n32; subtle language in, 121; see also Confucius, Gongyang, Guliang, Shiji, Zuo zhuan Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Lü (Lülan), 54, 56, 162 Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Yu, 56 Spring and Autumn Annals of Mr. Zuo, see Zuo zhuan

index Standard Histories (Zhengshi ), xii, 9, 14, 16, 18, 86, 115, 217 Stevens, Wallace, 86, 114 Stimson, Hugh, 242n92 Su Chengjian, 257n55 Su Dai, 262n65 Subtleties of Mr. Duo, 56 Sui He, 102, 104, 107 Sun Bin, 199 Sunzi, 103, 154, 162, 211, 251n38 Sunzi’s Art of War, 2, 162 Synecdoche, 65–66 Tables, see Chronological tables Tai, Mount, 17, 19, 53, 62, 181, 186 Tai Bo, duke of Wu, 126, 131, 143, 147, 247n59 Tai Wang, 197 Taishiling, see Grand Astrologer Takigawa, Kametar¯o, 232n51, 248n83 Tang (place-name), 62 Tang, King, 197, 204 Teng, 186 Thompson, James, 114–115 Three Kings, 178 Threes and fives, 249n85 Thucydides, xii, 3, 25, 44, 130, 150, 214 Tian, see Heaven Tian Dan, 199 Tian Guang, 102, 104 Tian Jingzhongwan, 37 Tian Rong, 105, 241n50 Tianming, see Mandate of Heaven Times, fitting the, 111–112, 129, 157, 177, 195–202, 204, 211, 259n18, 260n29 Tombs, Han dynasty, 1–2, 52; Qin dynasty, 1; see also First Emperor, tomb of Treatises, 35–36, 42, 77, 186, 190, 195–196, 208, 245n33; “Treatise on the Calendar,” 36, 226n10; “Treatise on Ceremonial,” 139, 208; “Treatise

299

on the Heavens,” 36; “Treatise on Moneymakers,” 190, 196; “Treatise on Pitch Pipes,” 36 Tuqiu (place-name), 62 Unicorn, 20, 56, 58, 115–116, 119, 156, 163–164, 211 Universal Library, 114 Waihuang (place-name), 103, 109, 261n57 Wan, see Duke Huan of Wey Wang, John, 229n33, 239n24, 246n49 Wang Feng, 192 Wang Ling, 107 Wang Wan, 179 Wang Yun, 123 Watson, Burton, xvii, 18, 21, 25, 44, 54, 124, 127, 155, 228n30, 244n18, 245n40, 247n63, 253n49 Way (dao), xv, 50, 53, 65, 118, 158, 163–165, 177, 200, 202 Way of Heaven, 125–127, 138, 196, 201, 205, 209, 217 Wei (family name), 63 Wei, General, 39 Wei, king of Chu, 56 Wei, Madame, 77 Wei, prince of, see Wuji, prince of Wei Wei, state of, 37, 75, 137, 152–153, 173, 226n4 Wei, viscount of Song, 70, 71 Wei Bao, 75–81, 82–83, 93, 107, 200, 238n47; see also Gaozu, Xiang Yu Wei River, 53, 181 Wen, Emperor, 74, 147, 201, 245n33 Wen, king of Zhou (Chief of the West), 162, 211 Wen Tianxiang, 213 Wey, state of, 67, 71, 155–156, 199, 226n4 Whale oil, 48–49

300

index

Whey, Prince, 62–63, 67–68, 234n1 White, Hayden, 83, 237n42 Windstorm, 89 Wordsworth, William, 27 Wright, Arthur F., 8 Wu, duke of Qin, 171 Wu, Emperor, 35, 123; basic annals of, 29, 36, 190, 225n1; and Confucianism, 22, 165–166; builds Hall of Brightness, 53, 231n45; aggressive policies of, 22, 58, 189–190, 245n33; punishes Li Ling and Sima Qian 18–19, 58; see also Academicians Wu, king of Zhou, 197–198, 204 Wu, state of, 30, 146 Wu Chen, 95 Wu Liang Shrine, 53 Wu Qi, 148, 154 Wu River, 109 Wu She, 104 Wu Zixu, 143, 147, 149–150, 198–199, 204 Wuan, marquis of, 93 Wuji, Prince of Wei, 143, 209–210, 249n2

