Imitations of the Self: Jiang Yan and Chinese Poetics 9004282238, 9789004282230

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i Imitations of the Self: Jiang Yan and Chinese Poetics

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004282452_001

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Sinica Leidensia Edited by Barend J. ter Haar Maghiel van Crevel In co-operation with P.K. Bol, D.R. Knechtges, E.S. Rawski, W.L. Idema, H.T. Zurndorfer

VOLUME 118

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

Imitations of the Self: Jiang Yan and Chinese Poetics By

Nicholas Morrow Williams

LEIDEN | BOSTON

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iv Cover illustration: Textile with Animals and Woven Inscription (detail). China, 1st–3rd century. Warpfaced compound plain weave silk. Image courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art (Purchase, Friends of Asian Art Gifts, 2003), via www.metmuseum.org.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Williams, Nicholas Morrow, author. Imitations of the Self : Jiang Yan and Chinese Poetics / by Nicholas M. Williams. pages cm. -- (Sinica Leidensia ; 118) Includes index. ISBN 978-90-04-28223-0 (hardback : acid-free paper) -- ISBN 978-90-04-28245-2 (e-book) 1. Jiang, Yan, 444-505--Criticism and interpretation. 2. Chinese poetry--221 B.C.-960 A.D.--History and criticism. 3. Poetics--Early works to 1800. I. Title. PL2666.C45Z93 2015 895.18’209--dc23 2014032276

This publication has been typeset in the multilingual “Brill” typeface. With over 5,100 characters covering Latin, ipa, Greek, and Cyrillic, this typeface is especially suitable for use in the humanities. For more information, please see brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 0169-9563 isbn 978-90-04-28223-0 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-28245-2 (e-book) Copyright 2015 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Global Oriental and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill nv provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, ma 01923, usa. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper.

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for David Knechtges

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Contents Contents

Contents Acknowledgments ix Introduction—The Double Voice 1

part 1 The Development of Imitation Poetry 1 A Brocade of Words: Theories of Poetic Imitation 23 2 The Reciprocal Origins of Pentasyllabic Verse and of Imitation Poetry 50 3 Impersonation and the Art of Authorship 77 4 Echoing through the Rafters: The Afterlife of Jian’an 105

part 2 Jiang Yan between Poetry and Life 5 Self-Portrait as Sea Anemone, and Other Impersonations of Jiang Yan 147 6 Jiang Yan’s Allusive and Illusive Journeys 176 7 Pathways in Obscurity: Jiang Yan and Ruan Ji 210 Appendix: Jiang Yan’s Poems in Diverse Forms 247 Works Cited 280 Index 296

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Contents vii Acknowledgments ix Introduction—The Double Voice 1 Chapter 1 23 A Brocade of Words: Theories of Poetic Imitation 23 Chapter 2 50 The Reciprocal Origins of Pentasyllabic Verse and of Imitation Poetry Chapter 3 77 Impersonation and the Art of Authorship 77 Chapter 4 105 Echoing through the Rafters: The Afterlife of Jian’an 105 Chapter 5 147 Self-Portrait as Sea Anemone, and Other Impersonations of Jiang Yan Chapter 6 176 Jiang Yan’s Allusive and Illusive Journeys 176 Chapter 7 210 Pathways in Obscurity: Jiang Yan and Ruan Ji 210 Appendix 247 Jiang Yan’s Poems in Diverse Forms 247 Works Cited 280 Index 296

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Acknowledgments Acknowledgments

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Acknowledgments I began studying Jiang Yan’s poems in 2005, and through the intervening years David Knechtges has been a constant source of aid and inspiration. Professor Knechtges has done more work than anyone to build a solid foundation for the study of medieval Chinese literature in the West; this book is a modest construction upon that foundation, and is dedicated accordingly. Throughout the revision of the manuscript my work has been supported by the Mr. Simon Suen and Mrs. Mary Suen Sino-Humanitas Institute at Hong Kong Baptist University, which has also generously assisted with publication costs. I have been aided also by a Fulbright scholarship for dissertation research at National Taiwan University; the Hsiao fellowship at the University of Washington; and research grants from Hong Kong Baptist University. Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews has kindly granted permission to reprint my article “Self-Portrait as Sea Anemone, and Other Impersonations of Jiang Yan” as Chapter 5. I am grateful to Paul Kroll for two profoundly encouraging suggestions, and to my lunch partners in Hong Kong—Lee Tong King, John Wakefield, and Tim Chan—for good cheer. Without the love and inspiration of my family, I would have long ago have given up on Chinese literature for some more lucrative field, such as lepidoptery. None of these people deserves blame for the faults that remain in this volume; even I have begun to feel aloof from the past self who began this project nearly a decade ago; but I accept responsibility as poste restante for the true author.

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Introduction—the Double Voice Introduction—The Double Voice

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Introduction—The Double Voice This fine silk fan is like the round moon, Deriving from the white silk of the loom. A painting shows the Princess of Qin, Who rides a simurgh into smoky haze. Bright colors are most prized by the world, But new ones can never replace the old…. Jiang Yan

⸪ Towards the end of the fifth century ce, Jiang Yan 江淹 (444–505 ce) composed an original poem based on another poem from centuries earlier. The earlier poem was attributed to Lady Ban, an imperial concubine who, surpassed in the affections of the sovereign by younger women, lamented her fate in a verse of exceptional wit: she compares her own position to that of a silk fan, abandoned when the cool breezes of autumn render it superfluous.1 Jiang Yan, who was once accused of disloyalty by a patron himself, elaborated the same scenario, borrowing the motif of the fan without copying any specific words from his model. The imitation does not stray far from the source, but the second couplet adds a new detail to the description of the fan itself, one that transfigures the meaning of the poem: “A painting shows the Princess of Qin, / Who rides a simurgh into smoky haze.” The fan of the original poem is a round fan of plain white silk; Jiang Yan describes his fan in a similar fashion at first, but then decorates the white silk with a painted image. This new detail makes the imitation into an ekphrasis, a composition addressed to a physical artwork, with the symbolism of poetic imagination reflecting back on artistic creation. The detail of the Princess of Qin, a legendary figure riding a simurgh into the sky to reach immortality, suggests the power of art to illuminate and uplift, pointing beyond immediate passions towards something more enduring. One element of this power is creative, the painted elaboration of the artist on an empty canvas. The power is not solely creative, but also derives from a tradition, as stated in the third couplet of the poem: “Bright colors are prized by the world, / Though new ones cannot replace the old.” In Lady Ban’s original, these lines assert the concubine’s fidelity in contrast to the allure of the newcomer. 1

For more detailed discussion of the two poems see Chapters II and III.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004282452_002

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In context of the imitation they take on a secondary reference to poetry itself: a new creation may be valued by the present age, but it cannot substitute for the tradition from which it is derived. Jiang’s imitation is like a painting on the canvas of the lyric he is imitating. The original poem on the fan was already an elaborate double entendre, with each literal detail of the fan referring simultaneously to the situation of its speaker. Jiang Yan’s imitation has yet another voice in its background, that of the poet displaying his artifice and remarking on it. Ekphrasis originally means “speaking out,” and like an ekphrasis speaking to a work of art, a poetic imitation speaks out to its source. This reflects the double voice—borrowed and original—of imitation poetry. The double voice is not only a feature of imitation poetry, but a phenomenon of literature itself, as we can see from the dual reference of the earlier poem, the fan personified as lady as well as the lady figured as fan. The special feature of Jiang Yan’s “imitation poem” is the explicit and self-aware focus on this duality, the creation of an authorial self that is somehow split between past and present. It is an ekphrasis addressed not to a physical work of art but to another poem. The term “double voice” is used in the opening of “A Lover’s Complaint,” the long poem attributed to Shakespeare:2 From off a hill whose concave womb re-worded A plaintful story from a sistering vale, My spirits to attend this double voice accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale…. The double voice of poetry is inherent in the process of reading, reciting, and remembering poetry, and it is also inherent in the intertextuality of writing, the endless web of echoes and unintentional quotations that make up human discourse. This phenomenon, familiar in Western literature, is perhaps more prominent in Chinese literature, where the consistency of Chinese characters has permitted writings separated by two millennia to maintain an appearance of continuity. Numerous aspects of the topic remain unexplored, whether by traditional Chinese literary thought or in modern scholarship. In the Six Dynasties period (220–589 ce), when allusion to and wholesale rewriting of earlier poetry were prevalent, there was one form of writing that directly confronted the relationship of a text to earlier models. This is the genre of “imitation poetry” (used throughout this book as an equivalent of ni shi擬 詩), which explicitly seeks to rewrite earlier poems or respond to earlier 2

Quoted in Hollander, Melodious Guile: Fictive Pattern in Poetic Language, 58, as an example of the “metaleptic role of echoic allusion in poems.”

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poets—the genre to which Jiang Yan’s poem belongs. The first extant imitation poems in Chinese date to the third century ce, and the genre remained popular through the fourth and fifth centuries. Though numerous writers contributed to the genre, the outstanding examples are three extensive sequences: the twelve “Imitations of Old Poems” 擬古詩 by Lu Ji 陸機 (261–303); the eight “Poems Modeled on the Collection of the Crown Prince of Wei at Ye” 擬魏太 子鄴中集 by Xie Lingyun 謝靈運 (385–433); and the thirty “Poems in Diverse Forms” 雜體詩 by Jiang Yan, which include the imitation of Lady Ban’s fan poem. Along with some individual poems and shorter sequences, these works show the variety and potential of imitation poetry in this period. These three collections of imitations were canonized in the seminal sixthcentury anthology Wen xuan 文選. Though the Wen xuan contains imitation poems by ten writers (and many other individual poems survive in other sources), the most important of these are the sequences by Lu Ji, Xie Lingyun, and Jiang Yan. These examples are suites of imitation poems with an overarching theme and significance greater than any of the individual poems. These writers use their suites of imitation poems as a kind of literary criticism, presenting various models of literary history. Each functions something like a miniature version of the Wen xuan itself. Dedicated to a single genre (pentasyllabic verse), and even within that genre, limited in period and scope far more narrowly than the Wen xuan itself, they parallel its function by summing up tradition in new forms. The anthology-like character of imitation poems adds a new dimension to their critical character. An imitation of a single poem has limited potential for significance, just as an anthology containing only a single work would not be of much use. It is only by identifying the patterns and themes, as well as the contrasting voices and harmonies, of these larger suites of imitation poems that we can recognize the achievement of these poets. In this way imitations anticipate the Wen xuan anthology as literary works that make sense of a larger tradition, highlighting key voices and styles. This is particularly true for Jiang Yan, whose oeuvre includes numerous poetic series and suite-like fu as well. In Jiang’s “Diverse Forms” the principle of the double voice is multiplied to become an operatic chorus.3 The “Diverse Forms” comprise thirty imitations of thirty different poets (counting the imitation of anonymous “Old Poems” which initiates the series). The effect is a capsule history of pentasyllabic verse, and indeed this series is an important milestone in the identification of pentasyllabic verse as a distinct 3

A translation of the entire series of Jiang Yan’s “Diverse Forms” is provided as an appendix at the end of this book.

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genre originating in the Han and developing throughout Jiang Yan’s time, the late fifth century. With each poem attempting to define the most characteristic topic and style of a given poet, the set recapitulates the development of pentasyllabic verse and its division into separate genres. Yet at the same time, Jiang Yan’s choice of illustrative examples, depicting personal loss in flowery rhetoric, is in large part consistent with his own poetry in other genres. Jiang Yan follows his predecessors Lu Ji and Xie Lingyun in finding ways to play with the double voice of imitation poetry, inscribing the contours of his own imagination upon reconstituted writings of the past. What marks Jiang Yan’s effort as distinct, and particularly deserving of study, is simply the tremendous scale and ambition of the project, with its delicate variations on thirty different poetic styles. Imitation poems were the most self-conscious writing about intertextuality in the Six Dynasties, since they were explicitly defined in terms of relations among pre-existing literary works. While at first glance imitation poems appear peripheral to the main currents of literary history, from a theoretical point of view they possess extraordinary interest for the study of medieval Chinese poetry. Chinese poetry can sometimes appear as a patchwork of allusions and quotations; imitation poems are works that address the intertextuality of the literary tradition directly. Roland Barthes has written that “the citations which go to make up a text are anonymous, untraceable, and yet already read: they are quotations without inverted commas.”4 Yet imitation poems make a virtue of necessity—finding poetic resonance in the double voice of poetry itself, as well as the gap between the fictional speaker and implied author. It is not the case that poets like Jiang Yan lack a voice of their own and are forced by indigence into thievery of literary tradition. Rather, these poems should be regarded as speaking of both past and present. They are responses that speak out in tandem with their source, like the image that Jiang embroidered on the white silk fan of Lady Ban. This book will trace the development of this double voice in early medieval Chinese poetry, particularly in the work of Jiang Yan. Imitation poems are the starting point for investigation, but primarily insofar as they can serve as a mirror for larger poetic developments, so the first half of the book surveys imitation poetry in relation to the development of early pentasyllabic verse. Whether imitation poems can serve as a mirror of life is a question addressed in the second half of the book, where various intersections between poetry and life in the case of Jiang Yan are addressed. 4

“From Work to Text,” in Barthes, Image, Music, Text, 160. Original text: “les citations dont est fait un texte sont anonymes, irrepérables et cependant déja lues: ce sont les citations sans guillemets” (Le Bruissement de la langue, 76).

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The remainder of this introduction will examine the Chinese term for “imitation,” introduce the arguments in this book, and suggest the implications of these imitation poems for the interpretation of Chinese poetry. “Imitation” is used in this book as a translation of ni 擬.5 Imitation was practiced in all the various genres of literature that flourished in the Six Dynasties, from memorials to the emperor to solemn dirges, encompassing all kinds of poetic meters. This book focuses, however, on pentasyllabic verse (wuyan shi 五言詩, in lines of five characters), only occasionally touching on tetrasyllabic verse (si yan shi 四言詩, in lines of four characters), fu 賦 “rhapsody,” a heterometric and highly adaptive poetic genre, or other poetic forms important to this period. Many of the same patterns and trends could also be traced in these forms, but it was primarily in pentasyllabic verse where Six Dynasties poets chose to explicitly identify their creations as “imitations.” Thus, the Wen xuan anthology includes a special subgenre of “miscellaneous imitations” within the shi section, while there are no imitations of fu, for instance. Though the first chapter of this book will introduce a discourse about imitation that could in principle apply to any poetic form, the most prominent “imitation poems,” sotitled, are pentasyllabic. The term “imitation” can be misleading because of its pejorative connotations in modern English, but it is the most neutral equivalent of ni that can function in the various contexts in which ni serves. Moreover, though imitation has come under a pall in recent times, the imitation of literary and artistic, as well as ethical and religious, models has historically been a keystone of Western civilization as much as classical Chinese civilization. Imitation has even been considered the path to salvation, as in the Imitatio Christi by Thomas à Kempis (1380–1471). Renaissance authors employed a wide variety of imitative techniques in their writing, and their use of imitation was often a form of reflection on their relation to classical tradition.6 As the English rendering of Greek mimesis (µίµησις), imitation was long treated as fundamental in English literary criticism, although in English poetry, “imitations” were usually free translations of classical texts, like Pope’s imitations of Horace. The traditional range of meaning of the word “imitation” is rarely exploited in modern English, 5 Ni is sometimes interchangeable with terms like xiao 效 and fang 仿 (also “imitating” or “in the manner of ”), and poems under these titles are also included in the “Za ni” 雜擬 (Miscellaneous Imitations) section of the Wen xuan. But it happens that the imitation poems that form the central subject of this book (by Lu Ji, Xie Lingyun, and Jiang Yan) all use ni in the title. 6 See Greene, The Light in Troy: Imitation and Discovery in Renaissance Poetry, and Pigman, “Versions of Imitation in the Renaissance.”

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but it is indispensable to an appreciation of classical traditions both East and West.7 Shakespeare’s own imitative “double voice,” so richly exploited in the allusive texture of his poetry, is an outstanding example. One of the finest statements in English of the creative nature of literary imitation is due to Coleridge: “… that the composition of a poem is among the imitative arts, and that imitation, as opposed to copying, consists either in the interfusion of the same, throughout the radically different, or of the different throughout a base radically the same.”8 An imitation is not a mere copy because it is an “interfusion” of similarity and difference, avoiding a preponderance of one or the other. Coleridge is adapting the ancient Western conception of all the arts as imitative (mimetic), but defines the character of imitation in an abstract yet constructive way as creative work that is simultaneously different and the same as its model. By Coleridge’s time, a contrary tendency towards exclusive emphasis on the originality of the author was already becoming prevalent in European culture.9 Nonetheless, insightful critics like Coleridge have continued to appreciate that intellectual accomplishment tends to consist in an “interfusion” of the original and imitative, and that proper study of tradition is indispensable to creative work. The special concern in modern times with authenticity, and unease with imitations, has much to do with the proliferation of mechanical copies and digital reproductions in the modern era. We are surrounded by perfect or nearperfect copies of images and texts; in the premodern era, imitations were by necessity imperfect. Even a “mirror image” was not a perfect reproduction when mirrors were made of polished bronze, the reflections they produced constantly susceptible to obscuration by particles of dust.10 In the same way, 7

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On imitation in the Western tradition, some useful sources are McFarland, Originality and Imagination; McLaughlin, Literary Imitation in the Italian Renaissance; Ricks, Allusion to the Poets; Stack, Pope and Horace; Stemplinger, Das Plagiat in der griechischen Literatur; West and Woodman, ed., Creative Imitation and Latin Literature; Conte, The Rhetoric of Imitation; and White, Plagiarism and Imitation during the Italian Renaissance. Weinsheimer’s Imitation is also a very original study and metacommentary on imitation. Biographia Literaria, ch. XVIII, 217. For a recent study of how Coleridge and other Romantics understood mimesis, see Burwick, Mimesis and Its Romantic Reflections. That we no longer appreciate this fact is in part due to the influence of copyright law, which for pragmatic reasons must distinguish rigidly between the original and plagiaristic. For the historical and ideological background to the emergence of a new conception of original authorship, see Woodmansee, “The Genius and the Copyright: Economic and Legal Conditions of the Emergence of the ‘Author.’” This was the classic Buddhist metaphor for obstacles to enlightenment. On mirror symbolism in Chinese thought, and specifically in Buddhism, see Paul Demiéville, “Le Miroir spirituel.”

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both English “imitations” and Chinese ni were never perfect copies of their sources. They were re-writings and reflections of their sources that would not normally be mistaken for them, and indeed stressed their distinctiveness in their very titles. The finest imitations recall their sources, yet are unmistakably new at the same time. To the extent that they are copies of their source texts, it is in the sense that they contain iconic references to those sources—replicas of earlier poems in miniature, on which the remainder of the imitation poem comments. One of the distinctive features of an imitation, then, is how it acts as a creative reading of its source. From this point of view, Western hermeneutics is particularly useful for appreciating the creative potential of imitation. As Hans-Georg Gadamer (1900–2002) wrote, “Imitation and representation are not merely a repetition of what they depict, but insight into its essence.11 Though Gadamer’s vocabulary here is linked to classical debates of Western metaphysics, his hermeneutics is intended to describe a ubiquitous process of understanding. An artistic representation can actually possess a greater significance than its model, as it is created for a new audience, producing new insights by virtue of its new perspective. Gadamer is referring here primarily to the artistic representation of reality, but his valorization of “repetition” is relevant to imitation poems as well. The imitation poems of China, had Gadamer been aware of them, are a concrete realization of this universal process of understanding. They model the melding of two horizons of understanding, and in that sense become an artistic representation of understanding itself. Moreover, imitation is a kind of performance of what it represents, so imitation poems are new renditions of familiar themes that invest them with new meaning for contemporary audiences. In practice, because an imitation poem is an “interfusion” of old and new, it is not a simple matter to distinguish its references to past and present. In many cases we would not know that an imitation poem was an “imitation” if not for the title. The substance of the poem is generally not unlike other poems, whether contemporary and archaic. The difference lies essentially in the indication of the title, itself a literary device that calls attention to the imitativeness of the poem, not necessary any fundamental distinction of kind. Given that the distinction between an imitation and an original is essentially figurative, our reading of imitation poems may have implications for our readings of other poets. Imitation poems are commentaries on the intertextuality of other Chinese poems, on the extent to which poems can be truly personal or individual, and on the possibility of using verse not just as a display of ingenuity 11

Truth and Method, 119; cf. Wahrheit und Methode, 109.

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but as a means of communication. Thus, imitation poems reflect back on the poetic tradition as a whole. In modern studies of classical Chinese poetry, literary borrowings are often treated as the shell of convention that needs to be removed to discover the kernel of originality inside. The situation is more akin to that of peeling an onion: every layer is meaningful and constitutive of the poet’s intent, although one can distinguish between outer and inner layers and elements closer or further away from the poet’s biography. Imitation and originality in Chinese poetry are interfused to the extent that they often cannot be distinguished. Six Dynasties readers and writers held a flexible attitude to this relation, best exemplified in Liu Xie’s 劉勰 (ca. 465–ca. 521) dialectical conception of “continuity as change” (discussed in chapter 1). In Liu Xie’s view, the adaptation of classical tropes and styles was indispensable to the development of the poetic voice. The term ni itself has various ramifications that suggest its broader significance in Chinese culture, well beyond that of facile “copying.”12 In English Coleridge uses “imitation” in contradistinction to “copying,” in reference to the classical concept of imitation as Greek mimesis. From Plato to Auerbach, mimesis has held an outsized place in Western literary thought in a broad sense of “representation,” the power of literature to refer to the world of experience, or even to re-enact experience.13 Though ni is used in a more limited range than mimesis, it does bear some resemblance to the Greek term within its scope. However, ni also has a sense related to personal character, which suggests the larger significance of imitation poems, not just as playful simulations but as a serious token of one’s moral aspirations. The term can also be used with “traces” or “tracks,” to mean “following in [someone’s] tracks.” In this sense, ni refers to a kind of tracing the path of another person, or work.14 The imitation of poems is thus related to the attempt to pattern oneself after the virtuous conduct of the sages and one’s ancestors and predecessors, a way of 12

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Alexander Beecroft has made the intriguing suggestion of the classical Chinese shu 述 “to recount, transmit” as a functional equivalent of mimesis. Shu is distinguished from zuo 作 “to create, write” in Analects 7/1, so it parallels ni in referring to a type of re-creative, second-order writing. See Beecroft, Authorship and Cultural Identity in Early Greece and China, 43–47. See Plato, Republic, 595b, 596e, etc.; Auerbach, Mimesis: the Representation of Reality in Western Literature; and also Koller, Die Mimesis in der Antike, which is particularly helpful in regard to the theatrical and ritual origins of the term. There are parallel etymologies in European languages, e.g. Polish naśladować “to imitate” < ślad “trace, footprint.” Cf. Thomas Mann: “For we wander in the footsteps of others, and all of life is a pouring of the present into mythic forms” (Joseph and His Brothers, 669).

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attempting to live up to the high ideals of classical culture. While mimesis is an attempt, always partial and inconclusive, at the representation of reality, ni is an attempt—admirable and even sometimes compulsory—at imitating virtuous conduct. In other words, ni is not merely stylistic imitation, but a project of intersubjective ambition, exploiting the voices of earlier poems in tandem with the poet’s own. Ni can also mean “to impersonate,” and this is a strong secondary sense even in the case of “imitation poems.” Because of the strong associations between poetic expression and individual character in the Chinese tradition, imitating and mastering a poet’s style is rather like impersonating that figure wholesale. For instance, Jiang Yan’s imitation of Lady Ban is in part an imitation of the earlier poem and its literary figures, while still very much a new poem in her voice, writing not just after Lady Ban but as Lady Ban. In Western literature this kind of literary impersonation is signified by the trope of prosopopoeia, a term that will be used throughout this book. The significance of imitation poems as prosopopoeia, not just stylistic experimentation, is one reason they were accorded so much respect in Six Dynasties poetry. One of the clearest definitions of ni was given by Liu Liang 劉良, a Tang commentator to the Wen xuan anthology in which the finest Six Dynasties imitations are preserved. He wrote that ni poetry “relates the aspirations of the ancients, to elucidate the feelings of the present” 比古志以明今情.15 At first this seems to be a restatement of the idea that ni is homage to the ancients. But the specific terms here are highly significant. “Aspirations” and “feelings” correspond to two traditional formulations of the function of poetry itself: shi yan zhi 詩言志, “poetry articulates aspirations,” and shi yuan qing 詩緣情, “poetry delineates feeling.”16 The former emphasizes the political and ethical role of poetry, the latter its personal and affective significance. The transition from the former, articulated in ancient times, to the latter, formulated during the Six Dynasties, encapsulates something of the history of Chinese poetry. By relating the two concepts, Liu Liang suggests that ni poetry draws on the rich well of classic poetry, but then adapts it to the concerns of the present. Thus, although ni is a much more limited concept than mimesis, it is not as problematic as mimesis was for Plato. It is a development from the classical ideals of the past, yet also representative of the new literary culture of the medieval period, and is essentially a positive term. Medieval Chinese poets did sometimes worry about plagiarism, but ni never corresponds to that word in 15 16

Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 30.31b. Liu Liang was one of the Wuchen 五臣, “Five Officials,” who submitted a commentary to Emperor Xuanzong in 718. On this development see Zhu Ziqing, Shi yan zhi bian.

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English. It is not a repetition or borrowing but ideally an “insight into the essence” of what has gone before. Ni is a creative imitation of tradition, combining in itself polar oppositions that would normally seem to conflict: tradition and individuality, creation and interpretation, sociality and introspection, history and imagination. In this sense the more proper object of comparison in the Western tradition should not be the critical term mimesis, but the practice of imitation in European poetry. Of numerous examples that might be cited, from oral-formulaic poetics in Homeric epic through nineteenth-century medievalism, perhaps the most relevant is the classical imitation of Renaissance poets, as described in Thomas M. Greene’s study, The Light in Troy: Imitation and Discovery in Renaissance Poetry. The significance of imitation in the Six Dynasties was not the same: for one thing, poets were imitating models much closer to themselves chronologically, culturally, and linguistically. But Greene shows clearly how imitation could serve as a means for presenting views on major theoretical issues, particularly the discovery of historical difference. Petrarch’s use of Roman poets is not just simple homage; it becomes a kind of “complex imitation” that reflects on the possibility of returning to one’s heritage at all, so that imitation ultimately appears an assertion of historical isolation. In a similar way, this book aims to explore Chinese imitation poems as both studies in interpretation and also reflections on their current historical situation at the same time. Although the central focus of this book is limited to a single poet, Jiang Yan, and furthermore to his set of thirty “Poems in Diverse Forms,” it is impossible to read Jiang Yan and his imitation poems without referring back to their sources. The interpretation of Jiang’s poems is itself a kind of hermeneutic motion, beginning with earlier poems that form the material of his work and continuing with previous interpretations of those poems, which together lead us to an attempt at reading Jiang’s poems with due attention to their sources, a task of interpretation that must involve the reader’s own intuitive understanding. To read Jiang Yan’s imitations is to reflect on what it means to read Chinese poetry. The first part of this book will examine the origins and significance of imitation poetry in the Six Dynasties, first by considering some theoretical discussions of ni and related topics chapter 1), then turning to the earliest actual imitations and their sources. Imitations tended to focus on the earliest pentasyllabic poems as their sources (discussed in chapter 2), particularly the poems attributed to Han historical figures, some of which may not have achieved their final form till later (chapter 3) or the Jian’an period at the end of the Han (chapter 4). Jiang Yan wrote the most ambitious and varied imitations, but a number

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of other writers were equally important to the development of imitation as a genre. The poets we are considering here lived in the aftermath of the fall of the great Han empire, and many of the poems they imitated dated back to that dynasty (206 BCE–220 CE). Xiao Tong 蕭統 (501–531) placed at the head of the Wen xuan, his anthology of classic literature, the Han rhapsodies of Ban Gu 班 固 (32–92): an imperial historian of the Eastern Han and an emblem of Han imperial and textual authority. This placement implicitly asserted the claim of the dynasty his father had founded, the Liang 梁, to inherit that mantle of stability. Jiang Yan’s series of “Poems in Diverse Forms,” beginning in the Han and continuing almost to his own time, similarly mirrors the dynastic transitions from the Han up to his own time, showing how the roots of contemporary poetic styles derive from Han sources. At the same time, the Han poets most frequently imitated were also victims of Han rule: not only Lady Ban herself, but also Li Ling 李陵 (?–74 bce), the general who was denounced as a traitor by the emperor after being defeated in battle (see chapter 3). Unlike the rhapsodies on the imperial capital and related topics, pentasyllabic verse more often takes on the point of view of lonely or frustrated individuals. Jiang Yan’s imitations become a kind of impersonation, a way of expressing various discontents while disclaiming them, shedding tears of regret while announcing that they are shed for someone else. The first part of this book shows how these imitations become definitive interpretations of their sources. The texts of Han poems available to us are not necessarily authentic transcriptions of any Han writers. The Li Ling poems, in particular, were variously attributed to Li Ling and Li Ling’s friend Su Wu 蘇武, or treated as anonymous. The imitations of these poems after the fall of the Han were often critical in fixing their texts and identification of authorship. One of the earliest motives for imitation poetry, indeed, was to correct and stabilize earlier texts. This is particularly true of Fu Xuan 傅玄 (217–278), discussed in chapter 2, who can be considered the inventor of imitation poetry (by that title), as well as of “Music Bureau” (yuefu 樂府) poetry as a creative genre. Fu Xuan wrote of his desire to expand or improve the existing corpus of texts. Though Fu Xuan himself may have conceived of this work primarily as an approach to editing texts for musical performance at the Western Jin court, it would have a major impact on the writing of non-yuefu poetry as well. Fu’s conception of imitation as an intensification of the essential elements of old poems served as a model for later writers. Lu Ji was the first poet to make use of the genre that Fu Xuan had invented. Lu was a brilliant writer in many genres, and is particularly admired for his

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verse “Essay on Literature” 文賦 a lengthy Ars Poetica. His set of imitation poems preserved in the Wen xuan, to be discussed in chapter 3, consists of twelve imitations of the so-called “Old Poems” 古詩, anonymous pieces generally dated back to the Han dynasty. Lu Ji’s imitations actually became the model for an enduring genre of poems referred to as “imitating the ancient” (ni gu 擬古), which could be used for a variety of purposes; in later poets’ hands it was a style that could be applied to various topics. In Lu Ji’s case, though, the title “Ni gu shi” 擬古詩 really seems to mean “Imitations of ‘Old Poems,’” not “Imitations of Old Poems,” since he follows particular poems quite closely.17 At the same time, he uses a distinct style and diction to follow the general substance of the earlier poems: with his own more erudite references and elegant parallel couplets, he marks the imitation as his own. Indeed, the elaborate craft of the imitations is itself an assertion of Six Dynasties literary ideals, if on a smaller scale than in his more famous “Essay on Literature.” Lu Ji rewrites the “Old Poems” according to his own literary ideals, presenting his own authorial persona. The double voice of author and imitator plays a more dramatic role in Xie Lingyun’s suite. In this set of eight studies and impersonations, Xie creates a multilayered portrait of the intellectual and social lives of the poets of the Jian’an era. Xie recreates the atmosphere of that court from more than two centuries in the past, writing eight poems altogether, each in a different voice and accompanied by a brief preface describing the author (except for Cao Pi, the host, who is given a longer preface introducing the whole suite). In this sense, the poems and prefaces together form a subtle interpretation of Jian’an poetry. At the same time, the reader is forced to reflect on Xie’s own political disappointments, and to wonder how much of his own experience is reflected in the impersonations of those earlier writers. Tracing Xie’s allusions back to the original Jian’an sources, comparing imitation and model, then relating the various imitations among each other in a coherent set, the reader enters into a kind of mise en abyme, where verse and scene seem to be a distorted mirror image of one another. We see the literary past restored and changed at the same time. Throughout the first part of this book, imitation poems are seen as an integral part of literary developments, whether in criticism or pentasyllabic verse itself. They can be seen as one aspect of broader trends: painstaking attention to the practice of writing, the compiling of past anthologies, and the composition of literary criticism. These Six Dynasties trends have been summed in various ways by modern literary historians, from Lu Xun’s assertion of the age 17

I.e. “Ni ‘Gushi’” 擬〈古詩〉, not “‘Nigu’ shi” 〈擬古〉詩 .

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of “literary self-consciousness,”18 to Zhang Renqing’s “aestheticism.”19 Imitation poems are a particularly concrete manifestation of these trends, reflecting the ceaseless effort at polishing and improving literary works, not just reworking one’s own drafts but rewriting and adapting those of other writers as well. We can see this attitude in the contemporary figure of writing as a fine silk brocade, comparing poetry to a material and labor-intensive craft. Given this context, imitation poems should be seen as representative of Six Dynasties poetry more broadly. Whereas poets generally were active in reworking and reweaving tradition while adapting old songs and poems into new compositions, in imitation poems this activity becomes explicit. These are the poems that lay bare the techniques and craft fundamental to other genres, too. Formalist critic Victor Shklovsky (1893–1984) argued that Tristram Shandy, by violating the laws of the novel, rigorously displacing chronological sequence and narrative structure, thereby exposed the structure of the novel better than any other work.20 He even claimed that it is therefore “the most typical novel in world literature.”21 An imitation poem, likewise, displaces the obligatory components of poetry like author, occasion, and audience. These elements are also still present, but only at a higher level of abstraction as indicated in the source poems. The first part of this book, then, will examine the development of imitation poetry as the “most typical” form of poetry in the Six Dynasties, as a means for exposing the structure of Six Dynasties poetry more broadly. Seen in the context of their canonization in the Wen xuan, the great sequences of imitation poems seem like the impeccable crystallization of poetry’s rise over centuries, each one a timeless celebration of some style or genre. The twin components of these imitations are the intensification of their models and interpretation from various perspectives. At the same time, though, these poems result from the idiosyncratic efforts of a small number of individuals whose impersonations of earlier poets have personal resonance as well. The intricate brocade of literary art unravels to reveal the individual threads of singular poetry with 18

19 20

21

In “Wei Jin fengdu ji wenzhang yu yao ji jiu zhi guanxi” (Lu Xun quanji 3: 504). There are some promising attempts to modify this statement and reassert it with more precision, e.g., Chen Shunzhi’s Wei Jin Nanbeichao shixue, which emphasizes the role of xuanxue and related cultural trends. Zhang Renqing, Liuchao weimei wenxue, 35. Shklovsky and other Russian formalists refer to the novel frequently throughout their criticism. Shklovsky’s study devoted to the novel was published in O teorii prozy (1925), and translated by Benjamin Sher as “The Novel as Parody: Sterne’s Tristram Shandy,” in The Theory of Prose, 147–70. Shklovsky, Theory of Prose, 170.

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all their eccentricity and self-doubt—and particularly so in the case of Jiang Yan. Jiang Yan has historically been regarded as a major poet of the Six Dynasties, on a tier just below Tao Yuanming or Xie Lingyun. Though Jiang developed his own personal style, a fluid melancholy enriched by references to the Chuci 楚 辭, he does not have as many brilliant parallel couplets as Xie Lingyun, nor does he give as strong an impression of personality in action as Tao Yuanming. Jiang Yan’s work is broader and more representative of the Six Dynasties than that of Tao or Xie, however, in two regards. First, through the variety of his imitations, he experimented with countless other styles, so that his work constitutes a survey of the development of poetry up to his time. Second, whereas Xie or Tao each in their own way convey an exceptionally strong sense of individual poetic style, Jiang Yan conveys a sense rather of individuality under siege, the mind of the scholar-official who must write through indirect means and the use of alternate personae. As a matter of fact, approximately one third of Jiang Yan’s extant collection consists of official prose documents composed on behalf of his patrons. While he first served the Liu-Song 劉宋 dynasty on the staff of Prince Liu Jingsu 劉 景素 (452–476) of Jianping 建平, from 477 on Jiang was a close associate and aide of Xiao Daocheng 蕭道成 (427–482), who overturned the Song and founded the Qi 齊 dynasty in 479. Jiang even managed to remain on good terms with Xiao Yan 蕭衍 (464–549) after Xiao’s coup against the Qi, and so survived peacefully for three years after the rise of the Liang 梁. Surviving and even rising continually through the official ranks over two dynastic changes was no mean feat; it suggests why Jiang Yan wrote so many plaintive poems that are difficult to date to any particular moment. He was a careful politician who would not have risked upsetting his patrons. He did seem to learn from his political lapses: after writing fifteen poems in imitation of Ruan Ji 阮籍 (210– 263) that implicitly criticized his patron Liu Jingsu’s ambition to usurp the throne, he was exiled to Wuxing in Fujian for two years in 474. None of his later compositions seems to have endangered his status again. The bare summary of Jiang Yan’s official career gives no hint of the poignant drama of his poetry. Thus, scholars tend to date most of his important compositions to the single, brief period that he was in Wuxing. This is possible, but not necessarily true. In fact, a few pieces that can be definitively dated to this period are actually quite cheerful in tone. It is not beyond the skill of a talented poet to imagine himself in a position of despair and melancholy while wreathed in honor at a noble court. It is even easier for a talented poet to write in recollection of his own troubled past, or imaginative sympathy with characters who have suffered more than the poet himself. The reconstruction of

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authorial intent should not overlook the roles of memory and imagination. Jiang’s many poems of imitation seem to call for an interpretive position that recognizes the gap between biography and writing; although grounded in history, his flights of poetry follow imaginative trajectories of their own. This argument is made in both chapters V and VI, the former emphasizing Jiang’s manner of occluding his own identity in his work, the latter showing how the southern vistas that figure throughout his work demand to be read as literary constructions, not literal itineraries. Understanding imitation as one element in Jiang Yan’s creative compositions helps to assess the legacy of Six Dynasties poetry as well. Chapter 7 uses later imitations of Ruan Ji to show how imitation continues to play a role in the Chinese tradition. Imitation of ancient poets continues, long after Jiang Yan, to be a highly political act, as the poetic identification with the figure of Ruan Ji is read as a criticism of the contemporary regime. At the same time, these imitations, like Ruan Ji’s original poems, have little explicit political content. They tend to focus on a vague sense of tragedy and foreboding, yet this could also be interpreted by readers as indirect political criticism. An anecdote in Ruan Ji’s biography tells how he would come to the end of a road and weep; imitation of his poems was a continuation of his lament, following a road that was limited by tradition, yet still offered hope. Thus the general arc of this book moves from Six Dynasties poetry generally, as summarized and rewritten in imitations; to Jiang Yan’s own writings, read in light of the culture represented by imitation poetry; to Jiang Yan’s life, whose true passions we can only try to ascertain by reading his poetry. When we approach the core moments of Jiang Yan’s life, his offense against his patron and his ensuing punishment and exile, we find that their meaning can be found only in literature: the poetry of Ruan Ji, the works from the Chuci that Jiang repeatedly imitated, the melancholy of Lady Ban, and the old poems. Jiang’s work forms a network of the major literary references up to his time, as hinted by his own sobriquet, Wentong 文通, meaning “master of letters” but also “that which connects and interrelates the textual tradition.” Jiang Yan’s imitation poems, and the double voice featured in so many of his works, reflect the persistent concerns and achievements of the Six Dynasties period, when imitation was an integral part of poetic practice and theory. It was an expressive tool that allowed for the doubling of the authorial voice creating erudite variations of literary tradition, or layered self-representation, or Janus-like reference to both past and future at once. Thus, studying Jiang Yan’s imitation poems in light of their models can give fresh insight into the spirit of Six Dynasties poetry in general. Because Jiang Yan only barely lived into the sixth century, writings from the final century of the Six Dynasties get

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relatively little attention here.22 The concerns of the sixth century were particularly different because the rise of tonal prosody greatly altered the formal aspects of Chinese poetry, so these developments from the end of the Six Dynasties need to be studied separately from the literary world of Jiang Yan. The double voice of Six Dynasties poetry can be viewed either positively or negatively. Positively, it is part of the “aesthetic self-consciousness” of the period, one means of weaving an elaborate “brocade of words,” a multivalent poetic structure that can be appreciated or studied from multiple perspectives. More negatively, it involves, at the least, a symbolic repression of the self (selfregard sometimes reduced to the level that can be represented by a sea anemone), and was used as a political defense that prevented one’s enemies from finding fodder for persecution in one’s verse. Along these lines, one critic has recently compared the method of Six Dynasties poetry to that of the 1984 Georgian film Repentance (Monaniebe), with its allegorical critique of Soviet tyranny.23 Chinese poets ultimately tried to make a virtue of this constraint, using the practice of imitation to elaborate their own political critiques. However one evaluates the poetry, its layers of concealment and ironic self-awareness are fascinating to study. Even after the refinements of tonal prosody and the formation of regulated verse in the late Six Dynasties and Tang, future poets continued to look back on the foundations of the art that were summed up in the Wen xuan, and the techniques of this poetry are indispensable to an understanding of the Chinese literary tradition in general. Imitation poems are not just a poetic object of study but also critical interpretations of poetry, identifying genres, styles, and modes of self-presentation for future readers. Thus this study of imitation poetry has some significance for interpretations of Six Dynasties poetry in general. Because its implications go against the grain of some modern scholarship on Chinese poetry, the study of imitation poetry offers a useful model that complements other approaches, and is exhibited in the various chapters of this book. There is a strong tendency in modern scholarship on Six Dynasties literature to emphasize a biographical-historical approach to the study of individual 22

23

Fortunately two recent books on Liang literature have presented the achievements of the Xiao brothers: Wang Ping, The Age of Courtly Writing, and Tian Xiaofei, Beacon Fire and Shooting Star. Wang Ping’s book on Xiao Tong shows how his literary ideas and accomplishments were grounded in a context of a court composition and rivalry, while Tian Xiaofei’s book on Xiao Gang traces new developments that were shifting literary currents away from literary imitation altogether. Ōgami, Rikuchō bungaku ga yōsei suru shiza, 237.

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poets. The best example of this is this simple fact that the primary genre of modern Chinese scholarship on Jiang Yan is the nianpu 年譜, “annalistic biography,” a biography arranged by the years of the author’s life which attempts to date the extant writings to particular years. There are at least four nianpu for Jiang Yan in Chinese.24 Since most of Jiang Yan’s writings do not identify the year of composition, the dates in these nianpu must be derived in large part from speculation on the relation between his personal frustrations and their expression in art, so that his famous “Fu on Bitter Regret” 恨賦, for instance, is typically dated to his period of exile, even though the fu consists of a set of imaginative laments for historical figures. This kind of scholarship on biography and dating certainly has an indispensable role in the study of classical Chinese literature. Indeed, such scholarship has a venerable heritage, deriving from the philological tradition of Qing-dynasty scholarship on the classics. The efforts of these scholars in modern times have made premodern texts vastly more accessible to readers in China and abroad. In the case of Six Dynasties literature, historical sources for the lives of medieval poets are often partial or contradictory, and by laboring to resolve contradictions and fill in lacunae, the authors of nianpu and similar works make a contribution of fundamental importance to literary scholarship. But this is also a limited approach, too often implying a mechanical conception of literary composition. Biographical studies of medieval poets are invaluable and indeed have been highly informative for the present study, but collectively they give an impression of the nature and meaning of the sources that is misleading. To take Jiang Yan’s imitation of Lady Ban as an example, we have no way to date the poem precisely, and even if we did have such evidence, the principal material from which the poem is made is the content of the earlier poem by Lady Ban, not Jiang Yan’s experience. Moreover, relating the poem to specific events in Jiang Yan’s life is unnecessary. Regardless of when he wrote the imitation, the theme it addresses is patently relevant to the concerns of his entire life, since in medieval poetry the abandoned palace lady frequently represents the situation of a courtier neglected by his sovereign. The best way to approach the poem is to place it in the context of literary tradition as well as his other works and abiding concerns. To locate it chronologically by guessing at the date of composition and then using that hypothesis as evidence to reinterpret the poem is a needless distraction. 24

Wu Piji, Jiang Yan nianpu; Ding Fulin, Jiang Yan nianpu; Yu Shaochu, “Jiang Yan nianpu”; Yu Shaochu and Zhang Yaxin, “Jiang Yan nianpu,” in Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu, 435–60.

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Recent scholarship has taken new approaches to Six Dynasties poetry, drawing new attention to its context and reception. Imitation poems can add a new layer of understanding to these perspectives, because imitations are such vivid and concrete examples of how reading and writing interact in the formation of a poem. An imitation poem surrenders a direct claim at authorship in order to attain the more complex authorship of a double voice. This book will read imitation poems and their sources in tandem to trace the reciprocal formation of pentasyllabic verse in general and the model of imitation poetry. This history places claims of authorship in Six Dynasties poetry in a new light, by showing how Jiang Yan and other poets conceived of multiple voices within individual poems. Moreover, this kind of imitation is not as special a case as it might seem at first. One principal goal of this book is to show how “imitation poetry” is intertwined with the rest of the early poetic tradition. Six Dynasties poems are frequently composed in response to other poems rather than as literal descriptions of recent events. Here the metaphor of poetic composition as a craft like the weaving of brocade, discussed in chapter 1, is particularly relevant. The central problem in interpreting many poems is to trace the strands of earlier poetry which have been woven together to form the new work. Chapters 2 and 3 read imitation poems in light of their models to show the mutual relation between them, and chapter 4 presents the interpretation of Jian’an poetry in its imitations as a representation of the full lives and social context of Jian’an, rather than as a depiction of specific events. Though focusing on Jiang Yan, this book places emphasis on Jiang Yan’s works, not his life. Chapter 5 emphasizes the role of concealment and impersonation in his poetry, the way that Jiang Yan tends to present his own personality indirectly and by omission. Chapter 6 compares Jiang Yan’s poetry on his own travels and exile to his imitations of the travel poems of others. Here the journey itself becomes a useful metaphor for poetic composition in the Six Dynasties. A poem is not just a description of a particular moment; it enacts an arc through space and time, passing by earlier literary works and historical events. Throughout this study, Jiang Yan’s biography and the historical context of the Six Dynasties are constantly relevant, but not always in the foreground. This approach cannot be exhaustive and is not meant to be, but it has the potential to penetrate closer to the core concerns of Jiang Yan’s poetry than an annalistic account. Imitation poems also suggest ways of reading Chinese poetry in general. It has been claimed that the emphasis on biographical setting in interpretation of Chinese poetry was central to the entire Chinese tradition, to be traced back to Han scholarship on the Book of Songs and forward through the Six Dynasties

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and Tang.25 While a biographical approach is certainly one important way of reading Chinese poetry, it was not the only or even the dominant interpretive approach in the Six Dynasties period. Imitation poems themselves are after all one way of reading poetry in the Chinese tradition: a way of reading that divorces composition and experience, splitting the poetic experience into separate levels of abstraction. Similarly, Joseph R. Allen entitled his fine study of Music Bureau poetry In the Voice of Others, placing his emphasis on the way that Music Bureau poems adopt some alternative voice, distinct from that of the poet. The problem with this formulation is its implicit suggestion that most other Chinese poems are written in the voice of the poet: this hypothesis may or may not be a valid generalization, but certainly needs to be justified in particular cases. The Chinese poetic tradition includes the fictional narrators of the fu, where in one prominent case the narrator is literally identified as “Sir Vacuous”; the lonely courtesans of the ci impersonated by male scholar-officials; and even the jueju quatrain, whose twenty or twenty-eight words can hardly be more than an impersonal, if visionary, fragment. The assumption that a poet has a singular voice, and that the evaluation of poetry is chiefly a matter of recognizing that voice, is in large part an innovation of modern times that can be highly misleading when applied to traditional literary genres.26 This book does not aim to identify any single principle underlying Six Dynasties poetics, let alone the Chinese tradition as a whole. Imitation poems, and the network of poems to which they are interrelated, show us multiple overlapping dimensions of Six Dynasties poetry. There is the aestheticist figure of writing as a brocade, an interweaving of different sources past and present; competitive conceptions of writing as an endless pursuit for perfection, through improving style and technique; poetry as social activity, linking friends and colleagues, even connecting admired writers from the past in a social circle of the mind; writing as a way of escaping the preoccupations of the self, dissolving them in a larger creation; writing as an imaginary journey to places distant in time or space; as well as writing as protest against a corrupt society, an expression of personal indignation that is composed in communion with writers of the past. Six Dynasties poets and critics thought deeply about the 25

26

See Pauline Yu, The Reading of Imagery in the Chinese Poetic Tradition, passim, but especially on p. 218: “… constant throughout was a belief that the meaning elicited was anchored firmly in the lived world of the poet…. the poem as a whole was viewed as a record of the poet’s actual experience.” Cf. Haun Saussy’s critique of claims that “all Chinese poems are true” in Great Walls of Discourse, 58–61. See C.S. Lewis’s articles in Tillyard and Lewis, The Personal Heresy.

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value of poetry, and realized their conceptions in an unprecedented variety of literary works. Jiang Yan’s imitation poems are some of the most remarkable of these, with the greatest potential for eliciting the singular characteristics of Han and Six Dynasties poetry. They represent in miniature the standards of literary expression defined by the Wen xuan, which would remain enormously influential throughout the imperial era. An appreciation of Chinese poetry must begin by attempting to hear in these poems not only the voices of their individual authors, but the double voice of the self and its representations.

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Part 1 The Development of Imitation Poetry

∵

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A Brocade Of Words: Theories Of Poetic Imitation

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Chapter 1

A Brocade of Words: Theories of Poetic Imitation Any serious study of literature soon shows that the real difference between the original and the imitative poet is simply that the former is more profoundly imitative. Northrop Frye1

⸪ By interpreting and adapting its sources, the imitation becomes a kind of critical commentary on them. Thus imitation poetry has to be studied in tandem with the rise of literary criticism and theory during the Six Dynasties. For instance, Lu Ji was the first prolific composer of imitation poems and the author of the “Essay on Literature,” while Jiang Yan was a near-contemporary of Liu Xie, who wrote the great treatise Wenxin diaolong 文心雕龍. Imitation poems may not seem to be literary criticism in the modern sense, but then much of the literary criticism of imperial China takes the form of verse or isolated epigram. At the same time, a major challenge to appraising and interpreting imitation poetry is that we have relatively little explicit discussion of it from contemporary writers. Literary theory and criticism thrived in the Six Dynasties, and the major theorists and anthologists all set forth critical principles that touch on imitation. Some of the major critical foundations for the theory of imitation date back to the Han dynasty (206 bce–220 ce); in particular, the figure of writing as brocade. This image suggests a conception of writing as the rearrangement and elaboration of existing materials; the process of composition is merely the weaving together of warp and weft. Also important was the example of Yang Xiong 揚雄 (53 bce–18 ce), a prolific poet, scholar, and thinker who made a habit of modeling his works on earlier classics he admired. Though Yang Xiong did not write imitation poems explicitly identified as such, he applied similar principles to much of his work, showing how imitation could be a creative response to classical tradition. Imitation poems received their greatest affirmation as an integral part of Chinese literature through inclusion in the Wen xuan anthology in the early 1

The Anatomy of Criticism, 97.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004282452_003

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sixth century. This is by any standard one of the outstanding literary anthologies in the Chinese tradition, and it devotes substantial space to imitation poetry, as one of the largest subgenres within the shi poetry category. Both in the selection of imitation poems, and also in the critical standards set forth in its preface, the Wen xuan enthusiastically affirms the value of imitation poems, and suggests something of their role in creating a poetic tradition. Liu Xie’s Wenxin diaolong devotes an entire chapter to the difficult concept of “continuity as change” (tongbian 通變), a kind of synthesis of tradition and innovation which he sees as an essential principle of literary composition. Though wary of the danger of blind submission to classical models, Liu Xie also affirms the role of incremental variation and creative adaptation in literature. The Wen xuan and Wenxin diaolong together establish the basis for a proper appraisal of imitation poetry within the Chinese tradition. Jiang Yan’s own preface to the “Diverse Forms” also presents his thoughts about the meaning of his work and imitation poems in general. He is careful to distinguish imitation from forgery or plagiarism, and also emphasizes the concrete nature of imitation as a kind of practical criticism that avoids simply transmitting received notions. Most importantly, he emphasizes that his approach is ecumenical, seeking to appreciate the “diverse forms” of poets of the past. While most readers are partial to particular favorites, Jiang claims that he will be more objective, gathering the major styles of all the excellent poets of the past. This approach anticipates the Wen xuan’s attempt to assemble the finest models of past literature. At the end of this chapter, a representative poem from the “Diverse Forms” will serve as a model of Jiang’s conception of poetry and imitation. His creations form a brocade of allusions, whose intention is to communicate some private sorrow by elegantly indirect means, with emotion concealed in the very material by which it is conveyed. Imitation in Early Medieval Culture Already during the Han, Yang Xiong, the fu poet, scholar, and thinker who prefigures the major themes of this study self-consciously practiced an imitative mode of writing in many genres.2 As one scholar has argued, Yang Xiong’s focus on imitation in his literary practice makes him stand out from his 2

On Yang Xiong as poet, see Knechtges, The Han Rhapsody: A Study of the Fu of Yang Hsiung, 53 bc–ad 18. On his scholarship, see Nylan, Yang Xiong and the Pleasures of Reading and Classical Learning in China. The significance of imitation in Yang’s work has been widely studied: e.g., Shen Dongqing, Yang Xiong: Cong moni dao chuangxin de dianfan.