Xerxes, 181 Xi, 3–4 Xia dynasty, 9, 112, 139; records of, 7 Xialei, 151, 251n31 Xiang, duke of Qin, 134–135 Xiang, Mount, 181, 187 Xiang Liang, 88–89, 91, 101, 106, 241n50 Xiang Yu, xvii, 30, 91, 199, 201; basic annals of, 29, 83, 88, 92, 123, 133, 237n43; death of, 98; defeated by Gaozu, 44–46, 88–89, 102–113, 133; treatment of Gaozu, 240n35, 240n39; genealogy, 88, 242n84, 242n92; and Han Xin, 95; massacres

troops, 100, 102, 104, 241n50; and Wei Bao, 75–81; see also Gaozu Xianyang, 181–182 Xiao, marquis of Jin, 62 Xiao He, 80, 107, 109, 112, 117 Xiao Li, 245n36 Xiaocheng, king of Zhao, 56 Xie Ao, 213 Xin, king of Sai, 78 Xin’an (place-name), 100 Xingyang (place name), 76–79 Xiongnu barbarians, 18, 22, 58 Xu (place-name), 62 Xu Fu, 77 Xu Wenshan, 248n67 Xuan, duke of Wey, 70, 72 Xun Qing, see Xunzi Xunzi (Xun Qing), 36, 39, 56, 139, 154, 248n83 Yan, state of, 95, 173 Yan Hui, 126, 142, 163–164, 245n42 Yan Shigu, 226n6 Yan Zhongzi, 150, 152 Yang Xiong, 98 Yangzi River, 187 Yanzi, 154, 251n38 Yao, Emperor, 119, 181 Yellow Emperor, 7, 46, 119 Yellow River, 48, 75–78, 164, 174, 186 Yi, king of Di, 78 Yi Yi, 164 Yi Yin, 197 Yin and yang, 57, 65, 219n4 Yin, duke of Lu, 37, 62–63, 67, 68, 122 Yin dynasty, see Shang dynasty Yingchuan Commandery, 186 Yingying (place-name), 104 Yo Yi, 262n65 You, king of Zhou, 115, 183 You xia, see Local bosses Youli (placename), 162 Yu, 151

index Yu, Emperor, 187, 257n48 Y¨u, Ying-shih, 91 Yu Qing, 56, 148, 163 Yu Rang, 147, 209 Yu Zhong, 164 Yuan, king of Chu, 132 Yuan Gu, 260n36 Yuan Xian, 199–200 Yue, state of, 143 Yun, 62 Zang Tu, 100 Zang Xibo, 64 Zhang Cang, 56, 90, 117 Zhang Dake, 82, 237n39 Zhang Er, 90, 95, 110 Zhang Han, 76, 83, 102 Zhang Liang, 88, 94–96, 103, 106, 107, 109, 110, 111 Zhanguoce, see Intrigues of the Warring States Zhao, king of Qin, 3 Zhao, marquis of Jin, 62 Zhao, state of, 37, 95, 173, 197 Zhao Gao, 203–204, 255n22, 257n52, 260n46 Zhao Tuo, 102, 110, 147 Zhao Yi, 14, 131 Zhe River, 187 Zheng, king of Qin, 48; see First Emperor Zheng, state of, 30, 62, 64, 70–71, 149, 155 Zheng Dangshi, 144–146 Zheng Qiao, 15, 43 Zhengming, see Names, rectification of Zhengshi, see Standard Histories Zhi, state of, 151–152 Zhi, Robber, 126, 246n42 Zhongshan, state of, 225n4 Zhongwu, 63

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Zhou, 197, 198 Zhou, Duke of, 17, 64, 115–116 Zhou, state of, 71, 101, 121, 131, 155, 171 Zhou dynasty, 7, 13, 23, 24, 29, 38, 46, 112, 139, 170, 172, 186, 191, 192, 197; conquest of Shang, 6, 9, 11, 173, 177 Zhou Bo, 74 Zhou Ke, 93 Zhou Hulin, 228n23, 231n42, 245n36 Zhou Shi, 241n62 Zhou Yiping, 237n39 Zhouxu, 67–72, 235n21 Zhu Hai, 209 Zhu Ziqing, 82 Zhuan (biography/commentary), 69–70 Zhuang, duke of Wey, 67–68 Zhuang, king of Qin, 3 Zhuang Zhu, 145 Zhuangxiang, king of Qin, 56 Zhuangzi, 154, 154, 246n42, Zigong, 163, 164, 165, 199–200 Zilu, 71, 156, 164, 165, 198 Zixi, 149–150, 250n25 Zixia, 121 Ziying, 102 Zou, state of, 159 Zou Yan, 154, 162, 196–198; and Confucianism, 187 Zou Yang, 39 Zouyi, Mount, 256n23 Zuo Qiu, see Zuo Qiuming Zuo Qiuming (Zuo Qiu), 56, 162, 211 Zuo zhuan commentary, 11, 44, 51, 56, 64, 66, 128, 247n49; quoted, 13; model for Shiji, 122–123, 144, 229n33; source of Shiji information, 67, 149–150, 159, 160, 164, 165, 167, 235n14, 235n19, 253n68; relationship to Spring and Autumn Annals, 68