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contemporaries, and aligns him more with the values of the Six Dynasties, when imitation thrived.3 Yang Xiong began his career by imitating the fu of his predecessor and fellow Shu native, Sima Xiangru 司馬相如 (179–117 bce).4 Sima Xiangru’s oeuvre shows a remarkable penchant for “imitation,” as Ban Gu 班固 (32–92 ce) already noted.5 Yang’s Classic of the Great Mystery (Tai xuan jing 太玄經) is modeled on the Book of Changes, his Model Sayings (Fa yan 法 言) on the Analects, and so on Ban Gu concludes that Yang Xiong was not constrained by these models, but to the contrary, “in all of these he pondered the origin, relied on it as a model, and then galloped away without restraint” 皆斟 酌其本，相與放依而馳騁云. We can already recognize in Yang’s work some of the features of imitation as it would develop after the Han. When Yang chose to imitate a work, he was not doing it merely as a literary exercise or to show off his ingenuity. Instead, he took some model from the past and transformed it according to his own need. Though all his works show stark differences from their models, perhaps the most striking example is “Refuting the Sao” 反騷, an imitation of the “Li sao” 離騷 that is also a kind of palinode, a formal rebuttal of the principal argument of the “Li sao.”6 “Refuting the Sao” is an imitation that could never be mistaken for the original. At the beginning of Model Sayings, Yang describes his ambition as transmitting the Way of Confucius through his own scholarship to future scholars, making them all “mouths of metal and tongues of wood” 金口 而木舌, i.e. like a duo 鐸 bell with a wooden clapper, ringing out truth.7 The Han was one of the historic high points of scholarship on the Confucian classics, and scholars like Yang Xiong stressed the need for scholarship to preserve and transmit the wisdom of the sages. This cultural background was naturally hospitable to the practice of literary imitation, and Yang Xiong explored its potential to a considerable degree. Yet the classical and ethical orientation of Yang’s work distinguished it rather sharply from that of the imitative writers considered in this book. It is particularly significant here that Yang, late in life, regretted his own practice of fu poetry, even rebuking his younger self for their inadequacies as tools of moral 3

See Taniguchi Hiroshi, “Yang Xiong ‘kou ji’ yu moni qianren—shi lun wenxue shumianhua yu qi yingxiang,” 57–58. 4 Han shu 87A.3515. 5 In the encomium that follows Yang Xiong’s autobiography in Han shu 87B.3583. See translation in Knechtges, The Han shu Biography of Yang Xiong, 59. 6 Yang Xiong also wrote a “Guang Sao” 廣騷, an “Expanded Li Sao,” that is not extant. See Han shu 87A.3515. 7 Yang Xiong, Yangzi Fa yan, 1.1a.

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instruction.8 Six Dynasties poets were at once more and less specialized: though the poets considered in this book devoted most of their creative efforts to verse, with less attention to other genres of political or philosophical prose, the content of their verse was more varied, ranging from personal emotions to abstruse speculation. Six Dynasties poets, though sometimes employing imitation in a self-conscious manner that recalls some of Yang Xiong’s ventures, were also participating in the broader cultural trends of their age. First of all, imitation was closely tied to classical allusion. It is hard to overstate how common allusion is in Six Dynasties texts; many works of parallel prose and verse are a tissue of allusions to pre-Qin texts, especially the Confucian and Daoist classics, and this kind of classical allusion was a sine qua non of elegant writing from the period. These allusions are grounded in a background of attitudes towards the pre-Qin thinkers and the victory of a school of Confucian thought in the Han. Allusion fostered interest in the imitation of entire poems because imitation is, in a sense, a kind of allusion writ large: since imitations often include specific allusions to the source text, while also copying allusions from other texts. The combination of imitation and allusion creates a self-perpetuating web of intertextuality predominant in Six Dynasties writing. By contrast, the emphasis on “allusion” in much 20th-century literary criticism is itself a symptom of a certain unease in regard to imitation and intertextuality.9 A proper consideration of local allusions itself needs to examine these in light of imitation and intertextuality as systematic and structuring phenomena. One particular form of allusion was novel and indeed singularly representative of Six Dynasties culture. This period saw a resurgence of abstract philosophical thought in the form of xuanxue 玄學, the “Study of the Mystery.”10 This new philosophy was adapted into a literary genre known as xuanyan 玄 言 poetry. In its poetic form this philosophy was represented primarily by allusions to Zhuangzi, which dominate xuanyan verse. This was a genre that left a permanent mark on Chinese poetry, and represents a major tendency of the period. It consistently stressed philosophical abstraction and used physical description solely as an illustration of principle. By necessity, this kind of poetry had to be imitative. The writers were not reinventing philosophical arguments in their poems, but rather recapitulating them; these poems return over and 8 9

10

See “The Rhapsody Criticized and Reformed,” in Knechtges, The Han Rhapsody, 89–108. Contrast James R. Hightower studying “Allusion in the Poetry of T’ao Ch’ien” in 1971 with Ashmore reconstructing the background of “Text and Understanding in the World of Tao Qian” in 2010. See Williams, “The Metaphysical Lyric of the Six Dynasties.”

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over to favorite passages from the Zhuangzi and other philosophers. The focus on enunciation of doctrines means that these poets are willing to quote or restate familiar ideas, rather than draw on experience or their surroundings for inspiration. Also enormously significant for imitation poetry was the widespread understanding in the Six Dynasties of writing as a social activity, best exemplified in the practice of exchanging poems with friends. Much poetry in this period was written for social occasions, and there was an established genre of “presentation and response” (zengda 贈答) poetry.11 These kinds of exchanges would often continue through multiple iterations. Not only did presentation poems follow established conventions, but in a response, the recipient of the first poem would frequently make references to the poem he had just received. Thus a response poem was a kind of imitation. On the other hand, an imitation poem can also be understood as a kind of response poem: even if the poet being imitated is from the remote past, an imitation is a personal response that creates a relationship between the living and the dead. For instance, when the cousins Xie Lingyun and Xie Huilian 謝惠連 (407–433) exchanged poems, half a century later Jiang Yan wrote an imitation that appears to continue the exchange, replicating certain structural devices while also alluding to poems by both cousins.12 On a larger scale, there was also the practice of group composition, either at court or at other social occasions. The most famous such event from this period was the Lanting 蘭亭 gathering in 353, where calligrapher Wang Xizhi 王羲之 (303–361) wrote his famous preface.13 Group composition of poetry was already popular at the Jian’an court, and continued to thrive long after. Xie Lingyun’s suite of eight poems constructs an imagined symposium at the Jian’an court, and Jiang Yan’s imitations of four Jian’an poets are open to reading as a mini-symposium of the same kind. Jiang Yan left a number of poems to friends, but did not join in any exuberant events of this kind, so far as we know, instead devoting himself to fictional group compositions. On an even larger scale, beyond sharing poems at banquets or between friends, there was the compilation of anthologies. This was just one dimension of the remarkable rise of all kinds of meta-literary activities from the Han through the Six Dynasties: compiling anthologies, writing commentaries,

11 12 13

Mei Jialing argues that this phenomenon was closely tied to that of imitation in Han Wei Liuchao wenxue xinlun: nidai yu zengda pian. See Williams, “A Conversation in Poems: Xie Lingyun, Xie Huilian, and Jiang Yan.” On the poems collected at Lanting, see Swartz, “Revisiting the Scene of the Party.”

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ranking and evaluating poems, and many other varieties of literary criticism.14 These trends culminate in the masterworks of the Qi-Liang era like Zhong Rong’s 鍾嶸 (ca. 468–518) Shipin 詩品 (graded evaluations of pentasyllabic poets up to his time), Liu Xie’s Wenxin diaolong (the wide-ranging philosophical work on literary principles and literary criticism), and Xiao Tong’s Wen xuan (the comprehensive literary anthology). These works all have numerous predecessors as well, such as third-century essays like Cao Pi’s 曹丕 (187–226) “On Writing” 論文 and Zhi Yu’s 摯虞 (250–300) various writings. Two key contributions of this activity were a new emphasis on the independent value of literature, and an increasingly detailed classification of literary genre. Both of these developments are intimately tied to the imitation poem, which treats literature itself as a worthy topic of poetry, and also in its own way contributes to the identification of genre.15 Finally, it is important to note the form of pentasyllabic verse in this period. Imitation was especially suited to the verse form of this period, which later became known as ancient-style verse. This kind of verse was composed of an unlimited number of couplets, often employing parallelism. This open form allowed a poet to borrow freely from earlier verse in some couplets, while adding his own ideas in others. But in the Yongming era (483–494), Shen Yue 沈約 (441–513) and others devised new formal rules of tonal prosody. Though at this time the strict quatrain and octet forms were not yet fixed, tonal regulations tended to constrain the length of verse.16 They also made many famous lines of earlier poetry strictly unquotable whenever they did not conform to the new regulations. This was a severe and dramatic obstacle to the kind of free quotation and allusion so fundamental to Jiang Yan’s imitations. To summarize the overall significance of these trends, we can observe how closely they show that poetry was interrelated with social, philosophical, and cultural activities in other spheres. Although a poem might be composed at a particular moment, its primary motivation is not to reflect the feelings of its author, but rather to engage with other aspects of cultural life. In this cultural context, literature becomes a durable system of interacting images, devices,

14 15 16

Brigitta Lee takes this activity as a major point of departure in her dissertation “Imitation, Remembrance, and the Formation of the Poetic Past in Early Medieval China.” On this latter point see the discussion of Fu Xuan in chapter 2. Useful studies of the development of tonal prosody include: Mair and Mei, “The Sanskrit Origins of Recent Style Prosody”; Goh, “Tonal Prosody in Three Poems by Wang Rong”; and Kōzen Hiroshi, “Cong sisheng babing dao sisheng eryuanhua.”

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and allusions: something like polychrome silk, as in Liu Xi’s 劉熙 (Eastern Han) famous definition of wen 文 (writing/pattern) in the Shi ming 釋名:17 Writing: just as one gathers the various colors to construct a brocade,18 so one gathers the various words to construct a phrase; writing is just like making a brocade.

文者，會集眾綵以成錦繡，會集眾字以成辭義，如文繡然 也。 Brocade is a fitting metaphor because it is expansive: certain strands and motifs are woven together, continuously building a larger and larger fabric without any predetermined limit. It is not just the finished product, but the material that is open-ended, as the threads of various colors are of arbitrary length. Most significantly, it is a compositional process—in the etymological sense of composition—of assembling disparate materials. Sima Xiangru is quoted as making a similar analogy in the Xijing zaji 西京雜記:19 Xiangru said: To assemble the colored strands to form the design, and arrange the brocade and embroidery to shape the material, with one warp and one weft, one gong note and one shang note: this is the task of fu.

相如曰：合綦組以成文，列錦繡而爲質。一經一緯，一宮一 商，此賦之迹也。 Xiangru here also emphasizes the process of selection and combination in the same way that an imitative poem makes use of lines and images from earlier poetry, adapting to the particular needs of the new context. This correspondence between writing and weaving has a parallel in the Western tradition: the 17 18

19

Liu Xi, Shi ming, 4.1a. See also James J. Y. Liu on wen and the “aesthetic theory” of literature, in Chinese Theories of Literature, 100–101. “Brocade” is technically not the appropriate designation for silks from this period. Jin should properly be rendered “polychrome figured silk.” “Brocade” captures the proper connotations of the word, however. Xijing zaji 2.4a. This collection of anecdotes on the Western Han was compiled around 520 ce, and is not fully reliable as a historical source for the Han, but does represent at least sixth-century impressions of the Han, and so is entirely relevant to our subject here. See Nienhauser, “Once Again, the Authorship of the Hsi-ching tsa-shi.”

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word “text” itself derives from the Latin texere, “to weave,” and the same metaphor has roots throughout Indo-European tradition.20 This conception of writing as an intertextual brocade has numerous echoes, as in Lu Ji’s “Essay on Literature” 文賦:21

或藻思綺合 清麗千眠 炳若縟繡 悽若繁絃

Sometimes rhetoric and thought are melded like damask, Pure and graceful, gorgeous and brilliant. They glitter like a many-colored brocade, Mournful like myriad strings.

The first four lines here present an evocative, synaesthetic portrait of composition as an interweaving of threads (or a harmony of sounds). The following couplet relates this theory explicitly to imitation and tradition:

必所擬之不殊 乃闇合乎曩篇

They must not differ from what is imitated [ni], But silently accord with ancient poems.

This couplet poses special difficulty in translation.22 Chen Shih-hsiang translates, freely approaching paraphrase: “But the accomplished piece of imitation must be so perfected / That it is in the ancient tradition, yet remains a nonpareil.” In other words, the poet must achieve a subtle balance between echoing earlier works in the tradition while distinguishing himself. Lu Ji affirms the necessity of imitation elsewhere in the fu as well, as when he writes “Sometimes one copies the old to increase the new” 或襲故而彌新.23 Writing must imitate yet differ from the model of imitation at the same time. The poem continues, though, with a corresponding concern about the possibility of accidental plagiarism: 20

21

22

23

For parallels in Greek poetry, see Jane McIntosh Snyder, “The Web of Song: Weaving Imagery in Homer and the Lyric Poets”; in Indo-European poetics, see “Tessere e filare,” in Durante, Sulla Preistoria della Tradizione Poetica Greca, 2: 173–76. Wen xuan 17.768–69. Translations: Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, 150–51; Knechtges, Wen xuan, 3: 222–23; Qian Zhongshu, Guan zhui bian, 3: 1198–99; Chen Shihhsiang, Essay on Literature: Written by the Third-Century Chinese Poet Lu Chi, xxv; Yang Mu, Lu Ji “Wen fu” jiaoshi, 65. Some translators and commentators take ni 擬 to mean “aim, conceive” rather than “imitate” here. But even in this alternate reading ni must still have some object to aim at, something to serve as the model; the sense of imitation is closely connected to the other senses of ni, so this is not the problem it seems at first. Wen xuan 17.770.

A Brocade Of Words: Theories Of Poetic Imitation

雖杼軸於予懷 怵佗人之我先 苟傷廉而愆義 亦雖愛而必捐

31

Though the shuttle and reed are in my own heart, Yet I fear that someone else preceded me there. Lest I damage by own honesty or wound by disloyalty, Though I treasure these I am forced to discard them.

Even though the writer employs his own feelings as the “shuttle and reed” of the composition, there is still a danger that someone else will have anticipated him. This is the paradox of creation: what is original and what is convention turn out to be indistinguishable.24 Lu Ji here gives a profoundly balanced assessment of the role of imitation in contemporary poetry. Poetry is a glittering brocade that “silently accords” with works of the past. But even though this is part of the glory and brilliance of poetry, it can also be a source of anxiety. The author may be forced to discard verses that are too similar to earlier works. Thus, the author must take care to reweave his sources into a total composition that outshines those of his rivals. The concept of brocade is particularly relevant to the poems discussed in this book. The series or suite of imitation poems allows the different styles and topics that are imitated to converse with one another. The effect is to create some kind of dialogue or progression over multiple works. In brocade, the full effect is hardly visible from a single patch of color, and in a suite of imitation poems, a single line may be borrowed from elsewhere. It is only by tracing overall effects and patterns extending across the whole work that we can understand the total meaning. Imitation was a prevalent feature of literary practice in the Six Dynasties, its importance and worth affirmed by dominant literary doctrines that emphasize refinement of craft. Literature was understood as inherently intertextual: although certainly one could go too far and risk accusations of plagiarism, certain forms of imitation were indispensable to composition itself. The most comprehensive and powerful statements of the principles behind literary imitation, though, appeared in the Qi-Liang era (479–557).

24

Cf. McFarland’s discussion of the “originality paradox” in Originality & Imagination, chapter one.

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Continuity as Change The Qi and Liang dynasties were a golden age of literary criticism in China, and later scholars have attempted to divide the various points of view into discrete schools. Zhou Xunchu 周勛初 classified Liang literary thought into three factions: innovative, conservative, or a compromise of the two.25 Zhou’s description of Liang literary thought and its division into three factions is extremely useful as a sketch of the broad tendencies of the period.26 However, the conservative school he outlines is something of a straw man, represented solely by Pei Ziye’s 裴子野 (469–530) “Disquisition on Insect Carving” 雕蟲論. This leaves us essentially with a school of balance and a school of innovation, two tendencies that in traditional criticism were generally known as tongbian 通變 and xinbian 新變, which could be rendered as “continuity as change” versus “innovative change.”27 The principle of tongbian is formulated explicitly in Chapter 29 of the Wenxin diaolong, whose combination of elaborate allusion and passionate argument is itself a demonstration of the literary principles for which it argues.28 As often in Wenxin diaolong, this chapter elaborates a complementary opposition in which neither member can be neglected. Liu Xie believes contemporary writers have placed too high an emphasis on novelty, so he recommends returning to the classics of antiquity, but not purely in the sense of fugu 復古 archaicism. The “continuity” of the title means a creative revitalization of the classics, not simple quotation or erudite allusion. The tong of tongbian can be rendered as “openness,” in the sense of open passage from one place to anoth25 26

27

28

Zhou, “Liangdai wenlun sanpai shuyao.” Tian Xiaofei argues (in Beacon Fire and Shooting Star: The Literary Culture of the Liang, 125–38) that Zhou’s classification is fictive. While any such scheme is forced to simplify, the utility of this one is immediately apparent to the reader who contrasts the Wen xuan preface and Xiao Gang’s “Letter to the Prince of Xiangdong” 與湘東王書 (Liang shu 49.690–91). I elaborate on this point in my manuscript “Literary Controversy at the Liang Court Revisited.” For these principles in the Liang and throughout the history of Chinese literary criticism, see Liu Wenzhong, Zhengbian—tongbian—xinbian. I defend this rendering of tongbian below. See Wenxin diaolong zhu 29.569–71. Cf. translations in Vincent Yu-chung Shih, The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, 165–69; and Wong Siu-kit, et al., The Book of Literary Design, 110–13. Shih’s translation of tong bian as “flexible adaptability to varying situations” misleadingly diminishes the value of tong in the dialectical compound. Wong et al. accurately translate “Continuity and Change.” My own translation of the title might be considered a flexible adaptation of theirs. See also Liao Weiqing, Liuchao wenlun, 46–50, on Liu Xie’s theory of tongbian.

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er, and in that sense is the opposite of a reactionary return to antiquity.29 Rather than an opposition of “continuity” against “change,” what Liu Xie is really advocating is a dialectical union of the two: “continuity as change.” The locus classicus for the term “tongbian” is in the “Appended Statements” commentary to the Yijing, and Liu Xie alludes to this passage in the opening paragraph of the “Tongbian” chapter.30 Another inspiration for the concept may lie in the traditional notion in Yijing scholarship that one of the original meanings of yi 易, “change,” was in fact buyi 不易, “not change.”31 It was an understanding inherent in Yijing scholarship that one could identify the principles of continuity behind superficial change. These philosophical ideas provide an inspiration for Liu Xie’s theory, as he seeks to accommodate both stylistic change and adherence to tradition. “Continuity as change” sounds paradoxical, but it suggests a greater truth of Chinese philosophy, with its application to literature being the fact that preserving something in writing transforms it. As Paul Ricoeur has written, “The inscription of discourse is the transcription of the world, and transcription is not reduplication, but metamorphosis.”32 Imitation of earlier writings, similarly, can be a metamorphosis of meaning, even as it is a formal continuation. Tongbian solves the compositional problem of drawing inspiration from the past, while also responding to and pleasing contemporary audiences: The forms that determine writing have fixed characteristics, but the methods for transforming writing have no limit. How can I demonstrate that it is so? In general, shi and fu poems, letters, records [and all the other genres], each have a correspondence of name and pattern; this is the form that is unchanging. Yet the essence and the impact of the writing must be continuous and also change, in order to endure; this is why the methods of writing are without limit. Name and pattern have their unchanging aspect, and form always relies on extant realities. Continuity as change has no fixed methods, because its techniques always draw from new sounds. Thus one can ride on an unending road, and drink from inexhaustible springs. Those who use a rope too short will find them-

29

30 31 32

It potentially suggests the principal virtues of what one scholar has called “open poetics.” See Gu Ming Dong, “Open Poetics in Chinese Poetry,” in Chinese Theories of Reading and Writing: A Route to Hermeneutics and Open Poetics, 209–33. Zhouyi zhengyi 7.13b. See Yi qian jiandu易乾鑿度, quoted in Taiping yulan 609.1a. Paul Ricoeur, Interpretation Theory, 42.

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selves thirsty,33 and those whose feet grow weary will cease their journey: it is not that the methods of patterning words are used up, but that the practice of continuity as change is incorrect. Thus, when discussing the technique of writing, it is comparable to plants and trees: root and stalk adorn the earth and share their nature, but the plant’s fragrance depends on how it is bathed in sunlight.

夫設文之體有常，變文之數無方，何以明其然耶？凡詩賦書 記， 名理相因，此有常之體也；文辭氣力，通變則久，此無 方之數也。名理有常，體必資于故實；通變無方，數必酌于 新聲；故能騁無窮之路 ，飲不竭之源。然綆短者銜渴，足疲 者輟途，非文理之數盡，乃通變之術疏耳。故論文之方，譬 諸草木，根幹麗土而同性，臭味晞陽而異品矣。 From the first sentence, Liu Xie sets forth the basic predicament: the forms of writing that are enduring and the endless variety of new compositions. Liu identifies the enduring aspect of writing with the continuity of genre, which is learned from past writings, and provides sustenance to the changing modes of the present. The justification for the doctrine of tongbian is based in the cycles of nature, and Liu fittingly borrows another phrase from the Book of Changes: “beautify the earth,” as in “sun and moon beautify heaven, as the hundred grains, grasses, and trees beautify the earth” 日月麗乎天，百穀草木麗乎 土.34 Liu Xie’s tongbian applies to literary composition in general, and is grounded in a vision of the cosmos, but his figures of returning to sources and roots suggest a systematic justification for imitation poetry as well. Imitation poetry is constantly returning to ancient poems and critiquing fixed genres and styles in response to new situations. Another passage works out the implications of these principles in literary history. Despite the passage of time and the inevitable transformation, there are commonalities between successive periods. In recent times, however, there has been a decline, and the writings of Liu-Song are “deviant and new.” They are cut off from the wellsprings of tradition: Nowadays the talented gentlemen who determinedly study writing often ignore Han pieces and use Song collections as their models. Though they 33

34

See Zhuangzi jishi 18.620: “You cannot draw deep with a short rope” 綆短者不可以汲 深. Liu is comparing writing without a solid foundation in tradition to drawing water from a well with a rope that is not long enough. From hexagram #30, Li 離. See Zhouyi zhengyi 3.36b.

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have thoroughly perused the works of past and present, they follow what is near and avoid what is far. However, blue dye is produced from indigo, and red from madder.35 Though their hues surpass the original colors, they cannot be transformed any further. Huan Junshan says:36 “I see that the alluring writings of the avant-garde are admirable, but lack splendor; yet whenever one looks at the words of Liu [Xin] or Yang [Xiong], there is always profit to be had.”37 This is a confirmation of my point. If you want to refine blue and purify red, you must return to indigo and madder; and if you want to correct deviation and upset shallowness, you must revive the classics and proclamations.38 Deliberating between substance and adornment, and correcting the margin of the elegant and vulgar: this is what is called continuity as change.

今才穎之士，刻意學文，多略漢篇，師范宋集，雖古今備 閱，然近附而遠疏矣。夫青生于藍，絳生于蒨，雖逾本色， 不能復化。桓君山云︰予見新進麗文，美而無采；及見劉揚 言辭，常輒有得。此其驗也。故練青濯絳，必歸藍蒨；矯訛 翻淺，還宗經誥。斯斟酌乎質文之間，而隱括乎雅俗之際， 可與言通變矣。 The process of tongbian is like refining a colored dye from its source; at first you achieve a deeper, purer color, but you soon reach a limit. This is why you cannot simply take recent authors as your model and refine or rework them, but must be broad-minded in seeking out proper sources. The quotation from Huan Tan seems to be a criticism of his younger contemporaries for failing to match the perfection of Liu Xiang or Yang Xiong in the previous generation. Liu Xie concludes with a new definition of tongbian that is more specific in its literary implications. To him, it means finding the proper balance of “substance” and “adornment” (zhiwen 質文), a critical opposition that originates in the Analects. Tongbian also means finding the correct relation of “elegant” and “popular” elements (yasu 雅俗). This latter phrase is surprising but marks the difference between Liu Xie’s point of view and an unyielding attitude of archaicism. He recognizes that literature must have an up-to-date, even vulgar aspect, and cannot be identified solely with classical texts. 35 36 37 38

An old analogy that is employed at the opening of the Xunzi. See Xunzi ji jie, 1.1a. Huan Tan 桓譚 (?–56 ce). This seems to be a quotation from the Xin lun 新論 not attested in other sources. Liu seems to refer to Liu Xin 劉歆 (?–23 ce). The proclamations are one of the genres of writing included in the Book of Documents.

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The previous paragraphs have discussed tongbian in the abstract, but Liu Xie continues to provide a detailed philological examination of a particular use of hyperbole, the topos of celestial vastness:39 The practice of exaggerating a descriptive passage had already reached its height in the early Han. From this period on, writers continued to copy one another. Though one might soar higher and leave the track, ultimately he fell back in the same cage.

夫誇張聲貌，則漢初已極，自茲厥后，循環相因，雖軒翥出 轍，而終入籠內。 There follow five quotations from classic fu compositions of the Han dynasty: Mei Sheng 枚乘 in his “Seven Stimuli” 七發 wrote:40 通望兮東海 Gazing off—over the eastern ocean,41 虹洞兮蒼天 It seems to meld—with the blue sky. Sima Xiangru 司馬相如 in his “Fu on the Imperial Park” 上林賦 wrote:42 視之無端 Looking at it you find no end, 察之無涯 Observing it you find no limit. 日出東沼 The sun rises in the eastern marsh, 月生西陂 The moon appears over western banks.43 Ma Rong 馬融 in his “Encomium to the Guangcheng Park” 廣成頌 wrote:44 天地虹洞 Earth and heaven meld together, 固無端涯 They are without end or limit. 大明出東 The great brightness rises in the east, 入乎西陂 And sets on the western banks. Yang Xiong 揚雄 in his “Fu on the Imperial Hunt” 校獵賦 wrote:45 出入日月 The sun and moon rise and set here, 39 40 41 42 43 44

45

For my use of topos in this discussion, cf. Curtius, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages. Wen xuan 34.1569. This section is describing the tidal bore. Wen xuan has 乎 for 兮. Wen xuan 8.366; cf. Knechtges, Wen xuan, 2: 87, ll. 152–55. Wen xuan text has 入乎西陂. In 115 ce Ma Rong submitted his “Encomium to the Guangcheng Park” to Emperor An to encourage him to practice hunting, in order to maintain the martial prowess of the state. For this passage see Hou Han shu 60A.1964. Wen xuan 8.390–91; cf. Knechtges, Wen xuan, 2: 119, ll. 42–43.

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天與地沓 Heaven and earth are joined. Zhang Heng 張衡 in his “Fu on the Western Metropolis” 西京賦wrote:46 日月于是乎出入 Thus the sun and moon rose and set here, 象扶桑于濛汜 Just like at Fusang and Mengsi.47 Liu Xie then concludes: These are all examples of wide-ranging hyperbole, but the five writers employ it in the same way. Other cases are the same, as various writers follow one another, intersecting and also varying. This is the method of continuity as change.

此并廣寓極狀，而五家如一。諸如此類 ，莫不相循，參伍因 革，通變之數也。 This passage is extraordinary for several reasons. First, it is an explicit discussion of intertextuality, identifying this kind of textual continuity as essential to proper literature. Second, it is a lucid, historical examination of a specific issue in literary history that would hardly be out of place in a modern essay of literary scholarship. Third, it is a concrete demonstration of the principle of tongbian, which Liu Xie has presented above only in vague terms. One important feature of the quotations is that all but one come from texts that are included in the Wen xuan, suggesting the complementarity between the theoretical principles of tongbian and the actual selection of texts in the anthology. In context of the argument, this also indicates the cultural importance and familiarity of the texts Liu Xie has chosen; he has not had to hunt among obscure manuscripts to find his examples. These examples all involve descriptions that exaggerate the scale of some terrestrial place or object by comparing it to heavenly bodies, usually the sun and moon. All but the first example are describing imperial parks and palaces, so the content is also related. In spite of the consistency of the topos, though, the language is varied in every instance. Moreover, this kind of comparison does an injustice to the fu writers, since the context of each occurrence varies dramatically. Even if the later writers are all borrowing the essential topos, they each apply it in an original context.

46 47

Wen xuan 2.65; cf. Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1: 211, ll. 437–38. Fusang is the mythological tree located at the place where the sun originates, and Mengsi the place where it sets.

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Typically a topos that mentions a particular object can be revised by substituting some other similar object, but the sun and moon are unique and irreplaceable, so this remains immediately recognizable in all its iterations. Because it is an extreme case it is a little misleading with respect to Liu Xie’s overall argument. Throughout his discussion he has emphasized the creative, adaptive aspect of tongbian, but this example makes the continuity seem to overwhelm the transformation. This apparent contradiction arises only because Liu Xie has selected examples that illustrate continuity from within larger works that are much more varied. When one considers the quotations in their original context, the transformative use of the topos becomes clearer. Liu Xie would surely have expected his readers to recognize the quotations and reconstruct their original contexts. Taking into account the context of these quotations—in each case a very substantial fu poem full of hyperbolic rhetoric—Liu Xie’s analysis gains greater significance. This comparison is a study of a specific literary figure that was used and reused throughout the Han. It is tongbian on a local and technical level. But Liu Xie’s conception of tongbian extends as far from this topic as the sun and moon from a terrestrial palace; it extends to the patterns of genre and style that constitute literary tradition. Belonging to a stratum of literary creativity located between the adaptation of a particular literary figure and wholesale imbibing of classical influence, imitation poems are a similar example of continuity as change. An imitation poem is at once new and old, the essential conception drawn from earlier poetry but interfused with something different. An imitation poem requires the participation of the reader to tease out the allusions and quotations and weigh their significance. In a lyrical peroration, Liu Xie describes how a piece of great writing comes into being: Thus, when designing the structure of a piece of writing, one should consider the form in wide perspective. First, observing broadly and reading precisely, you grasp the outline and conceive the harmony; then, forging a path, you set the key elements in place; and, loosening the reins, drive far off, keeping the pace casual and free, following your passions and meeting with circumstance, willfully adapting to change, letting the mane bristle gorgeously like a rainbow arched above, and shine like a marvelous phoenix with wings upraised:48 that is outstanding writing. But if you are cramped into limited interpretations and arrogantly 48

This bird is the changli 長離, a mythological bird mentioned, for example, in the “Fu on Pondering the Mystery” by Zhang Heng (Wen xuan 15.672). It acts as a companion for

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enthused with consistency, then you might as well be racing circles round a courtyard, never achieving the panache of a ten-thousand-league stride!

是以規略文統，宜宏大體。先博覽以精閱，總綱紀而攝契； 然后拓衢路，置關鍵，長轡遠馭，從容按節，憑情以會通， 負氣以適變，采如宛虹之奮鬐，光若長離之振翼，乃穎脫之 文矣。若乃齷齪于偏解，矜激乎一致，此庭間之回驟，豈萬 里之逸步哉。 The emphasis throughout this passage is on broad perspective and expansive temperament versus cramped and limited views. We will meet this opposition again in Jiang Yan’s preface to the “Poems in Diverse Forms,” which argues for broad acceptance of a variety of styles. There is a somewhat counterintuitive link between imitation and inclusivity. The real choice to make, for these critics, is between imitating the past or imitating one’s contemporaries; limiting one’s view to the immediate environment, or expanding it to the entirety of tradition. It is essential to Liu Xie’s conception of literature that he does not believe literature should aim for pure novelty, or that literature can be new in any absolute sense. Ultimately, literature is a kind of patterning that mimics the patterns of the universe and the unchanging dao; it is never an original creation of something materially new, nor is a personal expression new in relation to society, nor a philosophical innovation unprecedented in human thought. Literature is often innovative, but never new. Moreover, since its innovation is always relative to the present moment, the aspect of a literary composition that is most innovative may derive from the principles or forms of antiquity. What is changing and what is unchanging are interrelated and inextricable. Though Wenxin diaolong was the greatest summation of literary thought in this period, the Wen xuan was the anthology that realized these literary conceptions concretely as models for writers to come. The principal compiler of the Wen xuan was Xiao Tong, Crown Prince of Liang. Although probably assisted by members of his court like Liu Xiaochuo 劉孝綽 (481–539), Xiao was a talented writer and there is no reason to think he was not directly involved in the project.49 He was probably also the author of the preface to the Wen xuan,

49

Zhang Heng on his mystical journey. It is identified with the phoenix by Li Xian in his commentary to Hou Han shu 59.1935. Shimizu Yoshio 淸水凱夫 has argued that Xiao Tong was not seriously involved in the compilation, in essays collected as Shin Monzen gaku: Monzen no shinkenkyū. But the scholarly consensus otherwise seems to be that, as much as we ought to recognize the

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which lays out the principles of its compilation in exquisite parallel prose. Early in the preface Xiao quotes the Book of Changes (also key to the “Tongbian” chapter, as we have seen) and extrapolates his own theory of wen 文 (patterns, culture, writing, belles lettres, intertextuality, etc.):50 The Changes says: “Observe the wen of Heaven, and you may investigate temporal transformations; observe the wen of Man, and you may transform and cultivate all under heaven.”51 How far-reaching is the temporal significance of wen! For instance, spokeless wheels are the beginnings of a great chariot, but a great chariot has none of the crudeness of a spokeless wheel; layered ice is formed by pooling water, yet pooling water fully lacks the chill of layered ice. Why is this so? Because one follows something and increases its splendor, transforming the base to sharpen its point; if this is true for things, it is even more so for wen. Its transformations along with passing time are hard to know in their entirety.

易曰：「觀乎天文，以察時變；觀乎人文，以化成天下．」 文之時義遠矣哉。若夫椎輪為大輅之始，大輅寧有椎輪之 質；增冰為積水所成，積水曾微增冰之凜。何哉?蓋踵其事而 增華，變其本而加厲；物既有之，文亦宜然。隨時變改，難 可詳悉。 There is wen pattern immanent in all things, but some things instantiate that pattern more concretely or successfully. The principles of the anthology’s compilation exemplify this principle also. Observing the development of a genre over time, one can understand how the essential features of the genre are established or transformed over time. The first level of organization is a synchronic axis, collecting representative works for each genre. The ordering of the genres themselves is based on their prestige and political centrality, opening with the grand capital fu that celebrate the imperial state. The second axis belongs within each genre (or subgenre of the shi poetry category), where the organization is chronological, suggesting the diachronic development of the

50 51

contribution of Liu Xiaochuo and other Liang court figures, Xiao Tong still played the leading role in the compilation. Some important studies are He Rong, “Wen xuan bianzhuan shiqi ji bianzhe kaolüe”; Wang Liqun, Wen xuan chengshu yanjiu; Gu Nong, Wen xuan luncong, critiquing Shimizu; and Hu Dalei, Wen xuan bianzuan yanjiu. Cf. translations of the preface in Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1: 72–97; and James R. Hightower, “The Wen hsüan and Genre Theory.” From the “Decision Statements” 彖辭 commentary to the Bi 賁 hexagram (#22) in the Changes. See Zhou yi zhengyi 3.14b.

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genre. The “Sevens” 七 genre, for instance, begins with the first known representative of the genre, Mei Sheng’s 枚乘 (?–141 BCE) “Seven Stimuli” 七發. The anthology reifies genres as abstractions while it also traces their historical trajectories. The overall chronology of the pieces selected in the Wen xuan also shows a balanced view. Though most of the pieces date to the Han or Six Dynasties, some pre-Han pieces also suggest the origins of the later tradition. One principle of selection was to avoid living authors, although given that constraint the anthology still includes a large number of works by Liang authors.52 The anthology balances an attention to origins and ancient precedent with an appreciation for recent trends—not unlike Jiang Yan’s selection of poets for his “Diverse Forms.” The role of imitation is explicitly indicated in the imitation poems and suggested by the preface, but much of the internal structure of the anthology is solely implicit. The diachronic evolution of genres is one link among individual works, but there are numerous other connections among the texts of the anthology: the intertextuality of classic allusion, shared topoi, borrowed imagery, and specific reference. This intertextuality is latent in the Wen xuan itself, and most of these connections would have been obvious to the Wen xuan compilers and their immediate audience. By the Tang they were less clear and it became worthwhile for Li Shan 李善 (?–689) to trace the references and allusions that constitute the Wen xuan’s language in his extraordinary commentary.53 Even with the assistance of electronic databases, many of Li Shan’s annotations would be hard or impossible to duplicate, since allusions are so frequently encoded in synonyms or periphrasis, and many of the sources he quotes have been lost. But the Li Shan commentary was not originally designed for scholars interested in the Wen xuan texts for their own sake. The Wen xuan was used in the Tang not just as a classic to be enjoyed, but as a manual of instruction and reference in literary composition. In that sense, no matter how antiquarian in its selection, the Wen xuan was never entirely conservative; it was also a pedagogical tool for writing new compositions. Li Shan’s tracing of allusions helps to achieve this function by illustrating how past writers have employed allusion, all in the service of writers attempting to work out new allusions in new contexts. The commentary of the Wuchen 五臣 “Five 52

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The anthology includes many pieces by Shen Yue 沈約 (441–513) and Ren Fang 任昉 (460–508), in particular. Jiang Yan himself is technically considered a Liang author, since he died in 505, but hardly any of his extant pieces date to the Liang. On the Li Shan commentary, see Tominaga, Monzen Ri Zen chū no kenkyū.

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Officials,” by contrast, tends simply to explain or paraphrase the text.54 The Li Shan commentary can be seen as an interpretation of the Wen xuan that itself elucidates the principle of tongbian throughout the text. In its dual role as a record of the past and as a model for the future, then, the Wen xuan saves considerable space for the imitation poems in the thirtieth and thirty-first juan of the anthology. Imitation poems are the clearest example of how historical study forms one aspect of creative activity: reading old poems is the impetus for new poems, just as writing new poems is a way of reading old poems. However, an imitation poem cannot be a naïve restatement of some classical topos, since by definition it is a self-conscious reappropriation of the literary past. In that sense an imitation poem at the same affirms the philosophical synthesis of traditionalism and progress and calls into question the meaning of an originality circumscribed by convention. During the Qi-Liang era, while Jiang Yan was writing his imitations, Liu Xie was opining on continuity and transformation, and the Wen xuan was being compiled, new literary movements were under way. Soon thereafter, transformation of literary norms would render imitation poems passé. A critical transformation in Chinese poetic history took place during the Yongming 永明 era (483–494) of the Southern Qi. Innovative new poetry and its tonal prosody were developed by the “Eight Friends of the Prince of Jingling,” of whom Shen Yue was paramount. Prosody in earlier poetry had been limited to line length and rhyming, so the new tonal prosody was a dramatic innovation. This new doctrine would turn out to have longlasting consequences, laying the foundation for regulated verse and much of Tang poetry. The palace-style verse of the Liang, and in particular Xiao Gang’s innovative craftsmanship, would lead literary trends in a direction different from that articulated in the preface to the Wen xuan. Still, the Wen xuan remained the standard and source for Tang writers, who were profoundly influenced by specific phrases and also by the larger ideals of the anthology. In particular, the point of view of the anthology, looking to both ancient models and recent developments, framing individual achievements in terms of genres, and allowing for both innovation and imitation, became a powerful model for Chinese writing, marking the Wen xuan as an anthology of both past and present that realized Liu Xie’s ideal of “continuity as change.” The great High Tang poets all referred frequently to texts in the Wen xuan, and it would remain a potent source of inspiration for classical literature throughout the imperial era. 54

The “Five Officials” (Wuchen) were Lü Yanji 呂延濟, Liu Liang 劉良, Zhang Xian 張銑, Lü Xiang 呂向, and Li Zhouhan 李周翰. Their commentary was completed in 718.

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Jiang Yan’s Preface to the “Poems in Diverse Forms” Jiang Yan’s set of “Poems in Diverse Forms” preceded by decades the Wen xuan, which was compiled in the late 520s. It likely predated the Wenxin diaolong as well (normally dated either to late Qi or Liang), so “Diverse Forms” could have been an inspiration to either. The set of thirty “Diverse Forms” includes both early and recent examples in a variety of styles, suggesting the sense of continuity implied in tongbian. The intertextual references in Jiang’s poems link them explicitly to countless other pieces included in the Wen xuan, while the literary principles exhibited in the series show a distinct resemblance to those of Wenxin diaolong. In particular, Jiang attempts to achieve a balanced appreciation of different styles and poets, both past and present, suggesting a relation of tongbian and anticipating Liu Xie. Without knowing the precise date of Wenxin diaolong, we can see all these works as sharing conceptions of literary change that were current, though not universally adhered to, in the Qi-Liang era. Jiang’s imitations were one kind of practical demonstration of continuity, but he also explained some of his thinking in the preface to his series of thirty imitation poems. The preface to the “Diverse Forms” is our only direct source of information regarding Jiang Yan’s motive in composing the poems. Like many classical prefaces, the scope of the preface is broad and not precisely aligned with the set of poems, which it complements rather than defining in detail: Preface to Thirty Poems in Diverse Forms55 The songs of Chu and the airs of Han are not the same in substance,56 and what was produced in Wei or fashioned in Jin are also distinct in form, just as when indigo and vermilion form colorful patterns, their varied transformations are inexhaustible;57 or when the tones gong and 55

56 57

The You Mao Wen xuan text includes only a couple of lines from this preface. For full text see Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 31.10b–11a; Jiang Wentong wenji 4.3b–4b; Jiang Wentong ji 4.14a– b; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 4.136; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 92–93; Wen xuan jizhu 61.676–81. One synoptic study of the set is Mori, “Kō En ‘Zattai shi sanjū su’ ni tsuite.” Literally “bone.” The phrase zhu lan朱藍 is used frequently in the Wenxin diaolong. Vermilion and indigo are both “pure colors”(zheng se 正色), so they may represent purity in moral or literary terms, but also literary display and ornamentation, as in Wenxin diaolong: “In later periods writers indulged in excessive ornamentation, / And their words are spun into tapestries of red and blue” 季代彌飾，绚言朱藍 (Wenxin diaolong zhu 2.178).

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shang combine in harmony, their sensuous form is never exhausted. Moth-like eyebrows are not the same in appearance, but they all stir the soul, and fragrant plants do not share the same essence, yet all delight the heart. Is it not so? As for the various worthies of the world, each is mired in his own obsessions. Everyone who discusses the sweet must hate the sour, or because he admires what is crimson must reject what is white. Is that what is called “complete understanding and broad tolerance,” or “admiring the far and loving universally”?58 As for judgments of Liu Zhen and Wang Can, or the evaluation of Pan Yue and Lu Ji, people establish their own contrary views—how much more so in the case of writers more different from one another than these!

夫楚謠漢風，既非一骨。魏制晉造，固亦二体。譬猶藍朱成 彩，雜錯之變無窮。宮商為音，靡曼之態不極。故蛾眉詎同 貌而俱動于魄。芳草寧共氣而皆悅於魂。不其然歟？至于世 之諸賢，各滯所迷。莫不論甘而忌辛，好丹而非素。豈所謂 通方廣恕，好遠兼愛者哉。及公幹，仲宣之論，家有曲直。 安仁，士衡之評，人立矯抗。況復殊于此者乎？ This section argues for a catholic appreciation of literary works. In the context of fifth-century literary debates, Jiang advocates an inclusive admiration for both the plainer “Old Poems” style and more ornate recent styles. Jiang concludes by suggesting that one does not need to pick between the Jian’an era poets Liu and Wang, or the Western Jin poets Pan and Lu (either between the two pairs, or within each pair). Jiang demonstrates this inclusiveness by imitating each of these four poets in his series. The next section addresses the formation of conventional wisdom: Moreover, it is the common nature of people to value what is far and slight what is near, and it is the permanent failing of the vulgar to rely too much on their ears but too little on their own eyes.59 For this reason [the 58

The context leads us to expect a group of familiar phrases or clichés here, yet tongfang guangshu 通方廣恕 is not a common phrasing at all. The Wen xuan jizhu quotes the commentary of Lu Shanjing 陸善經 (a High Tang scholar known for his commentary to the Mengzi) here: “This says that one who becomes mired in one obsession cannot be a gentleman who takes a comprehensive view of things. Master Jiang considers himself allcapable, and so expresses his thoughts by means of these poems” 言偏滯者則非通方

之士。江生自以兼能故託此以見意. 59

Cf. the modern idiom “better to see with your eyes than hear with your ears” 耳聞不如 目見.

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music master of] Handan attributed his songs to Li Qi,60 and Zhong Hui falsely attributed to himself a disquisition by Ruan Ji:61 such are the results of this failing.

又貴遠賤近，人之常情，重耳輕目，俗之恒蔽。是以邯鄲托 曲于李奇，士季假論于嗣宗，此其效也。 Jiang objects to the tendency to rely on hearsay and attribution rather than examining sources directly. Then he goes on to criticize the music master of Handan, whose songs attributed to Li Qi were really his own forgeries; and Zhong Hui, who plagiarized an essay by Ruan Ji. Jiang Yan is clearly distinguishing all these kinds of improper writing techniques from his own explicit practice of imitation.62 This argument may seem at odds with his project of imitating past writers, rather than writing on original topics. Poetic imitation, as practiced by Jiang, is a kind of line-by-line or even word-by-word engagement with earlier texts. From a scholarly point of view, he is articulating a principle that justifies his mode of composition. His imitation poems are an experimental form of criticism based on direct evidence: a kind of fifth-century predecessor to Practical Criticism. Finally Jiang combines the two principles articulated above, inclusiveness and direct engagement with sources, in explaining the scope of his series of imitations: Pentasyllabic verse did not arise in remote antiquity, but already from the west of the Pass [Han dynasty] to the city of Ye [Wei dynasty], it was no 60

61

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This story is in Huainan zi, 19.11b. “Once the music-master of Handan put forth new songs, and attributed them to Li Qi, so people rushed to study them. Later they learned it was not true, so they all abandoned the songs. These were people who never appreciated music.”

邯鄲師有出新曲者，託之李奇，諸人皆爭學之，後知其非也，而皆棄其 曲．此未始知音者也. Li Qi was a mythical musician of antiquity.

The Yulin (“Forest of Stories”), quoted by Lu Shanjing in Wen xuan jizhu, was compiled by Pei Qi 裴啟 of the Eastern Jin. Though this book has been lost, this anecdote is quoted in the Xu tan zhu 續談助 by Chao Zaizhi 晁載之 (fl. 1111): “Zhong Shiji [= Zhong Hui 鍾會] once said to somebody, ‘When I was young, I told people a book [letter?] of mine was written by Ruan Bubing [Ji], and they all said the words were rich in significance. Once they knew it was not actually mine, they never talked about it again.’” See Chao Zaizhi, Xu tan zhu, 4.85. This line supports Wang Yao’s argument that authors of Wei and Jin did not engage in blatant acts of forgery, but rather in open imitation of ancient models. See Wang Yao, “Nigu yu zuowei.”

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longer all alike. By the reigns north of the Yellow River [Western Jin] and south of the Yangzi [Eastern Jin], styles were highly varied.63 So it is just like distinguishing black from yellow or warp from weft, like discriminating gold versus jade or rising and falling. I find that the best solution consists in joining their fine qualities, and uniting their strong points. Now I have written thirty poems to imitate the forms of poetry. Although they do not suffice to rank and evaluate the source and current, I hope they will at least not betray your appreciation.

然五言之興，諒非夐古，但關西鄴下，既已罕同，河外江 南，頗為異法。故玄黃經緯之辨，金碧沉浮之殊，僕以為亦 合其美並善而已。今作三十首詩斅 64其文體。雖不足品藻淵 流，庶亦無乖商榷云爾。 Jiang Yan’s premise here that pentasyllabic verse originates in the styles of Han and Wei is noteworthy. Zhi Yu, by contrast, had attempted to trace the origins of pentasyllabic verse to the Shijing.65 As we will see in the following chapters, Jiang Yan’s choice of imitations comprises a distinctive reconstruction of the development of pentasyllabic verse. Jiang Yan’s argument on behalf of literary imitation is focused on its role as literary criticism. The logic revolves around the opposition of multiplicity and unity. In every example, Jiang upholds the virtue of multiplicity: a variety of styles, colors, sounds, and voices in opposition to a stubborn fixation on any single point of view. Jiang presents his own approach as a rebuttal to conventional wisdom and received opinion. Superficial critics become devoted to individual styles and modes of thinking, but “complete understanding and broad tolerance” ought to lead them to accept the widest possible variety of individual alternatives. Rather than advocating an unrestrained style, Jiang is merely advocating freedom in the selection of models to imitate. Though Jiang presents his approach to literature primarily from the perspective of reception, there are also implications for a creative theory of literature. His survey of the variety of past styles implicitly suggests the individuality of the present as well. The fact of historical change surely implies that the situation of the present must be different as well. Jiang concludes: “So it is just like 63

64 65

These geographic distinctions are actually temporal: “west of Hangu Pass” indicates the Western Han, “south of Ye” indicates Wei, “beyond the Yellow River” means up to the Western Jin, and “south of the Yangzi” Eastern Jin and after. Wen xuan jizhu text has 斅 instead of 效. Chen Shunzhi points this out in Wei Jin Nanbeichao shixue, 81. For the text of Zhi Yu’s discussion, see Deng Guoguang, Zhi Yu yanjiu, 185.

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distinguishing black from yellow or warp from weft, like discriminating gold versus jade or rising and falling.” Here he explains the purpose of distinguishing the endless multiplicity of the literature of the past: to combine many different virtues of the past into a single unity in the present. Jiang Yan argues that poetry ought to admit as many influences as possible in order better to unite their diverse excellences. The goal is not so much to distinguish the contribution of the individual author as to maximize the total effect. Jiang presents this argument in abstract terms, but we can interpret it in a more personal fashion as well. Jiang is arguing for a kind of sympathetic inclusiveness in literary criticism, and for a literature of sociality, universality, and imitation, over a literature of individuality, originality, and isolation. The poems of the “Diverse Forms” illustrate the principle in their thorough imitation of so many different styles. Jiang Yan’s recognition that styles of the past are different, yet equally worthy of study, is generally compatible with Liu Xie’s doctrine of tongbian, except that Jiang is more sympathetic to recent verse. A concrete example from the series will display some of these values in practice. Here is Jiang’s imitation of Western Jin poet Zhang Hua 張華 (232–300):66 Diverse Forms #10 Minister of Works Zhang Hua: Parting’s Passion 張司空華：離情

5

10

秋月照簾櫳 懸光入丹墀 佳人撫鳴琴 清夜守空帷 蘭逕少行迹 玉臺生網絲 庭樹發紅彩 閨草含碧滋 延佇整綾綺 萬里贈所思 66

67

The autumn moon shines on the window shades,67 A pendulous gleam comes upon the vermilion steps. The fair one strokes her sounding zither, All the clear night guarding the empty curtain. Footsteps are scarce on thoroughwort paths, Over the jade terrace grow silky webs. Red colors appear on the trees of the courtyard, The palace grasses bear an emerald luster. Standing in wait she prepares her twills and damasks, To give the one she longs for, ten thousand leagues away.

Texts of the “Poems in Diverse Forms”: Wen xuan 31.1452–80; Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 31.10b–41b; Wen xuan jizhu 61.664–62.783 (incomplete); Uchida and Ami, Monzen, 2: 713– 63; von Zach, Die chinesische Anthologie, 1: 582–604; Jiang Wentong wenji 4.3b–14a; Jiang Wentong ji 4.14a–22a; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 4.136–65; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 92–130; Marney, Chiang Yen, 74–130. I follow the Wuchen variant 櫳 for籠.

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願垂湛露惠 信我皎日期

“I wish you would grant me a favor generous as drenching dew: Trust in my pledge by the shining sun.”68

Jiang’s imitations of later poets tend to grow dense and convoluted, but here he is imitating the relatively simple style of Zhang Hua. Li Shan identifies a couplet from Zhang’s own “Love Poems” 情詩 as a source for the first couplet in Jiang’s imitation: “A refreshing breeze stirs the bed canopy, / The moon of dawn illuminates the secluded chamber” 清風動帷簾，晨月燭幽房.69 Jiang Yan’s title “Parting’s Passion” 離情 does suggest that of Zhang’s own “Love Poems” 情詩, and Jiang’s imitation evokes the poems exchanged by Li Ling and Su Wu. So we can identify quite clearly at least the genre of the original poems, which is one important function of the “Diverse Poems” as a whole. The poem describes a palace lady separated from her lover, preparing a gift of precious silks for him. Like those silks, the poem is a token of her esteem, something constructed in private that takes on a significance they both share. Again we have an ekphrasis, a physical work of art that is evoked in the poem and that represents the work of poetry as well. Here the silks are actually borrowed from another poem, though: the eighteenth poem from the “Nineteen Old Poems.” That entire poem is dedicated to a damask blanket that a woman is weaving for her separated lover, so that it becomes an intertext of Jiang’s imitation. Just as the silk is a physical token of the lovers’ commitment, the allusion is a marker of the place of this poem in the tradition of pentasyllabic verse. The poem can be read on several different levels. It is first of all a faithful imitation of Zhang Hua’s style, so far as we can tell. That style as represented here is rather like Jiang Yan’s own, incidentally, but some details do help to distinguish it. In particular, the references to “Old Poems” make the poem sound somewhat old-fashioned, less ornately wrought than a typical fifth-century poem. Yet these specific references are also part of Jiang’s own artistry, as his imitation itself comments on the classic “Old Poem #18” and lends it greater authority through concluding references to the Book of Songs. Though nominally imitating Zhang Hua’s style, Jiang is doing several other things in his poem as well, weaving different strands of past poetry into a “Parting’s Passion”

68

69

The final couplet employs two allusions to the Shijing: “You say I am not faithful, / but I am as faithful as the bright sun” 謂予不信，有如皦日 (Mao shi 73/3), and “Drenched deep in dew, / If not the sun what will dry it?” 湛湛露斯，匪陽不晞 (Mao shi 174/1). Lu Qinli, Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi (hereafter “Lu Qinli”), 619.

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that bemoans his isolation. Continuity with the poetic past becomes the basis for a distinctive poem. Jiang Yan is slightly disingenuous in his preface when he suggests that he has imitated poems from an objective point of view. In reality, there is a moderate but distinct tendency for his choice of models to favor melancholy poems of parting, inflected with allusions to the Book of Songs and especially Chuci.70 For Jiang, though, this style is itself representative of the Six Dynasties, and it is hard to argue with him. His works show the personal dimension of some of the more abstract formulations discussed above. Trying to summon the voices of dead poets as a kind of literary continuity can be a very melancholy matter; but to recognize your own feelings as simply one thread of a much larger brocade, all of it forming a pledge of fidelity whose token is the persistence of art, allows poetry to convey that solitary feeling in terms that are colored by the transformations of wen across centuries. 70

See Takahashi, “Kō En no bungaku.”

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Chapter 2

The Reciprocal Origins of Pentasyllabic Verse and of Imitation Poetry Blue dye derives from the indigo plant but is bluer than the plant itself; ice is formed by water but is colder than water itself. Xunzi1

⸪ The fact that most Six Dynasties ni poems were composed in pentasyllabic meter reflects a profound relationship between imitation poems and the origins of pentasyllabic verse. Elite pentasyllabic verse originated as kind of refined or formalized version of more fluid songs; imitations of pentasyllabic verse were in turn more refined or standardized versions of earlier poems. Some of the earliest surviving examples of pentasyllabic verse originated as adaptations of other poems, or recastings of songs in a more permanent written form. Indeed, one reason so few examples of pentasyllabic verse survive from this early period is that the form began as a kind of song that was transmitted orally and not written down. Later, some of these poems were identified as yuefu 樂府, “Music Bureau” songs, but Han texts like Lady Ban’s fan poem were classified both as shi and yuefu.2 Conversely, imitation poems were often a kind of refinement or crystallization of preexisting songs or poems. The earliest examples of each form are not necessarily even distinguished, but “original poems,” “imitation poems,” and “songs” are overlapping categories. An examination of imitation poetry is itself a route to understanding the early development of pentasyllabic verse. From the third century on, however, “imitation poems” began to sharpen the distinctions among these categories. Yuefu is in one sense the opposite extreme on the spectrum of authorial intent from ni poetry: while yuefu often employs a generalized and typecast narrator, such as an abandoned woman or 1 2

Quoted from Xunzi jijie 1.1, but similar proverbs are preserved in other early texts. The form of the proverb in Xunzi is a refinement and perfection of previously transmitted sayings. This distinction has never been sorted out properly, though. The title of the great Song compilation of yuefu, “Yuefu shiji,” itself fails to distinguish yuefu and shi. On the overall development of yuefu, see Masuda, Gafu no rekishiteki kenkyū.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004282452_004

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a soldier, imitation poems can actually have two author/speakers, the original poet and the one imitated. If imitation poetry exhibits the double voice of poetry, yuefu is the zero voice, the author or speaker rarely identified. Of course, in practice, simply looking at the texts of the poems without their titles, these distinctions are not always so clear, but the titles and genres suggest divergent reading practices.3 Already by the third century with Fu Xuan, discussed in this chapter, yuefu was becoming a distinct genre mostly separate from that of imitation poetry, as is suggested by Jiang Yan’s relatively scant production of yuefu.4 This chapter compares two of the earliest extant pentasyllabic poems with some of the earliest imitation poems. Some of these Han poems likely date to the very end of the Han dynasty, the Jian’an period (196–220), only half a century before the first imitations in the Western Jin (265–317).5 The first imitation poems were imitations of Han poetry, not just because the earliest examples of pentasyllabic verse dated to the Han, but also because the selfdefinition of imitation poetry arose in response to the dynamics of Han pentasyllabic verse. Early pentasyllabic poems attributed to the Han relied on the adaptation and rewriting of earlier work, but also employed a rhetoric of imitation, borrowing the voices of earlier poets to present new laments. Although standard chronology places the earliest pentasyllabic poems several centuries earlier than the earliest imitation poems, to a large extent these source poems were themselves fundamentally imitative, and the development of imitation poems proper was a new realization of tendencies already inherent in early pentasyllabic verse. While examining the pentasyllabic verse of the Han, whose dating and origins are often unclear, it is important to remember that we also have many works of Han poetry that can be confidently attributed to historical authors. Some of these poems will indeed be mentioned in the discussion to follow, but they are not central to this story because they were written in other meters

3

As well as performance practices; this issue is not particularly germane to the interpretation and study of imitation poems, but Charles Egan’s proposal that various early yuefu texts are often simply performance variants is plausible. See Egan, “Reconsidering the Role of Folk Songs in Pre-T’ang Yüeh-Fu Development.” 4 Jiang Yan has a few pieces of court music, which are a separate matter altogether, and one song in the Yuefu shiji, “Picking Water Caltrops” 采菱曲 (Yuefu shiji 51.740). 5 Owen’s The Making of Early Classical Chinese Poetry is illuminating on this issue. He emphasizes the role of later anthologies, from the Wen xuan to the Yuefu shiji, in establishing poetic canons and chronologies.

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(whether fu, tetrasyllabic verse, or various song forms).6 For instance, while the transmission of Lady Ban’s fan poem is obscure, other facts of her life and examples of her writing are well known; while many early poems and imitations have been lost, we have a good deal of solid historical information about Fu Xuan and his motivations. This chapter aims to clarify the origins of both pentasyllabic verse and its early imitations by placing some of the more enigmatic early pentasyllabic poems in the context of parallel texts whose origins are better understood. This chapter first analyzes two poems attributed to Lady Ban and her nephew Ban Gu, which have been identified as some of the earliest examples of pentasyllabic verse. It is, however, nearly impossible to disentangle the composite history of these poems, whether in their relation to contemporary song or to other written poems. By contrast, Fu Xuan, who played a central role in establishing the yuefu tradition, also wrote what is perhaps the earliest extant imitation poem. His work offers suggestions of the principles behind later imitations. The coda of this chapter suggests how Fu Xuan’s practice of imitation might have influenced Jiang Yan’s. Considering the legacy of Fu Xuan’s work, we perceive that imitation was one of the techniques of literary craftsmanship that shaped the enduring norms and structures of pentasyllabic verse. Two Poems of the Ban Family The origins of pentasyllabic verse are controversial, since the dating and authorship of many key early poems have long been questioned.7 This chapter engages with this scholarship, since the traditional interpretations and controversies have themselves become a fact of Chinese literary history. At the same time, examining these questions of origin in correspondence with the rise of imitation poetry, the pertinence of dating diminishes. Some of the earliest reliable examples are popular songs and ditties, but attributions to named authors of the Han dynasty are suspect. During the Han dynasty both pentasyllabic and heptasyllabic poetry were held in low esteem at court because they lacked the classical pedigree of tetrasyllabic verse. When pentasyllabic verse became established as a major form of court poetry in the Jian’an period, its stock of imagery and diction were still closely related to the traditions of popular song. 6 7

For numerous examples of authentic Han poetry, see Stumpfeldt, Einundachtzig Han-Gedichte. The classic study in a Western language is Jean-Pierre Diény, Aux Origines de la poésie classique en Chine: Étude sur la poésie lyrique à l’époque des Han.

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When Jiang Yan wrote his thirty imitations recapitulating the history of pentasyllabic verse up to his own time, he selected the “Old Poems” and poems attributed to Li Ling and Favored Beauty Ban as the first important works in pentasyllabic form, and all of these bear close ties to earlier songs and poems. In contrast, the imitations of Han poetry written between the third and sixth centuries are self-aware responses to these poems. Thus, “imitation poems,” so-titled, are original artifacts of known authors, while the poems imitated, being anonymous copies of a lost tradition, are far more imitative. An important example of Han poetry (or pseudo-Han poetry) is the “Song of Resentment” 怨歌行 attributed to Ban Jieyu 班婕妤 (Jieyu is an official concubine title meaning “Favorite Beauty”). Ban Jieyu, at one time the favorite concubine of Emperor Cheng 成帝 (r. 32–6 bce) of the Former Han, was later replaced in the emperor’s affections by Zhao Feiyan 趙飛燕 and her sister. She wrote a “Lament for Myself” 自悼賦 on her abandonment, in which she tells of how she was supplanted in the affections of the emperor and exiled to a peripheral area of the women’s quarters in the palace.8 The one pentasyllabic poem attributed to her, the “Song of Resentment,” relates the same story through the allegory of a discarded fan. Though it was once awarded the ultimate laurel of distinction, inclusion in the Wen xuan, modern scholars now question whether the poem was written by Lady Ban at all:9

5

新裂齊紈素 皎潔如霜雪 裁為合歡扇 團團似明月 出入君懷袖 動搖微風發 常恐秋節至 涼飈奪炎熱 棄捐篋笥中 8 9

10

Newly cut white satin from Qi, Brilliantly pure as frost and snow. Trimmed to make a fan of shared pleasure, Its round shape recalls the bright moon. Passing in and out of the lord’s embrace, When it is stirred a breeze arises. But always you fear that the autumn will arrive, And cool winds snatch away the fiery heat:10 Discarded in a bamboo chest,

See her biography in Han shu 67B.3983–88. There is a translation in Burton Watson, Courtier and Commoner in Ancient China, 261–65. Wen xuan 27.1280; Lu Qinli 116–17. Previous translations include: Knechtges, “The Poetry of an Imperial Concubine: The Favorite Beauty Ban,” 131; Diény, “Les sept Tristesses (Qi ai),” T’oung Pao 65.1 (1979): 59; Owen, The Making of Early Chinese Classical Poetry, 223; Erwin von Zach, Die chinesische Anthologie: Übersetzungen aus dem Wen hsüan von Erwin von Zach, 1: 478. See also Huang Yanli, “Chengdi Ban Jieyu” 成帝班倢伃, in Handai funü wenxue wujia yanjiu, 36–54. 風 amneded to 飈 as in Wuchen text.

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恩情中道絕

Affection severed halfway.

Li Shan introduces the poem with the following explanation of its context: The Register of Songs11 says: “The ‘Song of Resentment’ is an old song lyric.” So this tune existed long before, but Favorite Beauty Ban imitated (ni) it.12 Ban was chosen to join the Rear Palace soon after Emperor Cheng reached the throne. At first she was a junior maid, then suddenly she came upon great favor, becoming a Favorite Beauty, and living in the Lodge of Tiered Construction. Later Zhao Feiyan gained extraordinary favor, while Jieyu lost hers, and was rarely admitted to audience again. When Emperor Cheng passed away, Jieyu stayed at his funerary park until her death.

歌錄曰：怨歌行，古辭。然言古者有此曲，而班婕妤擬之。 婕妤，帝初即位，選入後宮。始為少使，俄而大幸，為婕 妤，居增成舍。後趙飛燕寵盛，婕妤失寵，希復進見。成帝 崩，婕妤充園陵，薨。 Based on the biographical narrative given here (which follows her Han shu biography), the “Song of Resentment” seems to be an earnest confessional piece, centering around the figure of the discarded fan. It is a faithful representation of a key moment in the life of an imperial concubine; her rejection by the emperor and jealousy of her successor. However, later critics have doubted the attribution to Ban Jieyu.13 Liu Xie was already skeptical, questioning the attribution on the basis that few pentasyllabic poems survive from this period:14 The catalogue of Emperor Cheng lists over three hundred poems, court compositions, and poems gathered from the various states, so it was a 11

12 13 14

This was a specific catalogue that is mentioned in the Sui shu “Jingji zhi” 經籍志 as surviving in ten juan, but in the two imperial catalogues of the Tang is reduced to eight juan. See Sui shu 35.1085; Jiu Tang shu 47.2080; and Xin Tang shu 60.1622. In the Tang catalogues it is identified as Ge lu ji 歌錄集. This comment belongs to Li Shan himself. The remainder of the preface is actually a quotation from the Han shu, and is identified as such in the Wuchen text. For a survey of previous scholarship on the poem, see Knechtges, “The Poetry of an Imperial Concubine,” 132–36. In the sixth chapter “Ming shi” 明詩, which describes the shi lyric and its history. See Wenxin diaolong zhu, 6.66.

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comprehensive collection. But among the writings that remain of these poets, one does not see any pentasyllabic verse, so the poems of Li Ling and Ban Jieyu have been suspected by later ages.

至成帝品錄，三百餘篇，朝章國采，亦云周備；而辭人遺 翰，莫見五言，所以李陵班婕妤見疑於後代也。 Modern scholars have found a number of additional reasons for doubting the attribution.15 It is worth noting that Liu Xie’s conclusion is agnostic, suggesting that even in the fifth century there was not sufficient evidence to decide. On the other hand, even if we take the Wen xuan preface at face value, the poem would not then be a direct representation of Ban’s experience, but an adaptation of the lyrics to a current popular song. We have little information about the Register of Songs or its veracity, but its citation by Li Shan attests to its possible value. This shows that other “Songs of Resentment” might have existed before the one attributed to Ban Jieyu. That possibility reminds us that the poem could have been composed by Ban Jieyu and still not be a direct expression of her own feelings, but rather an ingenious adaptation of a pre-existing song. In other words, we can study the poem from a different angle, orthogonal to the question of authenticity, by recognizing the extent to which the “Song of Resentment” is itself a kind of imitation, as Li Shan posited. This hypothesis fits very well with Li Shan’s own interpretive model, tracing back sources and quotations to their originals. Even what seems to be the earliest poem in a tradition—an unmediated act of creation—philology reveals as a composite, an imitative work, even an “imitation poem” avant la lettre. We could begin by showing how the “Song of Resentment” has close intertextual connections with authentic Han poems. This may not affect our estimate of the dating of the poem, but it does help to understand the processes of adaptation behind it. The “Lament for Myself,” preserved in the Han shu, is the single work attributed indisputably to Ban Jieyu. In this piece Ban also laments her mistreatment and complains about the machinations of her rivals, Zhao

15

E.g., Hans Frankel, based on the history of round fans. See his review of Burton Watson, Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry: From Earliest Times to the Thirteenth Century, 294. Knechtges disputes Frankel’s argument by identifying evidence that round fans did exist in the Eastern Han. See “The Poetry of an Imperial Concubine,” 136. Lu Qinli dates the poem to the Wei dynasty. See “Han shi bielu,” 282–84.

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Feiyan and her sister. A few lines lamenting her isolation in empty chambers may have influenced the “Song of Resentment”:16

廣室陰兮幽以清 The broad chamber is in shadow—dark and chill. 房櫳虛兮風泠泠 The rooms are empty—the wind blows shrill. 感帷裳兮發紅羅 It stirs the curtains and robes—lifts the scarlet gauze, 紛綷縩兮紈素聲 Rustling and sighing—with plain satin’s sough. As in the “Song of Resentment,” this passage describes the action of breezes on silk in the palace. Of course the details of the action described are different, but one compound is shared: wan su 紈素, a specialized term for silk that has its earliest textual occurrence in the “Lament for Myself,” yet is also used in the “Song of Resentment.”17 Moreover, the “Song of Resentment” describes essentially the same event, though in an entirely different manner appropriate to the different form. Though relatively few examples of pentasyllabic poetry survive from the Han, evidence suggests that many other pentasyllabic poems were written; we possess only traces of that poetic culture. There are records, such as the Register of Songs, suggesting other versions of Han poems were once available. If the “Song of Resentment” is one instance of a much larger body of poetry composed around the same time (whether in the Former or Later Han or even in the Wei), then it becomes just one stage in a series of imitations. This is not to say that there was no individual moment of inspiration that produced the poem we have now, just that we do not have enough evidence to isolate the context of that insight, or to determine whether the “Song of Resentment” was a careful polishing of a cruder fan-poem, the ingenious reworking of an actual plaint by Ban Jieyu to suit the lyric form, or something altogether different. Under these circumstances we might not be able to identify a single date for the “Song of Resentment,” even with perfect information about its composition, since that composition was likely a process involving multiple authors and multiple earlier renditions. 16 17

Han shu 97B.3987; the fu is translated in its entirety by David Knechtges in “The Poetry of an Imperial Concubine,” 137–43. David Knechtges points out (“The Poetry of an Imperial Concubine,” 142) that the “Lament for Myself” is the locus classicus of several phrases that became commonplace in palacestyle verse. It may have encouraged the use of wan su in later poetry in a similar fashion. There is a continuity between an “original” and its “imitations” that makes it impossible to distinguish the two solely by linguistic means.

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The “Song of Resentment” is not an anomalous case; this becomes clear when we consider another pentasyllabic Han poem, the “Historical Poem” 詠 史詩 attributed to the great historian Ban Gu 班固 (32–92). Though its putative author was the nephew of Ban Jieyu, the reception of this poem has been entirely different from that of the “Song on Resentment.” It seems to have garnered little notice or appreciation during the Six Dynasties, and we should consider its authenticity with at least the same degree of skepticism that is commonly directed at Ban Jieyu’s “Song of Resentment.” Both are exceptionally early examples of pentasyllabic verse, with no textual evidence till centuries after the Han. It is equally easy to imagine how either one might have been attributed to famous members of the Ban family during the late Eastern Han or after. Unlike the “Song of Resentment,” the “Historical Poem” was not selected for inclusion in the Wen xuan. The earliest text of the poem is in Li Shan’s early Tang commentary, where it is identified by the title “Ban Gu song-verse” 班固 歌詩.18 The phrase “song-verse” does not occur elsewhere in the Wen xuan or Li Shan’s commentary to it, suggesting that Li Shan may have viewed the “Historical Poem” with some suspicion, or at least wanted to distinguish it from other shi poems. The term might also be translated “singable verse,” and the same compound can mean “to sing a poem,” with ge taken as a verb. “Songverse” is used to describe, among other things, the Chu songs composed by major historical figures in the Han.19 It is also a category of poems listed in the “Yi wen zhi” of the Han shu. The term was used in the Han to designate what in the Northern and Southern Dynasties became known as anonymous yuefu 樂 府 or Music Bureau poetry. The Music Bureau was founded as early as the Qin dynasty, though its role was transformed and expanded by Emperor Wu of the Former Han.20 From this period on, the Music Bureau arranged court music, and also collected popular songs and revised them for court use.21 As a poetic genre, yuefu can refer either to the songs collected or arranged by the Music 18

19 20 21

Wen xuan 36.1648; Lu Qinli 170. It is also preserved in the 8th-century commentary of Sima Zhen 司馬貞 (see Shi ji 105.2795–96, n. 4), where it is identified merely as a Ban Gu poem (班固詩). The absence of a proper title in either case is striking, especially given Li Shan’s care in identifying sources, and suggests the possibility that the title is in fact “Ban Gu poem,” author unknown. Below I follow this Shi ji text. For example, Liu Bang’s “Da feng ge” 大風歌; see Shi ji 8.389. See Diény, Aux Origines, 81–100, and Wilhelm, “The Bureau of Music of Western Han.” Egan questions the relevance of folk song to yuefu in his article “Reconsidering the Role of Folk Songs in Pre-T’ang Yüeh-Fu Development.” For our purposes we may admit his objection and leave open the question of what audience these songs were originally popular for.

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Bureau itself, or to the literati poems imitating these songs or written to the same tunes (so an yuefu poem is not necessarily associated directly with the historical Music Bureau). Both the “Song of Resentment” and “Historical Poem” were treated as yuefu poems by some later scholars. Some of the curious features of the early poems can be attributed to the musical context of these early works. They may belong, properly speaking, to a musical culture in which lyrics are subsidiary to melody, and must be revised as necessary. Though the distinction between yuefu and shi itself is sometimes artificial, yuefu is perhaps best seen as one genre of shi poetry, regularly overlapping with other genres. This classification is made in the Wen xuan, where it forms a subcategory of shi. When yuefu is isolated from shi, it typically relates to the special status of yuefu songs in bibliographic classification. Ban Gu’s “Historical Poem” is often regarded as a literati shi poem and the progenitor of the historical poem genre, not yuefu. In fact it bears a close relation to Han yuefu, as well as a generic resemblance to the “Poem of Resentment” attributed to Ban Gu’s aunt. The “Historical Poem” is based on the story of a young woman named Tiying 緹縈, who saved her father from a death sentence in 167 bce.22 Her father was the doctor Chunyu Yi 淳于意, director of the imperial granary. According to the Shi ji, he was slandered by patients who had not recovered fully from their illnesses. Having only daughters, her father lamented that he had no sons to come to his aid. Tiying then submitted an impassioned petition on his behalf, which convinced the emperor to pardon him. The poem retells this story: Historical Poem Ban Gu

5

三王德彌博 惟後用肉刑 太蒼令有罪 就遞長安城 自恨身無子 困急獨煢煢 小女痛父言 死者不可生 上書詣闕下

22

The virtue of the three kings was all-encompassing, Only later was corporal punishment imposed. The chief of the granary was found guilty, And so he was brought to the walls of Chang’an. He regretted that he had no sons, And so faced desperate trouble all alone. His youngest daughter was wounded by her father’s words, Since those who must die cannot be made to live. She sent a petition up to the palace gate,

The episode is recounted in Shi ji 105.2795 and Han shu 23.1097–98.

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15

思古歌雞鳴 憂心摧折裂 晨風發激聲 聖漢孝文帝 惻然感至情 百男何憒憒 不如一緹縈

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And thought of the ancient song, “Cockcrow.”23 Her worried heart was rent and torn, The falcon sent forth its shrill sound. Emperor Xiaowen of the mighty Han Was moved by her complete sincerity. A hundred sons are just worry and trouble, Not worth a single Tiying!

Donald Holzman, in his careful study of the earliest dated pentasyllabic verse, takes this poem to be an authentic composition by Ban Gu.24 There is already a strong basis for this view in two remarks from the Shipin related to Ban Gu’s poetry. Zhong Rong mentions Ban Gu’s historical poems in the Shipin introduction: “In the two hundred years of the Eastern Capital (Later Han), there were only Ban Gu’s historical poems” 東京二百載中，惟有班固詠史,25 as well as Ban Gu’s entry (placed in the low rank of the Shipin): “Mengjian [Ban Gu’s sobriquet] had overflowing talent, and he was experienced as a historian. Reading his historical poems, their words are full of lament” 孟堅才流，而 老於掌故。觀其詠史，有感歎之詞.26 This remark does not make clear which historical poem or poems Zhong Rong is referring to, so it is not conclusive. One clue to the origin of the “Historical Poem” lies in the tenth line, which mentions the “ancient song ‘Cockcrow.’” This is probably a yuefu piece preserved in the Song shu “Treatise on Music.”27 The song’s overall meaning is hard to discern, but in the opening lines cockcrow and dogs’ barking are used as conventional indications of an age of order and peace:

雞鳴高樹巔 狗吠深宮中 蕩子何所之 天下方太平 23 24

25 26 27

The rooster crows high in the tree tops, Dogs bark deep in the palace. Where are you going, wanderer? The realm is now at peace.

The Wen xuan has a striking variant here, 闕下 for 思古, which must be a copying error, the two characters carried over from the previous line. Donald Holzman, “Les premiers Vers pentasyllabiques datés dans las poésie chinoise,” 88–92. Holzman finds that the crude construction of the poem affirms its authenticity, since the art of pentasyllabic poetry was still at a primitive stage. Here Holzman is following Suzuki Torao, “Gogen shi hassei no jiki ni kansuru gimon,” 40. Zhong Rong Shipin jianzheng gao 54–55. Zhong Rong Shipin jianzheng gao 319. See Song shu 21.606–7 and Han Wei yuefu feng jian, 1.5a–5b; Diény, Aux Origines, 108–14.

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If “Cockcrow” is the song cited in the “Historical Poem” as “ancient,” it would predate the “Historical Poem” considerably. Xu Zhongshu 徐仲舒 argues that the “Historical Poem” must be much later than Ban Gu, since “Cockcrow” probably dates to the late Eastern Han, based on a passage about Liu princes later in the poem.28 But as Diény and other scholars have pointed out, “Cockcrow” consists of three sections, not obviously related in content, that were perhaps compiled for musical performance. The opening passage of “Cockcrow” could be much older than the extant poem. If we understand the “Historical Poem” as an early yuefu song, which is after all what the early sources describe it as, it might have become associated with Ban Gu long after its original composition; after all, who better than the famous historian to add credibility to a popular song about a historical incident?29 Yoshikawa Kōjirō, in his study of the poem, does not question the attribution to Ban Gu, but does make an interesting observation concerning some fragments of other pentasyllabic poems also attributed to Ban Gu.30 These fragments consist of just two couplets, one couplet, and a single line, respectively. The existence of these fragments suggests to Yoshikawa that pentasyllabic verse was much more common in the Han than we are led to believe by the paucity of extant poems. As yet another piece of evidence, Yoshikawa cites an yuefu poem by Fu Xuan 傅玄 (217–278) on Qiu Hu’s 秋胡 wife, entitled “Poem Matching Mr. Ban’s” 和班氏詩.31 The existence of this poem suggests that there was once a Ban Gu poem on Qiu Hu as well. However, it seems possible that these were not historical poems written by Ban Gu himself, but rather a 28

29

30 31

Xu Zhongshu, “Wuyan shi fasheng shiqi de taolun.” Holzman disputes this claim (p. 91) by arguing that the caesura in the tenth line of “Historical Poem” should precede “song,” translating “Thinking of antiquity, I sing ‘Cockcrow.’” But this grammatical parsing does not really affect the sense of the line, which in either interpretation associates “Cockcrow” and antiquity. Incidentally, Holzman suggests that the poem’s rhymes support its Eastern Han dating, citing the standard work on Han rhymes by Luo Changpei and Zhou Zumo, Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao yunbu yanbian yanjiu, 194. But the rhyme evidence sheds no light on the problem, since, as Zhou Zumo observes elsewhere, the Geng 耕 rhyme group of the Han, like the Yang 陽 group, does not change between Han and the Wei, Jin, and Liu-Song, continuing to include the members of the Guangyun Geng 耕, Geng 庚, Qing 清, and Qing 青 rhymes throughout (Zhou Zumo, “Wei Jin Song shiqi shiwen yunbu de yanbian,” 132). Moreover, the practice of writing poems to match the rhymes of earlier ones, which became so common in the Song and afterwards, could easily have occurred in earlier periods as well, which casts some doubt on any attempt to date by rhyming. “Han Ko no eishishi ni tsuite” 班固の詠史詩について, in Yoshikawa Kōjirō zenshū 6: 256–65. For the other fragments, see Lu Qinli 170–71. See Yutai xinyong jianzhu 2.78–79; Lu Qinli 556. For more on Fu Xuan, see below.

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genre of historical songs loosely attributed to Ban Gu, song-poems inspired by Ban Gu’s history of the Former Han. Like the Han yuefu, these historical poems may have developed from popular songs. For instance, the topos of the preferability of daughters with which the “Historical Poem” concludes can be found in a popular song said to date to the Qin:32

生男慎勿舉 生女哺用脯 不見長城下 尸骸相支拄

If you have sons, you surely won’t need to raise them, If you have daughters, you can feed them with dried meat. Don’t you see how below the Great Wall, The skeletons press one on another?

The first couplet of this song is seen also in Chen Lin 陳琳 (?–217 ce)’s “Watering Horses at a Grotto by the Great Wall” (“Yin ma chang cheng ku xing” 飲馬 長城窟行).33 This topos of the preferability of daughters is employed not only in the “Historical Poem” but in the historical accounts as well; in fact, Ban Gu’s Han shu account of Tiying quotes her father’s lament as a pentasyllabic couplet:34

生子不生男 緩急非有益

If you have children, don’t have sons: Whether early or late, they will bring no good.

The fact that the historical narrative of the event itself lapses into pentasyllabic verse reinforces the mythic quality of the story. The story was likely passed on widely in both verse and prose, through both oral transmission and writing.35 32

33 34 35

Quoted in the commentary of Shuijing zhu 3.7b; see also Lu Qinli 32. This would also appear to be one of the earliest examples of pentasyllabic verse, although again the text is not very early. The Shuijing zhu was written by Li Daoyuan 酈道元 (465?–527). See Lu Qinli 367. The quotation in the Shi ji has the same pentasyllabic first line, but the second line has seven syllables. Although Yoshikawa does not question the attribution of the poem to Ban Gu, another Japanese scholar, inspired by Yoshikawa’s article, argues that the “Historical Poem” is actually an imitation of a poem by Cao Zhi 曹植 (192–232), and hence much later than Ban Gu’s time (see Matsumoto Yukio, Gi Shin shidan no kenkyū, 80–90). The poem by Cao Zhi is actually one verse of a long yuefu poem, “Jingwei pian” 精微篇 (Cao Zhi ji jiaozhu 2.332), that narrates the stories of several famous women, including Tiying. Though Matsumoto demonstrates striking parallels between the two versions, there is no way to

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The two early pentasyllabic poems, by two highly placed members of the Ban family, are linked by yet another questionable source: a fragment of a pentasyllabic fan poem attributed to Ban Gu by the Yiwen leiju 藝文類聚, with the title “Bamboo Fan” 竹扇詩:36

供時有度量 異好有團方 來風堪避暑 靜夜致清涼

It has a fitting measure when presented, For different tastes there are both round and square. The coming breeze helps evade the summer heat, Bringing a refreshing cool on a quiet night.

This poem is included along with Ban Jieyu’s “Poem of Resentment” at the end of the Fan section of the Yiwen leiju. The fact that the poems are placed out of chronological order, when they ought to come first, suggests that the Yiwen leiju compilers, like later scholars, doubted their authenticity. Yoshikawa cites these lines but doubts whether they are authentic, due to the “modern quality of the diction.”37 Lu Qinli, likewise, does not include them in his collection of Ban Gu’s verse.38 As a matter of fact, they are exceedingly similar to these lines from a “Fu on a Bamboo Fan” also attributed to Ban Gu (a fu that is probably fragmentary and corrupt):39

供時有度量 It has a fitting measure when it is presented, 異好有圓方 For different tastes there are both round and square. 來風避暑致清涼 The coming breeze helps evade the summer heat, and brings refreshing cool. Though Lu Qinli did not accept the “Bamboo Fan” poem’s authenticity, he does cite the fu in his study of Han poetry.40 The most likely explanation of the similarity seems to be that a few lines were extracted from the fu, and reworked slightly to form two couplets of pentasyllabic verse. These fragments together suggest some important facts about early poetry. Suppose the fu fragment did not survive, but the shi poem fragment did. Then

36 37 38 39

40

determine which one is earlier, and it also remains possible that they were independently inspired by a single prose version of the story, or a broader song tradition. Yiwen leiju 69.1212. Note the AAXA rhyme scheme. Yoshikawa, “Han Ko no eishishi ni tsuite,” 264. See Lu Qinli 168–71. The earliest source is Gu wen yuan 5.9a–b. See also Fei Zhengang et al., Quan Han fu, 352; and Yan Kejun, “Quan hou Han wen,” in Quan shanggu Sandai Qin Han Sanguo Liuchao wen, 24.11a. I follow the text and punctuation of Fei Zhengang et al. Lu Qinli, “Han shi bielu,” 283.

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we would have two couplets of deft and “modern” pentasyllabic verse from Ban Gu. We would be tempted to reject them, as Yoshikawa suggests, based on their diction, even though the fu, which uses essentially the same language, seems to be authentic. Or we might accept them as a surprisingly well-crafted example of pentasyllabic verse from the early Eastern Han. Based on this example, one can imagine a fu counterpart to Ban Jieyu’s “Poem of Resentment” as well. The fact that a relation of hers later wrote a fan fu makes it seem particularly plausible that Ban Jieyu once wrote such a fu herself; a fu from the “Poem of Resentment” might have been extracted later, with suitable modifications to form proper pentasyllabic verse. This counterfactual indicates that in both cases we have a poem that seems like approximately the sort of poem that Ban Jieyu or Ban Gu would have written, had they written pentasyllabic verse, while other evidence makes it unlikely that either would have been writing pentasyllabic verse at that time. The mystery can be resolved simply, though, if we understand the poems to be imitations, broadly speaking: imitations of the writing of Ban Jieyu and Ban Gu, adapted to the pentasyllabic verse form. In both cases there were almost certainly other intermediate works that formed a bridge between their writings and the poems that survive, and other authors involved in the crafting of those poems. Speculation about the dating of early poems should properly be rephrased as speculation about the period in which these works were composed, revised, imitated, written down, edited, and circulated. This is a process in which imitation of various kinds plays a major role: reuse of themes or whole passages in composition of new songs, scholarly imitation of songs as written poems, revision of existing works by later editors, and ascription of recent compositions to historical figures, among others. Imitation thus forms the background to the origins of pentasyllabic verse. Conversely, the early history of pentasyllabic verse forms the background to the development of imitation poetry. The audiences for the Ban Jieyu and Ban Gu poems in the third or fourth centuries were presumably enjoying them in the context of these other historical sources we have examined, and could easily identify them as adaptations of familiar song forms. They might even have identified them as ni poems, although there is a certain ambiguity in ni here. Besides “imitation” as in the “imitation poems” proper of later times, ni can also mean “impersonation,” a concept with which it frequently overlaps, particularly in the form of prosopopoeia, literary impersonation of a historical figure.41 Thus, these two poems of the Ban family could be seen either as ni imitations of songs composed by Ban Jieyu and Ban Gu (as in the description 41

A topic to be examined in greater detail later in this book.

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of Ban Jieyu’s poem in the Register of Songs), or as ni impersonations of Ban Jieyu and Ban Gu (one suggestion of later scholars). In this context, when some of the key early works of pentasyllabic verse were understood as a kind of literary imitation or impersonation, the writing of new poems explicitly titled as “imitation poem” (ni shi 擬詩) was very natural. It is impossible now to identify which of these trends happened first—perhaps the Ban Jieyu poem was first identified as a ni poem after scholars had begun to write other ni poems in the third century—but they are complementary trends that illuminate the early history of pentasyllabic verse. Fu Xuan, Revisionary Poet The polymath Fu Xuan 傅玄 (217–278) seems to have been the inventor of “imitation poetry” proper.42 It is possible that there were other contemporary scholars engaged in similar projects whose works are no longer extant, of course, but as the textual record remains, Fu Xuan stands out as the first to consciously create new poems explicitly identified as ni imitations of earlier ones. Particularly significant here is that Fu Xuan’s imitations were grounded in explicit principles of literary criticism. Fu Xuan’s poetic compositions individually evince a certain lack of originality and flair, but his great contributions lay in taking the process of imitation seriously, pursuing it with full confidence and with well-articulated motives. Throughout his work, the imitations seem to exhibit a principle we could call “intensification”: expanding and developing those elements in the sources that he found correct and admirable. Fu Xuan wrote the earliest poems whose titles include the word ni 擬. We have already mentioned his poem “Written to Match Master Ban,” the yuefu piece, which uses he 和 “to match” in the title. This later came to mean “matching the rhymes of” an existing poem, but here it probably means something like “a new poem in the manner of,” perhaps equivalent to ni. Fu Xuan’s works also include a pentasyllabic poem entitled “Imitation of Ma Fang” 擬馬防, but only one couplet survives, and no poems by Ma Fang that would allow for comparison.43 However, examples of other imitations survive, as well as numerous 42

43

Though there is considerable scholarship on Fu Xuan, no scholar, to my knowledge, has managed to combine the diverse strands of his life in a meaningful whole. One study in English is Paper, “Fu Hsüan as Poet: A Man of His Season.” Another article especially helpful for my own interpretation of Fu Xuan has been Jiang Jianyun, “Lun Fu Xuan ‘yin qi yuan er guang zhi’ de wenti fengge guannian.” For the imitation see Lu Qinli 578.

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yuefu pieces which can be considered pentasyllabic imitations. Apart from his prolific composition of imitation poems, he made important contributions to the theory of genres, giving lucid expositions of the history of individual genres and situating his own compositions within them. This historical sense distinguishes Fu Xuan’s approach in an important way from the sources of his poetry. Whereas earlier pentasyllabic verse was formed by anonymous imitations and adaptations, Fu Xuan’s imitation marks a distinct break in this process. Though his individual contribution to each poetic text is sometimes small in proportion to what he borrowed or compiled from earlier works, his literary-historical contribution is substantial, as he redefines imitative clusters of poems as discrete genres. His strategies of imitation shaped later poets’ practice of imitation as well. Modern scholars have speculated variously about the motives behind imitation poetry. One motivation for poets could have been to practice their technique, whether using an earlier poem as a model or striving to show off one’s own virtuosity by matching a classic.44 Another might have been to show their appreciation for the old masters as a kind of homage. Fu Xuan identified his motivations clearly; he does not mention either the motive of practice or of homage. Instead he says clearly that his imitations are intended to correct the deficiencies of existing poems. In his own view, at least, his imitations are thus worthy to supplant the poems that form their models. His contributions from our perspective seem modest, but in his own eyes may have constituted the finishing touches that achieved perfection. To understand the context and motivation of Fu Xuan’s imitations, it is worth examining his life and works in some detail. The imitations he wrote are just one aspect of Fu’s Confucian intellectual project, which had literary, philosophical, and political components. His biography mentions that he was “firm and honest by nature, making no allowance for the shortcomings of others” 性 剛勁亮直，不能容人之短.45 Indeed, in the early Western Jin he was temporarily removed from office after a quarrel with Huangfu Tao 皇甫陶 (n.d.), whom he had himself recommended.46 Late in his career he was removed 44

45 46

Wang Yao considers this motive in his essay, “Nigu yu zuowei.” Lin Wenyue 林文月 criticizes this hypothesis, concluding that imitation poems by Lu Ji and others were generally written after the author had already achieved technical maturity, and that their true motives were more complex. See “Lu Ji de nigu shi” 陸機的擬古詩, in Zhonggu wenxue luncong, 156–57. Chen Enwei offers related criticism in Moni yu Han Wei Liuchao wenxue shanbian, 11–12. I agree with Lin and Chen in taking the imitations seriously as independent compositions in their own right. Jin shu 47.1317. Jin shu 47.1320.

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from office again after a squabble over protocol following the death of Empress Xian. Ultimately Fu lost his official post because of his excessive concern for ritual procedure and the protocol due to rank. His severe attention to detail and maintenance of proper protocol intimidated courtiers and other officials.47 Fu Xuan’s concern with government protocol was not just personal, but part of a deeper interest in political philosophy. His prose writings were compiled in the Fuzi 傅子, a massive work that originally consisted of 120 juan and hundreds of thousands of characters.48 Only fragments survive, but we know its basic contents from a description in a letter to Fu Xuan by the Minister of Works Wang Chen 王沉 (n.d.) (after Fu Xuan’s son Fu Xian 傅咸 (239–294) had shown it to Wang):49 Examining your writings, it seems to me that the words are abundant and the reasoning thorough. When it comes to organizing political authority, you emphasize and value Ruist doctrine, and it is worthy to block the dissipated thought of Yang and Mo, equaling Sun and Meng of past ages.50

省足下所著書，言富理濟，經綸政體，存重儒教，足以塞楊 墨之流遁，齊 孫孟於往代。 The fragments of the work that survive confirm that it was predominantly Confucian in orientation, focused on problems of government and the relationships of ruler and subject. This orientation would have been more natural in a Han-era scholar, but Fu was already the contemporary of Wang Bi 王弼 (226–249) and He Yan 何晏 (ca. 190–249), the masters of xuanxue. It was this metaphysical school of philosophy, heavily influenced by Daoism and encouraging an unprecedented nonconformity, that flourished during his time. Fu Xuan was an active critic of xuanxue doctrine during its ascendancy in the late Wei dynasty (ironically, given his personal name).51 His conservative stance in this philosophical context is surely relevant to understanding his literary work as well; in many of his compositions his 47 48

49 50 51

Jin shu 47.1323. See Yan Kejun’s compilation in “Quan Jin wen,” 47.1a–50.10a, and Paper, The Fu-tzu: A PostHan Confucian Text, which includes translations of Fu’s official biography and poems as appendices. Quoted in biography of Fu Xuan, Jin shu 47.1323. See also Yan Kejun, “Quan Jin wen,” 28.3a. Yang and Mo refer to Yang Zhu and Mozi, while Sun and Meng refer to Xunzi and Mengzi, respectively. Wei Ming’an and Zhao Yiwu, Fu Xuan pingzhuan, 108–42.

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primary aim seems to be the fluent expression of some ethical position. But Fu’s rigorous attitude is also displayed in his concern for establishing the proper form of literary genres. Fu Xuan was a prolific writer of various genres, especially yuefu and fu, but not including the mainstream of personal tetrasyllabic or pentasyllabic shi. Throughout his literary oeuvre, as in his philosophical prose, he pays close attention to the textual tradition. In the preface to his work “Qi mo” 七謨 (Seven Stratagems), he traces the history of the “Sevens” genre back to Mei Sheng 枚乘 (?–141 bce), discussing key examples and describing the evolution of the form.52 Praising the Sevens compositions of Ma Rong and Zhang Heng, he writes that they “drew out the source and broadened it” 引其源而廣之. In other words, their pieces returned to the origins of the form and exploited the tradition, but also improved and expanded it. Jiang Jianyun has shown how this phrase can serve as a motto for all Fu Xuan’s poetic compositions.53 Similarly, Fu Xuan wrote a preface to a “Linked Pearls” 連珠 composition that traces the history of this minor genre.54 Comparing the three principal writers of Linked Pearls from the Han, he comments that “Ban Gu’s analogies were fair, his words forceful; his expression was grand and lovely, and he best attained the proper form (ti)” 班固喻美辭壯，文章弘麗，最得其體. This comment gives us a clue of Fu Xuan’s aims in his own writing: vigor and beauty of expression serving perfection of form or genre (ti). In his preface to the “Imitating ‘Four Sorrows’” (discussed further below) he also presents his imitation as a correction of ti, saying that Zhang Heng’s original poem was “diminutive and vulgar in form” 體小而俗. In other words, where we might conceive of an imitation as an attempt at re-creating what is excellent in an earlier work, Fu Xuan sees imitation as an improvement, correcting whatever is flawed, and even enlarging and expanding on models. We can see Fu Xuan’s understanding of genre and imitation at work in his yuefu productions as well. Emperor Wu of the Jin (r. 265–290) once ordered Fu Xuan to compose new lyrics for the court music inherited from the Wei.55 The bulk of his poetry may have been written for equally ceremonial purposes. Most of his surviving poems are yuefu, and he may have actually originated the yuefu practice of adapting lyrics to existing song titles; most literati yuefu 52 53 54 55

“Quan Jin wen,” 46.7b–8a. Jiang, “Lun Fu Xuan ‘yin qi yuan er guang zhi’ de wenti fengge guannian.” “Quan Jin wen,” 46.9a. Unfortunately Fu’s own compositions in this genre, which would surely be revealing, do not survive. Jin shu 22.679. For more on this topic, especially on Fu Xuan’s colleague Xun Xu 荀勗, see Goodman, “A History of Court Lyrics in China During Wei-Chin Times.”

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compositions of the Wei ignore the content of their earlier models and take up entirely new subjects, while Fu Xuan follows his Han models closely.56 Many of these poems seem to be straightforward love poems, but Fu Xuan is writing in the allegorical tradition of the Mao commentary to the Book of Songs, so his virtuous wives represent loyal courtiers, and his idealized love object is the perfect sovereign. Though Joseph Allen implies a contradiction between Fu Xuan’s “rigid morals and caustic personality” and his yuefu poetry, this is anachronistic.57 Fu’s poetics were entirely compatible with his Confucian project, in light of allegorical readings entirely conventional in his day. Though Fu Xuan wrote a number of imitations, including of yuefu and also Chuci poems, his imitation of Zhang Heng’s “Four Sorrows” 四愁詩 is the most interesting of these works qua imitation. The original “Four Sorrows” poem is itself exceptional. Though Zhang Heng’s outstanding literary works are certainly his fu pieces, several poems are attributed to him as well, including the heptasyllabic “Four Sorrows,” one of the earliest heptasyllabic poems by a named poet.58 “Four Sorrows” reads like a popular love song, using little allusion, and preserving the same structure in all four stanzas, varying only the particular nouns and verbs by incremental repetition. A preface offers a reading of the poem as a statement of Zhang’s political frustration; although this may be a later accretion, Fu seems to develop this interpretation further in his imitation. Here is the first stanza of the original “Four Sorrows” by Zhang Heng, in seven heptasyllabic lines with a rhyme change after the third line:

5

我所思兮在太山 欲往從之梁父艱 側身東望涕霑翰 美人贈我金錯刀 何以報之英瓊瑤 路遠莫致倚逍遙 何為懷憂心煩勞

56 57 58

The one I long for—lives on Mount Tai. I want to go to her but Liangfu is too steep. I turn to face east, and tears soak my brush. The Beautiful One gave me a blade inlaid with gold. How can I requite it but with jade, carnelian, and jasper? The road is far and I cannot reach her in her freewanderings. What sorrow I wear in my worn and wounded heart!

For Fu Xuan’s contribution to yuefu, see Okamura Sadao, “Gafu dai no keishō to Fu Gen.” Okamura labels Fu Xuan’s yuefu poems as the first proper “imitation yuefu” 擬樂府. See Allen, “From Saint to Singing Girl: The Rewriting of the Lo-fu Narrative in Chinese Literati Poetry,” 322, n.3. See Lu Qinli 180–81.

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Fu Xuan complains in the preface to his imitation that the original was “small in form and vulgar,” implying that he has refined it: Imitation of “Four Sorrows” with Preface

擬四愁詩四首并序 Long ago Zhang Pingzi [Heng] composed the “Four Sorrows.” It was small in form and vulgar, composed in heptasyllabic lines. I have composed a poem in imitation of it, named “Imitation of ‘Four Sorrows.’”

昔張平子作四愁詩，體小而俗，七言類也。聊擬而作之，名 曰擬四愁詩。 This preface is critical to our understanding of Fu Xuan’s project of imitation, and to our understanding of Six Dynasties imitation more generally. Fu Xuan’s criticisms are not haphazard but reflected quite directly in his own imitation. Imitation here is very much practical criticism, as Fu expands each stanza from seven lines to twelve:

我所思兮在瀛洲 願為雙鵠戲中流 牽牛織女期在秋 山高水深路無由 5

愍予不遘嬰殷憂 佳人貽我明月珠 何以要之比目魚 海廣無舟悵勞劬 寄言飛龍天馬駒

10

風起雲披飛龍逝 驚波滔天馬不儷

The one I long for—is in Yingzhou. I wish we were a pair of swans, playing in the current. The Cowherd and the Weaving Girl are set to meet in autumn, But the hills are high and waters deep, so there is no road through. Alas, I cannot meet her, but only enfold myself in grief. The Fair One gave me bright-moon pearls, How may we make a pact together but with pairedeye fish? The sea is broad, and I without a boat must struggle miserably along. I sent word with the flying dragon, and to the heavenly horses and ponies; But the tempest rose with clouds unfolding, and flying dragons departed; The violent waves rose up to heaven, and the horses found no match.

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何為多念心憂世

Why think on it further, or worry over the world?

Though the frame is drawn directly from Zhang Heng’s “Four Sorrows,” Fu Xuan adds new material in lines 3–4 and 9–11 of each stanza. Suzuki Toshio 鈴 木敏雄 has shown in a study of Fu Xuan’s imitation that the new lines add new elements to Zhang Heng’s template that dramatize the relationship of minister and ruler (often using language similar to Fu Xuan’s philosophical treatise, the Fuzi).59 While “Four Sorrows” centers on the playful exchange of gifts, “Imitation of ‘Four Sorrows’” transfers the emphasis to separation, and in particular to the causes of that separation. In this aspect it accords well with the substance of Fu Xuan’s other verse, as well as his prose writings, which center on the proper relation of lord and vassal, displaced allegorically. For instance, the “flying dragons” and “heavenly horses” suggest imperial authority, and the world-shaking tempest suggests political stress and trouble. This allegorical reading was the traditional one for Zhang Heng’s “Four Sorrows” as well, as given in its current preface, but Fu elaborates on this reading. Fu’s motivation in writing the “Imitation of ‘Four Sorrows’” was not to practice poetic technique, nor to display his own virtuosity. Fu was not striving to preserve a poetic tradition, creating continuity with a classical past. Fu Xuan, uncompromising in his political, ethical, and literary opinions, felt dissatisfied with the poetic tradition he knew and wanted to improve it. He might have identified with Mencius, as in this fragment from his philosophical compilation Fuzi:60 Long ago when Zhongni passed away, his followers collected his sayings, and called them the Analects. Later the gentleman Meng Ziyu of Zou imitated (ni) their form, and wrote seven essays, calling them the Mencius.

昔仲尼既歿，仲尼之徒追論夫子之言，謂之論語。其後鄒之 君子孟子輿擬其體，著七篇，謂之孟子。 Though it is true that the Mencius is composed in the same dialogue form as the Analects, it is larger in scale and elaborates a distinct point of view. Fu Xuan seems generally to have thought of imitation as a creative, transformative process. In the tumultuous third century, a man of Fu Xuan’s convictions would have felt threatened on all sides, by political instability, social transformation, and the stirrings of new philosophical thought. By improving problematic 59 60

Suzuki, “Fu Gen ‘Gi shi shū shi’ kō.” Yan Kejun, “Quan Jin wen,” 49.7b.

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texts he meant to have a lasting impact on the world around him. Though later imitation poems were written with a variety of motives, often quite different from Fu Xuan’s, in this progenitor of imitation poetry we can see the source of some key features of later imitations.61 The majority of Fu Xuan’s extant poems are yuefu, in most cases (perhaps all) adapted from existing pieces. For example, he composed a condensed version of the famous yuefu ballad on Luofu 羅敷, discussed in Joseph R. Allen’s article “From Saint to Singing Girl: The Rewriting of the Lu-fu Narrative in Chinese Literati Poetry.” Fu Xuan’s version is titled “Yan’ge xing” 艷歌行, based on “Yan’ge Luofu xing” 艷歌羅敷行 (a.k.a. “Mo shang sang” 陌上桑).62 His practice of imitation here is quite similar to what we saw in “Imitation of ‘Four Sorrows.’” For example, Fu Xuan sometimes replaces noun phrases, so where “Yan’ge Luofu xing” has “Daffodil damasks for skirts below, / Purple damasks for jackets above” 緗綺為下裙，紫綺為上襦. Fu Xuan’s “Yan’ge xing” has the same couplet, but with “plain white silk” 白素 and “crimson cloudwisps” 丹霞 replacing the original damasks. Fu Xuan also adds the politically significant couplet “Heaven and Earth correct their positions, / I wish my lord would change his course as well” 天地正厥位，願君改其圖.63 Like some of Fu Xuan’s additions in the “Imitation of ‘Four Sorrows,’” this couplet exemplifies his hierarchical worldview, adjusting the moral center of the earlier poem, one of numerous changes that reflect Fu Xuan’s normal practice of imitating and amplifying earlier texts.64 Fu Xuan’s version of the song is characterized by its neat order and clear narrative.65 He seems to have objected to the disorder of existing songs, such 61

62 63 64

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Lu Xun (1881–1936) also wrote an imitation of “Four Sorrows,” “My Disappointment in Love” (“Wode shilian” 我的失戀) in 1924. The poem follows Zhang Heng’s model closely in structure, though updated with modern vocabulary, but concludes: “I know not for what reason—so go please yourself” 不知何故兮—由他去罢. The poem was intended primarily as a satire of the despondent love poetry being written by Lu Xun’s contemporaries.The poem was revised and included in Yecao 野草. See Lu Xun quanji 2: 173–75. Yuefu shiji 28.417–18, and Yuefu shiji 28.410–11, respectively. Cf. Li ji zhengyi, 52.1b: “Heaven and Earth are corrected there” 天地位焉. The commentary glosses wei 位 “place” as zheng 正 “correct.” Fu Xuan’s line combines both words. Stephen Owen questions whether Fu Xuan’s version of the ballad is properly understood as ni or imitation at all, since we do not actually know that our extant “Yan’ge Luofu xing” is prior to it (The Making of Early Classical Chinese Poetry, Appendix G, 336–41). But Fu Xuan’s rewriting the poem as an imitation would be absolutely consistent with his normal compositional practice, so there is no need to reject the conventional view. My understanding of Fu Xuan’s practice seems to accord well with Jean-Pierre Diény’s thesis in “Contre Guo Maoqian,” that the yuefu poems Guo Maoqian identifies as “revised by Jin musicians,” which are typically the longer and more loosely structured variants, are

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as irregular line lengths and unclear changes of subject. For an example of his taste, it is worth quoting from one of his yuefu poems, “Short Song” 短歌行.66 Though several earlier poems to the same title exist, all tetrasyllabic and attributed to members of the Cao family, they do not seem to share any content with Fu Xuan’s poem. Based on Fu Xuan’s normal practice, we may speculate that his poem derives from an earlier yuefu that is no longer extant:

15

20

昔君視我 如掌中珠 何意一朝 棄我溝渠

Once you looked on me As a pearl in your hand. What do you mean one morning To toss me in the gutter?

昔君與我 如影如形 何意一去 心如流星

Once you and I Were as shadow and form. What do you mean to part at once, Our hearts like falling stars?

昔君與我 兩心相結 何意今日 忽然兩絕

Once you and I, We two were joined at heart. What do you mean today, For us two suddenly to part?

With its unvarying tetrasyllabic quatrains, this “Short Song” is more regular and symmetrical than a Shijing poem. There is a careful balance of repetition and incremental change in these twelve lines, a stark portrayal of abandonment without any unnecessary detail, and also a progression from poetic metaphor to literal statement. Fu uses the number “one” in lines 15 and 19, then in the third stanza switches to the number “two,” denying the possibility of a satisfactory union with mathematical rigor. Fu Xuan’s poetry, in spite of its imitative spirit, is also intensely personal. There is an obsessive focus on the separation of lord and servant, likened over and over to the separation of form and shadow (xing 形 and ying 影). Fu Xuan is uneasy with physical images, and replaces them in his imitations and adaptations without good reason. In a certain sense, Fu Xuan’s project seems like that of a man who does not like poetry much to begin with. Yet his rewritings did not destroy the originals, even though in some cases they might have

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in fact prior to those variants Guo identifies as originals. Fu Xuan’s revisions of yuefu enforce a greater consistency and concentration than earlier yuefu texts. Lu Qinli 553–54; see also translation in Paper, The Fu-tzu, 88.

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replaced them. So it seems better to say that poetry was simply problematic for him. It was problematic, in part, because his concern with morality, and especially with the relationship of ruler to advisor, always took precedence.67 Perhaps only a poet with the political vision and ethical commitments of Fu Xuan could have imagined “imitation poetry” as a distinct genre. His indifference to the original authors of the texts he appropriated allowed him to alter and expand them to suit his own need. Though his own achievements in this vein are limited, later writers would elaborate on this strategy to write imitations that stand in a multivalent, critical opposition to their models. Later works of imitation assert themselves more confidently as independent compositions. For Fu Xuan, though, the imitation always flows directly from its source, just as the same water flows from the river’s source to the ocean. Imitation as Intensification Fu Xuan, though enormously significant as the founder of both yuefu and imitation poetry, was not highly regarded by later writers. Yet his approach to literary composition, and particularly to imitation, did have a lasting influence. For Fu Xuan, the main role of the poet was to refine and perfect existing poems, not write of one’s own secret sorrow but to elaborate on the sorrows of the past. In this sense he was a truly liminal figure, halfway between a reviser of earlier songs and an imitation poet responding to particular styles. The fact that one of his yuefu poems on the Qiu Hu story was composed as a response to a Ban Gu poem shows how the categories were not really distinct. Fu Xuan’s work still lacks the sense of play with individual voices, both the author’s and those of earlier poems, that later became a key aspect of imitation poetry. Yet Fu Xuan was influential through his conception of imitation as improvement. Later Six Dynasties poets all adopted this approach to some extent. This is certainly true of Lu Ji and Xie Lingyun, who wrote intricately crafted imitations that aimed to surpass their models in aesthetic perfection. Jiang Yan is a slightly different case, but in practice his imitations can also be understood as amplifications of his sources in the manner of Fu Xuan. Jiang Yan also embellishes on the often plainer styles of his sources, while simultaneously concentrating disparate materials from various works into a single poem, often for that very reason resulting in an excess of imagery and allusion.

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In this respect Fu Xuan recalls Yang Xiong, but his lesser achievement reflects the disparity in ability between the two men.

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One imitation of the scholar Zuo Si 左思 (250–305) reflects on the choice between reclusion and official service through numerous historical examples: Diverse Forms #13 Zuo Si, Record Keeper: Historical Poem 左記室思：詠史

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韓公淪賣藥 梅生隱市門 百年信荏苒 何用苦心魂 當學衛霍將 建功在河源 珪組賢君眄 青紫明主恩 終軍才始達 賈誼位方尊 金張服貂冕 許史乘華軒 王侯貴片議 公卿重一言 太平多歡娛 飛蓋東都門 顧念張仲蔚 蓬蒿滿中園

68 69 70

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Duke Han was reduced to selling medicine, And Master Mei concealed himself by the market gate. A hundred years are sure to pass by, Why worry heart and soul about it? Better to study Generals Wei and Huo, And establish merit at the source of the Yellow River. They earned tessera and ribbons, attention from their worthy lord, The blue and the purple, favor from their wise sovereign.68 Zhong Jun had barely begun to realize his talent,69 And Jia Yi had only just achieved high rank. Jin and Zhang alike wore the marten crown, While Xu and Shi rode in decorated carriages. Princes and marquis have treasured a single opinion, Lords and nobles esteemed a sole remark.70 In an age of peace there is much rejoicing, Flying canopies pass east through the capital gates. When I think back upon Zhang Zhongwei, His courtyard was overgrown with fleabane and wormwood.71

Blue and purple were colors of the insignia awarded to the highest officials, since the Han. Zhong Jun 終軍 (?–112 bce) was a young prodigy, who in his twenties was sent as an emissary to Nam-Viet 南越 and killed by the local ruler, Lü Jia 呂嘉. The Wuchen commentary identifies an illusion that Li Shan does not, though it is not clear whether the allusion is actually present. Lü Yanji claims that the “single opinion” is Lou Jing’s 婁敬 advice to locate the Han capital at Chang’an, not Luoyang, for which he was richly rewarded by Liu Bang, and given the title Lord of Fengchun 奉春君; and the “solitary statement” belongs to Tian Qianqiu 田千秋, who advised Emperor Wu of the Han that the crown prince had been unfairly punished. After Emperor Wu accepted this advice, Tian continued to rise in the bureaucracy, and ultimately was enfeoffed as Marquis of Fumin 富民. According to the Sanfu juelu zhu 三輔決錄注 by Zhi Yu 摯虞 (quoted by Li Shan), Zhang Zhongwei was a recluse who lived in a desolate spot amid the “fleabane and wormwood.” See also Gaoshi zhuan 16a–b.

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The first couplet contains two historical allusions. Han Kang 韓康 (fl. 147–167) was from a well-known family, but he tried to escape fame by selling medicinal herbs in the market of Chang’an, until a woman recognized him.72 Mei Fu 梅 福 (Wang Mang era) deserted his wife and children abruptly to become a recluse, but was later recognized working as a gatekeeper in Guiji 會稽.73 The third couplet again refers to two historical generals, Wei Qing 衛青 (?–106 bce) and his nephew Huo Qubing霍去病 (140–117 bce), who fought successfully against the Xiongnu. Up to this point the poem has sustained the straightforward argument that one should seek fame like those historic generals. The dense sixth couplet takes another turn. Lines eleven and twelve combine various allusions from Zuo Si’s “Historical Poems”—not allusions to Zuo Si’s poems, but allusions to the same historical figures alluded to in those poems. This is a kind of doubled allusion, a special case of the rhetorical trope known as metalepsis. The second poem in Zuo Si’s series has the couplet: “Jin and Zhang, relying on their past achievement, / Through seven leaves inserted the marten insignia of Han” 金張籍舊業，七葉珥漢貂. The figures referred to are Jin Midi 金日磾 (143–86 bce) and Zhang Tang 張湯 (?–115 bce), who were officials during the reign of Emperor Wu, and whose families held office successfully for seven reigns or “leaves.” Again, the fourth “Historical Poem” by Zuo Si has the couplet: “In the morning they gather at the mansions of Jin and Zhang, / In the evening they rest in the lodges of Xu and Shi” 朝集 金張館，暮宿許史盧. Xu and Shi are Empress Xu, wife of Emperor Xuan 宣 and mother of Emperor Yuan 元, and Shi Liangdi 史良娣, grandmother of Emperor Xuan.74 Jiang Yan follows Zuo Si’s method closely, aiming to discuss historical figures and relate them to his own life, but without recounting historical events, as poems in the genre by other authors often do.75 But the ultimate effect of Jiang Yan’s poem is quite different from Zuo Si’s. For one thing, Zuo Si normally balances his treatment of historical figures with another contrasting theme. According to Hans Frankel, Zuo Si “creates an aesthetic distance that gives greater depth to his poem and puts it in the perspective of universal truth.”76 By contrast, Jiang Yan’s poem is laden with far more historical figures and lacking in natural imagery. Even his treatment of historical figures is different from that 72 73 74

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See Hou Han shu 83.2770–71. For dates see Alan Berkowitz, Patterns of Disengagement, 117. See Han shu 67.2927 and Aat Vervoorn, Men of the Cliffs and Caves, 103–4. The original juxtaposition of these four figures occurs even earlier than Zuo Si, in the Han shu: “Higher up, he was not a relative of Xu or Shi; lower down, he could not rely on a Jin or a Zhang”上無許史之屬，下無金張之託 (Han shu 77.3247). These eight poems are in Wen xuan 21.987–92. Hans H. Frankel, The Flowering Plum and the Palace Lady, 107–8. Frankel translates and analyzes poems #3, #7, and #8 of the series (Poems #67–69, pp. 105–6).

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of Zuo Si, whose poems generally allude to only one or two historical figures, with a maximum of four as in the seventh poem. In Jiang Yan’s imitation, the total count of historical allusions may vary depending on our interpretation of lines thirteen and fourteen, but it is certainly over ten distinct names, all but one of which date to the Western Han. Moreover, Jiang gives examples of each of the different types that Zuo Si treats in his series as a whole: the successful generals; the recluse; the clans of Jin, Zhang, Xu, and Shi. Whereas Zuo only deals with one theme in each poem, Jiang combines them all into a single poem. The effect is unbalanced and confusing, with one historical allusion following another without a focused argument to bind the poem together. Moreover, Jiang’s argument is somewhat different. Zuo shows through historical examples how an unappreciated scholar can ultimately achieve success in the world, or the enduring fame of a Yang Xiong. He points out the vicissitudes suffered by many illustrious figures of the past, and argues that a gentleman of uncompromising virtue must necessarily suffer setbacks; through patience and determination, one can still achieve success. Jiang, by contrast, criticizes Han Kang and Mei Fu, who tried to escape society and become recluses, but inevitably were recognized. Jiang’s poem could never be mistaken for one of Zuo Si’s originals, though it recalls each of them. If Jiang Yan were setting out to copy Zuo Si’s style, to write a ninth “Historical Poem” to add to Zuo Si’s series, then he has failed. But Jiang’s poem is not just a ninth “Historical Poem” poem, but a summation and compilation of all of Zuo Si’s “Historical Poems.” It is impossible to imagine Jiang writing a series of such poems, because he has tried to include all the themes of all Zuo Si’s poems already in this piece. The density of Jiang’s allusions detracts from the power of his poem, and Zuo’s are more effective through their simplicity. Jiang is not attempting to achieve the same effect. Like Fu Xuan rewriting Han poems to suit his own taste, Jiang is refashioning Zuo’s “Historical Poems” with reference to all of them at once. The imitation resembles its sources more than the sources themselves, because it is an amplification and intensification of certain features of its models—just as ice is colder than the substance of which it is made, indigo bluer than the plant from which it is harvested. The resulting poem is a composite in which both Zuo Si and Jiang Yan speak simultaneously with different voices answering each other in harmony. It is through this process of imitation and intensification that pentasyllabic verse developed.

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Impersonation and the Art of Authorship Thus translation, ironically, transplants the original into a linguistic realm that is more definitive, since the original can no longer be displaced by any further devolutions, but can only be raised up anew in other respects. Walter Benjamin, “The Task of the Translator”1

⸪ Already in the third century poets began to imitate the poems passed on to them from the Han dynasty, rewriting them to improve the style or to isolate an individual voice. In some cases they even construct an individual voice where one does not seem to be evident in the models. This creative act also helps to create an interpretation of the source that persists. Jiang Yan’s three Han imitations in the “Diverse Forms” thus rearrange the texts of the past and indicate their place in literary criticism, while simultaneously articulating some of his own sentiments and literary ideals. The imitation in a sense is what makes the original permanent, fixing its place in the tradition. Here it acts something like an intralingual translation, as translation is described by Walter Benjamin, “transplanting the original” into a new “linguistic realm” whence it can no longer be “displaced.” Imitation fixes its sources in place in a particular way by inserting a new kind of authorial persona, a process almost like the selection of pronouns in a translation from classical Chinese into English. The organization of this chapter follows the scheme of the first three poems in Jiang Yan’s “Diverse Forms,” which seem intended to trace the early development of pentasyllabic verse. The topics are the “Old Poems,” Li Ling, and Ban Jieyu. The “Old Poems,” which are central to Han verse as we know it today, were some of the most widely imitated poems. Lu Ji attempted to improve the diction of the “Old Poems” he imitated, like Fu Xuan refining old songs, while Jiang Yan in his own imitation of the “Old Poems” maintains the original 1

“Übersetzung verpflanzt also das Original in einen wenigstens insofern—ironisch—endgültigeren Sprachbereich, als es aus diesem durch keinerlei Übertragung mehr zu versetzen ist, sondern in ihm nur immer von neuem und an anderen Teilen erhoben zu werden vermag” (translation modified from Illuminations, 75; original text in Illuminationen, 63).

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diction. Next, Li Ling, like Ban Jieyu, has melancholy poems attributed to him, yet they have a curiously anonymous style, and Jiang Yan strives to copy this in his imitation. Reading Ban Jieyu’s poem anew in light of this discussion and Jiang Yan’s imitation of it, we can identify at least one consistent understanding of poetry throughout the period: like the wind itself, it passes back and forth among author and reader, or performer and audience, changing and being changed in its course. In each of these cases, the original author is typically an abstraction more than a historical figure. An imitation is a hermeneutical investigation, not a historical document: it discovers the imagined author of a known poem and reconstructs him or her in yet another poem, melding two different horizons of understanding. The processes traced in the previous chapter continue to a new and more definitive stage. Where the Ban family and various song poems typically remained in a somewhat indeterminate state of authorship, the imitation poems discussed in this chapter, ironically, show the more explicit signature of an author. These poems and imitations show us poetic composition as a process in which an authorial persona is used and elaborated on as a vehicle for emotion, often independent of the particular poet who takes on that persona. Old Poems and Less Old Poems After Fu Xuan, the next major writer of imitations was Lu Ji 陸機 (261–303), who wrote a series of twelve imitations of “Old Poems” 古詩.2 The models for these imitations were all later included in the “Nineteen Old Poems” 古詩十 九首 of the Wen xuan (with the exception of “Lan ruo sheng chun yang” 蘭若 生春陽).3 Out of these motley poems that combine colloquial diction and universal sentiments with classical allusion and well-concealed art, Lu Ji made 2

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Zhong Rong says he wrote fourteen (Zhong Rong Shipin jianzheng gao 129). Some scholars have identified other poems by Lu Ji as the missing two imitations. For the text of these imitations, see Wen xuan 30.1426–31. For translations of Lu Ji’s imitations, see Lai Chiu-Mi, “The Craft of Original Imitation: Lu Ji’s Imitations of Han Old Poems,” 141–48; Owen, The Making of Early Chinese Classical Poetry, chapter 6; von Zach, 1: 562–67; Shiba and Hanabusa, 211–20; Ami and Uchida, 2: 669–81. See also Lin Wenyue’s important article, “Lu Ji de nigu shi,” in Zhonggu wenxue luncong, 123–58. Brigitta Lee discusses the first imitation in “Imitation, Remembrance, and the Formation of the Poetic Past in Early Medieval China,” 80–95. For the text of the poems, see Wen xuan 29.1343–52. Some important treatments of the poems are Yoshikawa Kōjirō, “Sui’i no hi’ai—koshi jūkyū shu no shudai”; Sui Shusen, Gushi shijiu shou jishi; Jean-Pierre Diény, Les dix-neuf Poèmes anciens; Ma Maoyuan, Gushi shijiu shou chutan; and Daniel Hsieh, “The Origin and Nature of the Nineteen Old Poems.”

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a coherent set of imitations in an exuberantly ornate style. Lu Ji’s craft should be understood in light of the classic model of “continuity as change,” finding scope for literary innovation within the study of traditional sources, and also as a counterpart to Fu Xuan’s own efforts to improve earlier texts via imitation. A contrary view may help us to recognize the complexity of Lu Ji’s imitations. Recently Stephen Owen has argued that Lu Ji’s imitations are so faithful to their models that the places where the two diverge should be explained, not by poetic license on the part of Lu Ji, but rather by a disparity between the text Lu was imitating and the received text we have today.4 This hypothesis needs to be considered here, since it relies on a conception of Six Dynasties imitation at odds with the one presented in this book. The thesis is perhaps historically plausible—since Lu Ji was writing more than two centuries before the compilation of the Wen xuan, which fixed the “Nineteen Old Poems” as we have them today—but it is poetically dubious, because it presents us with a Lu Ji whose imitations adhere mechanically to the sense of his originals, while embellishing the diction only by paraphrasis. Moreover, Owen’s argument, which misrepresents the significance of Lu Ji’s imitations, is unduly conjectural. Based on the practices of Chinese literati in more recent times, we can guess that Lu Ji may have been writing imitations of the “Old Poems” from memory, in which case any divergence between the sources and his imitations does not bear definitively on the question of the textual sources. Even were it true that Lu Ji cribbed his imitations of the “Old Poems” at a desk, scanning back and forth between the scrolls of the “Old Poems” and his own manuscript, Owen’s conclusion still remains unlikely. The argument relies on Owen’s interpretation of Lu Ji’s imitations, as he writes that: “eleven of Lu Ji’s thirteen imitations correspond either exactly or mostly with the current versions.”5 These parallels, Owen concludes, constitute “a strong statistical argument for assuming that in the two cases where the imitations do not match the current versions Lu Ji was working with texts that looked quite different from our current versions.”6 The qualifier “mostly” reveals that the correspondence is not exact. Indeed, other scholars like Lin Wenyue and Lai Chiu-Mi do not read Lu’s imitations as line-by-line rewritings, but as creative compositions that frequently diverge from their sources.7

4 5 6 7

Owen, The Making of Early Chinese Classical Poetry, chapter 6, 260–97. Ibid., 285. Ibid. Incidentally, the volume of creative prose by Lin Wenyue entitled Nigu, which was inspired by Lu Ji’s poems, suggests that there is a creative power in the poems not adequately characterized as line-by-line rewriting.

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In the cases where Lu Ji’s imitations do differ more drastically from their sources, Owen discovers evidence that Lu Ji was imitating a text different from the ones that we have available. In this way he aims to construct an “imaginary space between Lu Ji’s imitation and the current version.”8 But these fictional “Old Poems” violate the principle of Occam’s Razor, that “entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity.” It is a much simpler solution, and one more faithful to our understanding of Lu Ji’s whole oeuvre, to see him as imitating the “Old Poems” in a variety of ways, depending on his varied responses and inspirations. Moreover, once we start to imagine alternate versions of poems, how does one refute the proposition that the original “Old Poems” were once even more different from Lu Ji’s imitations than they appear today, and were later revised to assimilate them to Lu Ji’s imitations? In the imaginary space between transmitted documents, there are many other possibilities to explore than the sole option that Owen has provided us. From a pragmatic point of view it seems far preferable to study the poems that we have, not “the pieces that could have been imitated.”9 Taking a broader view, the historical interpretation of imitation poetry that is presented in this book indicates that Owen’s assumptions are unwarranted. Writing not long before Lu Ji, Fu Xuan also wrote imitations that are in part line-by-line and seemingly mechanical. But at the same time, Fu Xuan would sometimes expand the sources with his own interpolations, in accordance with his program for the improvement of the existing poetic corpus. Imitation consists of “the interfusion … of the different throughout a base radically the same.” Evidence of statistical similarity is significant, but can easily be overturned by a single telling image, by a flourish of detail or artifice that transforms the poem as a whole. The proper way to evaluate imitation poems is subjectively, as the imaginative constructions of their authors, since statistical observations only confirm the objective fact indicated by the ni in their titles, without leading any closer to their poetic meaning. Nonetheless, Owen is certainly correct to remind us of the heterogeneous nature of the “Old Poems.” Lu Ji’s complex approach to imitation, sometimes adapting word by word, and at other times writing more freely, makes sense in light of the disparate character of the texts themselves. They were treated as anonymous by the Wen xuan compilers, although the first of the “Nineteen Old Poems,” with eight others, was attributed to Mei Sheng 枚乘 (?–141 bce) in the

8 9

Ibid., 297. Ibid.

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Yutai xinyong.10 All these “Old Poems” (not just the nineteen included in the Wen xuan) are identified as anonymous by reliable sources, so specific attributions to Han authors are dubious. They seem to date to different periods in the Western and Eastern Han, along with possible later revisions. Though they contain some phrasings that appear to be learned allusions, they are also related to Han popular song, and some early sources do not distinguish clearly between yuefu and “old poems.”11 The “Nineteen Old Poems” have a casual structure and free association of images that makes it easy to imagine them reconstituted in other arrangements. The first “Old Poem” is rarely specific with regard to situation or concrete images. Even if it had been written by Mei Sheng, that fact would shed little light on its interpretation. The poem is of such generality that debate has persisted for centuries over whether its speaker is a wife speaking to her absent husband, a friend speaking to an absent friend, or a courtier speaking to an absent lord: Old Poem #1

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行行重行行 與君生別離 相去萬餘里 各在天一涯 道路阻且長 會面安可知 胡馬依北風 越鳥巢南枝 相去日已遠 衣帶日已緩 浮雲蔽白日 遊子不顧反 思君令人老 歲月忽已晚 10 11 12

Traveling, traveling, again traveling, traveling, I am parted from you in this life. Since you have gone ten thousand leagues and more, We are each at one side of heaven now. The road between is difficult and long, How can I know when we will meet again? Foreign horses follow the North Wind, The birds of Yue nest in southern branches.12 Every day you go further away from me, Every day my belt grows looser on me. Floating clouds cover the bright sun, The wanderer does not look back. Longing for you just makes a person old; The years and months already have grown late.

See Yutai xinyong jianzhu 1.18. Another is attributed to Fu Yi 傅毅 (?–89 bce) by Wenxin diaolong. See Wenxin diaolong zhu 6.66. Zhu Ziqing characterizes the poems as literati imitations of yuefu. See “Gushi shijiu shou shi,” 220. Li Shan quotes the Han shi wai zhuan 漢詩外傳: “‘Horses of Dai follow the North Wind,’ ‘flying birds perch in their old nests.’ They each mean, ‘not forgetting one’s origin’” 代馬 依北風，飛鳥棲故巢，皆不忘本之謂也. So this couplet is apparently a variation on a familiar proverb. See also Yan tie lun 3.8a.

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棄捐勿復道 努力加餐飯

Toss it away and don’t talk about it anymore: Just try hard to eat another meal.

The extraordinary and untranslatable first line repeats the single character xing 行 “traveling” four times, its stark repetition interrupted only by the character chong 重—itself meaning “repetition”—in the middle of the line. Though this refers to the length of the journey, in the context of our study of the imitation, adaptation, and rewriting of other poems, the line takes on a special resonance. Poetry is usually a matter of repeating similar themes and structures, though with telling variations: the interjection of chong “again” is all the more powerful because it is only one character among five. Unlike most literati poetry from the third century onwards, the “Old Poems” have few parallel couplets, and this first couplet has a striking divergence of syntactic form (which Lu Ji will regularize, as we see below). The second line recalls a famous line in the “Lesser Controller of Lives” 少司命 from the “Nine Songs” 九歌 of the Chuci:13

樂莫樂兮新相知 No joy is more joyful—than new acquaintance, 悲莫悲兮生別離 No sadness is sadder—than separation-in-life. This parallel is taken as an allusion by one commentator, Zhu Ziqing, who argues on this basis that the author of the poem was well-educated (wenren 文 人), but the phrase seems to have been proverbial in the Han.14 Even in the “Lesser Controller of Lives” it does not seem to fit specially well in context, and we should recall that the “Nine Songs” were edited and preserved in their current form only in the Eastern Han, meaning that their textual formation may have occurred at the same time as the “Nineteen Old Poems.” The fifth line of “Old Poem #1,” “The road between is difficult and long,” is nearly the same as a line from the Book of Songs, but this does not necessarily prove that the author had in mind the classic anthology. Rather, the phrase may have become a formula or tag used regularly in poetry and song. The frequent use of this kind of formula or cliché makes it difficult to date the “Old Poems,” but does not detract from their literary merit. Such well-worn phrases are woven together with fresh images drawn from experience, such as in the tenth line, “Every day my belt grows looser on me.” Thus, they give the effect of a familiar, homespun fabric, that is only more appealing because it is so 13 14

Chuci buzhu 2.72. Zhu Ziqing, “Gushi shijiu shou shi,” 222; Yoshikawa, “Sui’i no hi’ai—koshi jūkyū shu no shudai,” 272–73.

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familiar. Some of the images in the poem are linguistically simple but cryptic in significance. This is especially true of the eleventh line of the poem: “Floating clouds cover the bright sun.” Li Shan claims that the clouds represent wicked men who slander the virtuous. Although the same image could represent any number of bad things, to a later reader this might have been a natural mental association. Yoshikawa proposes that the image could simultaneously be a straightforward description of a scene, and also have metaphorical significance, as a fair compromise with Li Shan’s reading. We should note the similarity between a cryptic image like this one, and the formulaic language noted above. Both kinds of language are hermeneutically indeterminate, and so allow the reader to relate to the poem, forcing some kind of imaginative leap to construct a plausible narrative. The indefinite speaker and abrupt transitions further contribute to this effect. The intimate and colloquial final couplet treats the reader like a member of the speaker’s family. “Toss it away and don’t speak of it any more” seems to be a kind of formula from popular song, while “Just try hard to eat another meal” is a polite commonplace. Though certain lines from the “Old Poems” do suggest familiarity with classical literature, lines like this seem to belong to a different tradition entirely, the language of popular song and ordinary life. As our analysis of various lines in it has demonstrated, the poem is not just anonymous in the literary-historical sense that its author is unknown, but also in the purely literary sense that its style is vague and indeterminate. If it had an author we would still want to displace him, just as the Wen xuan compilers resolved the competing claims to authorship of the “Old Poems” by rejecting them altogether. Lu Ji’s imitation of “Old Poem #1” follows the original content closely. But the style is utterly different, and the selection and placement of images has a different effect too:15 Imitating “Traveling, Traveling, Again Traveling, Traveling” 擬行行重行行

5

悠悠行邁遠 戚戚憂思深 此思亦何思 思君徽與音 音徽日夜離 緬邈若飛沉

15

On and on, I travel farther along, Bitterly, bitterly, my melancholy longing deepens. This longing of mine is longing for what? Longing for my lord, his aspect and voice. That voice and aspect grow further night and day, Now hazy in the distance, rising and then disappearing.

Wen xuan 30.1426.

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王鮪懷河岫 晨風思北林 遊子眇天末 還期不可尋 驚飇搴返信 歸雲難寄音 佇立想萬里 沉憂萃我心 攬衣有餘帶 循形不盈衿 去去遺情累 安處撫清琴

The paddlefish longs for its river cavern,16 The falcon misses its northern forests.17 The wanderer gazes towards the far end of heaven, But the day of his return he cannot tell. The startling gusts lift up my letters of reply, In the returning clouds it is hard to send a message. Standing still I think of ten thousand leagues, Sunk in melancholy my heart is crushed. I lift up my rope, for which the belt is now too long: Around my body it no longer fills the skirt. Parting, parting, the lingering feeling stays, But I rest in place and strum my serene zither.

Lu Ji begins with reduplicatives that recall the opening of “Old Poem #1,” used to express the tedious length of the journey and the extent of time that has passed. As in “Old Poem #1,” he uses two reduplicatives in the first couplet, but the effect is entirely different. Lu Ji’s reduplicatives are placed in parallel, not jammed together in the same line, so instead of the awkward but expressive effect of the “Old Poem,” we have an elegant balance that indicates careful craftsmanship at work. The structure of the succeeding lines of Lu Ji’s poem also create a sense of harmony unlike the model, as with his use of chiasmus between lines four and five, or the repetition of the word si 思 “longing” in different forms in lines two, three, and four. This formal repetition also affirms how differently Lu Ji represents emotion. Whereas the “Old Poem” begins by describing external facts (the journey and separation), Lu Ji describes feelings in the second line, and then repeats the word “longing” again and again. The “Old Poem” uses the same word only once (and this is the only word in the poem that describes emotion directly), and even then dismissively: “Longing for you just makes a person old.” Two lines later the speaker says “Toss it away and don’t talk about it anymore.” But in his imitation, Lu Ji wallows in melancholy, using the word “longing” four times and mentioning emotions in three other lines.

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See Xue Zong’s note to Zhang Heng’s “Fu on the Eastern Metropolis” (Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1: 252; Wen xuan 3.100). This refers to a particular legend about a paddlefish that came from a cave in Henan, through which it entered the rivers and transformed into a dragon. See Mao shi 132/1: “How swiftly flies the falcon, / How dark the northern forests” 鴥彼晨 風，鬱彼北林.

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One of the most striking examples of Lu Ji’s transformation of the original comes in a couplet that at first seems to mirror its model closely:

王鮪懷河岫 晨風思北林

The paddlefish longs for its river caverns, The falcon misses its northern forests.

This is based on a couplet from the “Old Poem”:

胡馬依北風 越鳥巢南枝

Foreign horses follow the North Wind, The birds of Yue nest in southern branches.

Lu Ji has followed the structure of the “Old Poem” so closely that both couplets are lines seven and eight of their respective poems. In each line of either couplet, the first two characters name a type of animal, and the last two a place, while the third character is a noun. But the “Old Poem” quotes a familiar proverb to contrast the way that animals return to their proper homes with the unending journeys of human beings, while Lu Ji’s animals are placed in the same position as the traveler and even imbued with the same emotions. The transformation of the couplet thus offers an insight into the nature of Lu Ji’s imitation (ni 擬): it involves personification (niren 擬人) and personalization of his model. The anonymous, formulaic language of the “Old Poem” is crafted into ornate poetic diction, action is replaced by emotional reaction, and movement and progression are slowed to a static harmony. Even the fauna of the forests and rivers start to behave like sensitive poets. At the same time, the mention of the zither in the final line of Lu Ji’s poem reminds us of the fundamental division between artwork and artist. If the speaker of the poem turns to music to console himself, he might perhaps sing an “Old Poem,” or an imitation of one. This reflexivity is common in the “Imitations of ‘Old Poems.’” In the conclusion of imitation #4, the speaker describes himself lamenting his woes:18

沉思鍾萬里 躑躅獨吟歎

My dejected thoughts gather over ten thousand leagues, Pausing in solitude I heave a sigh.

while the speaker in the original “Old Poem” can feel them directly:19

18 19

Wen xuan 30.1427. Wen xuan 29.1345.

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同心而離居 憂傷以終老

Sharing a heart but living separately, We grow old in anxiety and grief.

The contrast between “Old Poem #1,” which does not mention music or poetry, and its imitation is especially strong. Some other “Old Poems” do describe musical performances, and Lu Ji follows these descriptions closely in his imitations, though he also redirects their effect. “Old Poem” #5 contrasts real emotion with emotion as communicated artistically:

一彈再三歎 慷慨有餘哀 不惜歌者苦 但傷知音稀

For each strum there are three sighs, Impassioned, with greater sorrow remaining. I do not feel pity if the singer himself is in pain, I only regret that those who recognize the tune are scarce.

But Lu Ji’s imitation (#10), though borrowing the same language, concludes with hope for the satisfaction of the performer:20

佇立望日昃 躑躅再三歎 不怨佇立久 但願歌者歡

We stand still till the sun declines, And sigh thrice over as we linger there. You don’t regret standing for so long, So long as the singing brings pleasure.

When Lu Ji imitates the “Old Poems,” then, he is also writing about the experience of listening to music very like the “Old Poems.” He makes himself at once the subject and audience of the poems, adding in his imitations an authorial reflexivity, already implicit in the titles and sometimes marked in the texts as well. Jiang Yan’s imitation of the “Old Poems” two centuries later takes a somewhat different approach, in part because it is just a single poem within his “Poems in Diverse Forms,” not a set like Lu Ji’s. To appreciate the imitation properly we should first consider its place within the “Diverse Forms.” The first three imitations in Jiang Yan’s “Poems in Diverse Forms” take as their subjects the anonymous “Old Poems,” Li Ling 李陵 (?–74 bce), and Ban Jieyu. In his introduction to the series (see chapter 1 above), Jiang argues extensively against favoritism and excessive attachment to any one poet at the expense of others. As a result, the poets he selects for the “Poems in Diverse Forms” are all ones he considers worthy of study and appreciation. 20

Wen xuan 30.1430.

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Each of these three models, as presented in the imitations, share features with Jiang’s own work; they are all plausible influences on his own ornate and sentimental poetry. This similarity, which we will continue to point out later in this chapter, explains why Jiang chooses these three subjects as his first imitations. If he were interested in the history of pentasyllabic verse generally, he could have chosen other models. Liu Xie mentions a number of pre-Han poems as the earliest examples of pentasyllabic verse,21 such as the Canglang 滄 浪 song preserved in Mengzi,22 or a popular ditty from the reign of Emperor Cheng preserved in the Han shu.23 Zhong Rong, in the preface to his ranked treatise on pentasyllabic poets, the Shipin, also begins with examples from preQin songs.24 There are also a large number of anonymous Han yuefu 樂府 (“Music Bureau”) poems, preserved in the “Treatise on Music” 樂志 of the Song shu 宋書 by Shen Yue, that are in pentasyllabic meter, so Jiang Yan might have had one imitation of “Han yuefu.” However, the “Poems in Diverse Forms” are imitations of shi poetry, and exclude yuefu. With the exception of the marginal “Song of Resentment,” classified in the Wen xuan as yuefu, none of the poems Jiang chooses to imitate could be classified as yuefu. Yuefu was not yet universally recognized as a distinct subgenre in this period (Liu Xie’s chapter on yuefu in Wenxin diaolong is principally about music), so Jiang Yan’s conception of shi, excluding yuefu, may have implicitly helped to establish the yuefu subgenre in later centuries. Jiang Yan’s “Poems in Diverse Forms” begins with an imitation of the anonymous “Old Poems” 古詩. It is the only imitation in his series not based on a named author. The “Old Poems” had been attributed to various well-known authors of the Han and Wei, but Jiang must have lacked confidence in these attributions. The “Old Poems” have a place first in the series, and seem to have a special status as the only anonymous ones. Nevertheless, Jiang Yan’s imitation bears a close textual and stylistic relationship to the models of some of Jiang’s other imitations. The primary source is the first of the “Nineteen Old Poems” 古詩十九首 included in the Wen xuan:25

21 22 23 24 25

For other examples of this kind, see Donald Holzman, “Les premiers Vers pentasyllabiques datés dans la poésie chinoise.” Mengzi zhushu 7B.12a. It begins “Crooked paths ruin fine fields, / And slanderous voices wreck good men” 邪徑 敗良田，讒口亂善人 (Han shu 27.1396). Zhong Rong Shipin jianzheng gao 50. Wen xuan 29.1343.

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Diverse Forms #1 Old Song of Parting 古離別

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遠與君別者 乃至雁門關 黃雲蔽千里 游子何時還 送君如昨日 檐前露已團 不惜蕙草晚 所悲道里寒 君在天一涯 妾身長別离 愿一見顏色 不異瓊樹枝 兔絲及水萍 所寄終不移

Since we parted you are far away now, As far away as Goose Gate Pass.26 The yellow clouds cover a thousand miles; When will you return, O wanderer? It seems like yesterday that I sent you off, But now dew lies heavy before the eaves.27 I’m not sorry the patchouli plants are late, What I lament is the chill on the road. You are at one edge of the sky, Separated from this woman forever.28 I wish I could see your face and aspect once more, That so resemble one bough from a tree of jade. Hare floss and floating duckweed, What they depend upon will never be fickle.29

Li Shan makes one of his rare methodological comments after the second couplet here: “Jiang Yan’s writing here does not only study the style [of its original], but also uses the words. Therefore in each case I quote the original text as evidence, and when he does not use the same language, I provide other explanations” 江之此製，非之學其體，而亦兼用其文．故各自引文而為之 證，其無文者乃他說. Li Shan clarifies this procedure here because it is the 26 27 28 29

The strategic Yanmen 雁門 Pass is located in the northwest of Dai 代 county, Shanxi province. The image of dew alludes to Mao shi 94, “There is creeping grass on the moor” 野有蔓草, about a meeting of a pair of lovers. This couplet is based on “Old Poems” #1: “Since you have gone ten thousand leagues and more, / We are each at one side of heaven now” 相去萬餘里，各在天一涯. In the imitation, “what they rely on” are the pine tree and water, respectively. The couplet is based on “Old Poems” #8, line 4: “As hare floss attaches to pine gauze” 兔絲附女羅. Duckweed usually symbolizes the homeless wanderer, floating freely in the water, but here the emphasis is on the duckweed’s constant reliance on the water itself. Tusi 兔絲 “hare floss” is the same as tusizi兔絲子, Cuscuta chinensis or Cuscuta japonica, “dodder” or “love vine,” an herbal parasite. But dodder was often confused with a parasite of the pine tree, also known as nüluo 女羅 or songluo 松羅. There seems to have been a common belief that hare floss was related to hoelen, since both are parasites of the pine tree. Jiang Yan is borrowing the name from “Old Poems” #8.

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first place where he cites a model that is being imitated. Li Shan then explains that Jiang Yan’s “clouds” derive from the first poem in the “Nineteen Old Poems,” specifically the couplet “Floating clouds cover the bright sun, / The wanderer does not look back” 浮雲蔽白日，遊子不顧反. Whereas the identity of the speaker is not entirely clear in “Old Poem #1,” Jiang Yan specifies a wife speaking to her absent husband in line ten: “Separated from this woman forever” 妾身長別离. Jiang further adds a generic title, “Old Song of Parting,” to clarify the situation. Jiang’s titles in the “Diverse Forms,” which help to classify the poets and styles, are typical of the Qi-Liang trend towards criticism and analysis of the literary tradition. Jiang’s relatively simple language and avoidance of parallelism make the style resemble an actual “Old Poem” more than Lu Ji’s imitations. As in the “Old Poem #1,” Jiang employs intertextuality not just with the “Old Poems” but also with a number of other Han texts such as the Li Ling poems. These allusions give the entire poem a sense of familiarity and plausibility as an “Old Poem,” even though in its details it is substantially different from any particular one, and the resemblance to “Old Poem #1” is not especially close. In Jiang Yan’s imitation, as with Lu Ji’s, the deployment of images is subtly different from that of the sources. For instance, in line twelve Jiang mentions a “tree of jade,” which recalls a couplet from one poem attributed to Li Ling: “I long to obtain a branch of jade, / To free you forever from hunger and thirst.”30 Here the “branch of jade” is a token of the immortals with special powers, and is desired for its practical function. Jiang Yan, by contrast, uses the branch of jade merely as an object of comparison, to praise the beauty of the loved one. In his own way, he is aestheticizing and personalizing the “Old Poem” just as Lu Ji did. The transformation Jiang has made is clearest in the ending of the poem. The final line of Jiang Yan’s imitation is an allusion not to Old Poem #1, but to the second couplet of Old Poem #8: “I was newly married to you, / As hare floss attaches to pine gauze” 與君為新婚，兔絲附女羅. The traveler’s wife thus compares herself to the pine and the water that the two parasites depend on, no matter how far they may stray. But in that poem the analogy shows the intimacy of the couple when they were first married. Transplanted to the end of this poem, it has an ironic effect intensified by the fact that it is a conscious allusion. Like “Old Poem #1,” “Old Poem #8” concludes with an open declaration of despair: “What is there for your poor wife to do?” 賤妾亦何為. By contrast, Jiang Yan’s imitation concludes with a poetic image and an epigrammatic 30

The poem is not included in the Wen xuan but in Gu wen yuan and other sources. See Lu Qinli 340.

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statement of permanent loyalty. The “Old Poems” are also well-crafted and rich in poetic imagery, but their craft is used to paint a generalized emotion, whereas Jiang Yan’s imitation has a marked self-consciousness, as we sense the poet’s work at crafting poetic truths. There is a patchwork quality to the “Old Poems,” which freely borrow phrases common in contemporary poetry and prose, but without recontextualizing or refining them. Jiang Yan and Lu Ji sometimes reverse the implications of the model they are supposedly imitating, but it is hard to see the same kind of transformation among the “Old Poems.” The repetition of the formula “Longing for you just makes a person old” in a similar context in both “Old Poems” #1 and #8, for instance, allows the reader an imaginative sympathy with the speaker, whose sorrow cannot be entirely private insofar as it can only be expressed in clichés. In Jiang Yan’s imitations, by contrast, we see the same selfconsciousness that leads him to write “imitation poetry” and not just poems that happen to be imitative. In his impersonation of the anonymous speakers of the “Old Poems,” the poet’s voice can be heard as well. Li Ling, Much-Suffering and Much-Imitated Jiang Yan’s second imitation is of Li Ling, grandson of the famous general Li Guang 李廣.31 In considering the imitation and its sources, we need to distinguish Li Ling the historical figure from “Li Ling” the poet. Jiang is interested only in the latter, the abstraction to whom a number of poems of parting were attributed. “Li Ling the poet” developed out of the historical Li Ling, but through a process that is not entirely clear. In 99 bce he was defeated by a much larger army of Xiongnu, forced to surrender, and held prisoner. Emperor Wu was outraged and executed his entire family as punishment. Li Ling then defected to the Xiongnu and lived with them the rest of his life. The relevance of this story to poetry is somewhat more indirect. After his disgrace Li Ling encountered his old friend Su Wu 蘇武, a Han official sent to parley with the Xiongnu but then held hostage for years. When Su Wu was finally permitted to return to the Han, they said a tearful farewell, and Li Ling declaimed the following poem, in the “Chu song” form that was popular during the Han:

徑萬里兮度沙幕 I marched ten thousand leagues—crossing the desert. 為君將兮奮匈奴 For my lord I set off—to battle the Xiongnu. 31

For Li Ling’s biography see Han shu 54.2450–59, and for Li Guang’s Han shu 54.2439–50.

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路窮絕兮矢刃摧 My path was cut off—blades and arrows pressed down; 士眾滅兮名已隤 My troops were destroyed—my name was ruined. 老母已死 My old mother has already died; 雖欲報恩將安歸 Though I want to requite my debt, how can I return? Chu song poems are attributed more-or-less reliably to a number of members of the Han nobility, notably the founding emperor of the Former Han, Liu Bang, so the attribution to Li Ling is plausible. This is exactly the sort of song we would expect him to have composed. It refers explicitly to events of his life—the Xiongnu, his army’s being surrounded and forced to surrender, the loss of his reputation, and the death of his family. Though technically the poem shows no special accomplishment, its content could hardly refer to any Han dynasty figure other than Li Ling. But this is not the poem after which Jiang Yan’s imitation is modeled. Jiang was interested instead in the pentasyllabic poems attributed to Li Ling and Su Wu, which came to be treated as sources of the pentasyllabic tradition, partly through Jiang Yan’s influence. Unlike Li Ling’s song, they contain few specific details, and those included fail to correspond closely to Li Ling’s experience. Even before Jiang Yan’s time, Yan Yanzhi 顏延之 (384–456) had questioned their authenticity: “As for Li Ling’s writings, they are varied and heterogeneous. Some of them must be falsely attributed, and not all Li Ling’s own compositions” 逮李陵之作，總雜不類，是假托，非盡陵制.32 Yan’s observation that the Li Ling corpus was “heterogeneous” holds true of the Li Ling / Su Wu corpus as we have it today as well. Different poems are attributed to either author in different sources, various lines of the poems occur in other poems, and many refer to situations unrelated to the two men’s friendship (for instance, some are addressed to wives).33 The poems later attributed to Su Wu were likely originally attributed to Li Ling, because, as Owen suggests, the awkwardly high number of poems Li Ling had supposedly written to Su Wu may have inspired some editor to divide up the extant poems among the two men.34 If Jiang Yan was aware of the same attribution to Su Wu for these poems, they would seem like unlikely sources for his Li Ling imitation. That Yan Yanzhi was aware of these problems suggests that Jiang Yan could also have been skeptical, but instead of omitting Li Ling on this account, he revels in the composite tradition of “Li Ling / Su Wu” poetry, writing his own rendition of it. 32 33 34

Taiping yulan 586.3a. See Kan Gi shi no kenkyū, 323–41. See Owen, The Making of Early Classical Chinese Poetry, 46.

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Jiang’s imitation is based primarily on two poems also included in the Wen xuan, but attributed there to Su Wu and addressed to Li Ling.35 If this was the attribution known to Jiang Yan as well, the choice would seem odd. Yet Jiang Yan frequently imitates poems of reply addressed to that subject.36 In this sense his imitation can be understood as a poem to Li Ling and not just about him. The “double voice” of the imitation is partly an impersonation of the author that borrows his voice, but also partly an interpretation in the voice of the reader. One of the poems Jiang borrowed from in creating his imitation describes a parting of friends. It shares the stylistic and descriptive anonymity of the Old Poems, and though there are repeated lamentations about the separation of the friends, it lacks identifying details. Even Li Ling’s Han shu song mentions the death of his mother, but no such fact is alluded to in this poem. Even though it is three times as long as the Han shu poem, it never alludes to the Xiongnu, so central in Li Ling’s history: Su Ziqing [Su Wu] Poem 蘇子卿詩

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骨肉緣枝葉 結交亦相因 四海皆兄弟 誰為行路人 況我連枝樹 與子同一身 昔為鴛與鴦 今為參與辰 昔者常相近 邈若胡與秦 惟念當離別 35

36 37 38 39

Like bones and flesh, a bond like leaf and branch:37 So friends depend on one another. “All within the four oceans are brothers,”38 So who is just a [lone] traveler on the road? As for me, a tree with branches interweaving, I share my whole life with you. Before we were two mandarin ducks, Now we are Orion and Antares.39 Before we were always near to each other, Now we are as distant as Tartar and Qin. Whenever I think of our separation,

Wen xuan 29.1354; Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 29.13a–b; Lu Qinli 338. The two poems are #1 and #3 of the Su Wu poems in the Wen xuan. These are translated in Frodsham and Cheng, An Anthology of Chinese Verse, 18–20; von Zach, 1: 521–23; Obi and Hanabusa, 25–29; Ami and Uchida, 2: 576–80; the first is also translated in Owen, The Making of Early Classical Chinese Poetry, 246–47. See chapter 4 and Williams, “A Conversation in Poems,” for other examples. “Bones and flesh” was the classical Chinese equivalent of English “flesh and blood.” Li Shan glosses the phrase as “brothers” here. Analects 12/5. Two stars that are never visible at the same time, since the setting of one incurred the rising of the other and vice versa.

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恩情日以新 鹿鳴思野草 可以喻嘉賓 我有一罇酒 欲以贈遠人 願子留斟酌 敘此平生親

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My affection is renewed daily. The deer’s cry longing for wild grasses Can serve as metaphor for an honored guest.40 I have a goblet of wine, I want to give it to the one who is faraway. I hope you will stay and pour a toast, And tell of our lifelong friendship.

This poem shares the colloquial tone of the “Old Poems,” but without their artistry and flair, and is essentially a series of empty truisms. Whereas the “Old Poems” quote cliché, but then return to their own narratives, this poem never forms a narrative at all. Though most of the phrasing is drawn from the Classics, it is not so much allusion as direct quotation. The couplet prosaically identifying the deer’s cry from the Book of Songs as a metaphor is the most shameless example of this—a prose summary of the rhetoric of another poem that denudes the image quoted of poetic resonance. The other poem Jiang Yan chose as the source for his imitation bears even less in common with the story of Li Ling and Su Wu. Li Ling’s first wife was put to death by Emperor Wu; though he later married a Xiongnu woman, no memorable parting is recorded between them. This poem shares the lack of specificity of the other Su Wu poem:41 Su Ziqing [Su Wu] Poem 蘇子卿詩

5

結髮為夫妻 恩愛兩不疑 歡娛在今夕 嬿婉及良時 征夫懷往路 起視夜何其 參辰皆已沒 40

41 42

43

We bound our hair together to be husband and wife; Our mutual love was never in doubt. Our happiness is for this night, Our pleasure at the proper time.42 The travelling soldier longs for the road behind; I rise in the night to see the time. Orion and Antares have already set,43

This couplet first describes the xing “stimulus” imagery of Mao shi 161, then explains its metaphorical significance in a prosaic fashion that is amusing to encounter within a lyric poem. Wen xuan 29.1355; Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 29.14b; Lu Qinli 338. There are subtle references to the Book of Songs woven into this couplet. “This night” 今 夕recalls Mao shi 118, while “pleasure” 嬿婉 recalls Mao shi 43 (both poems deal with finding a mate, so the resonance is thematic and not just linguistic). Orion and Antares were also mentioned in the previous poem, also in the fourth couplet. But they are not used here as a figure for separation, but just to represent stars generally.

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去去從此辭 行役在戰場 相見未有期 握手一長歎 淚為生別滋 努力愛春華 莫忘歡樂時 生當復來歸 死當長相思

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The parting begins from here. I will travel onto the battlefield, The date we will meet is still not set. Clasping hands, with a long sigh, Our tears are shed for a parting in life. Strive hard to treasure your springlike beauty, But don’t forget the happiness of the past. If I live I will come back again. If not we will long for each other forever.

Rather than dealing separately with the problem of authorship for each poem in the Li Ling / Su Wu corpus, it makes more sense to treat the poems collectively as belonging to a genre of parting poems. The genre is associated with Li Ling, because his parting in Su Wu, so vividly described in the Han shu, was one of the most famous historical partings. The poems themselves are not written for or about Li Ling, but rather for generic occasions of parting. Li Ling’s Chu song is located at a specific moment in space and time, but the pentasyllabic Su Wu and Li Ling poems are more like a mathematical vector with a definite orientation and magnitude, but no specified position. They embody the agony of separation for any of their readers, not just for a single historical figure, precisely because they are so imitative. From this point of view, the unwieldy length of the poems is not accidental. They are model parting poems that could be adapted to a particular occasion by omitting any unwanted lines. Each poem is written to a single rhyme throughout, so the omission of any individual couplet would not disturb the rhyme scheme. The poem attributed to Su Wu in the Wen xuan is really an anonymous collection of couplets on a single rhyme, from which a more personal poem can easily be adapted. Jiang Yan’s imitation, though alluding to each of these poems of parting, is more compactly structured, as if a condensation of the same materials: Diverse Forms #2 Commandant Li Ling: In the Army 李都尉陵：從軍

5

樽酒送征人 踟蹰在親宴 日暮浮雲滋 握手淚如霰 悠悠清川水

With a goblet of wine I send you off, soldier, While we dally at a feast of intimates. As day turns to dusk the wavering clouds spread, Clasping hands, our tears fall like sleet. The clear river waters flow on without end,

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嘉魴得所薦 而我在萬里 結髮不相見 袖中有短書 願寄雙飛燕

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Fine bream find a place to abide there.44 But we are ten thousand leagues apart, Since we bound our hair not ever meeting.45 In my sleeve is a brief letter that I would dispatch with a pair of flying swallows.

The generic title here does suggest the historical Li Ling, but the content of the poem becomes more open-ended. The opening couplet recalls the ending of the first Su Wu poem cited above, in which the speaker offers a toast to his friend, though its position within the poem is inverted. The menacing “floating clouds” of the third lines recalls “Old Poems” #1, though not Jiang Yan’s “Old Poem” imitation, attesting to the close relationship of the Li Ling poems and the “Old Poems.” In the eighth line the speaker laments that he has not met his friend since they “bound their hair” 結髮, or became adults, which recalls the first line of one Su Wu poem, “We bound our hair together to be husband and wife” 結髮為夫妻. The context of the phrase is reversed; instead of being associated with the happy days when they were first married, it is now used to indicate the duration of their separation, continuing since early adulthood. This line is an example of how Jiang Yan can build on his source poems, achieving new effects of indirection and defamiliarization. “Binding our hair” is a kind of poetic formula, since it can be reused quite easily in any poem of separation, but Jiang Yan makes quite different use of it than the Su Wu poem, giving the phrase a retrospective twist. The letter that the speaker hopes to send in the final couplet contrasts bitterly with the parting toast of the opening couplet; the polite exchange of gifts, toasts, and messages is a pleasure while the friends are together, but becomes a matter of anxiety when they are separated, as marked by the conditional in the final line. The thematic link of opening and conclusion gives the poem an artful circularity. The emphasis at both points is on the ceremonies of parting: the sending-off and the letters afterwards, not the feelings or characteristics of the participants. In this case Jiang Yan has not personalized or embellished his sources much. He has written a new Li Ling-Su Wu poem, more artful than many earlier ones but otherwise unchanged.

44

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Li Shan explains that this couplet is contrasting the fish, which stay in their river home, with men who are forced to travel great distances, and also cites the Shijing: “The Yellow River flows on without end” 河水悠悠 (but this line does not occur in the received Mao shi). Men bound their hair upon reaching adulthood.

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The actual history of Li Ling and Su Wu turns out to be entirely irrelevant to “Li Ling-Su Wu poetry.” It is possible that readers might have had in mind that history while enjoying these poems, but Jiang Yan’s imitation is evidence otherwise, since he pointedly omits any reference to the more authentic Chu song. Instead, the Li Ling-Su Wu poems are occasional poems for generic occasions. What Jiang Yan is doing is similar to what the authors of the earlier poems were doing: constructing a generic parting poem. In that sense “Li Ling” and “Su Wu” here mean no more than “parting,” and do not really refer to the historical figures. Incidentally, the compilers of the Wen xuan may have had the same understanding of these poems, since they included the Li Ling-Su Wu poems in the “Miscellaneous Verse” 雜詩 section, not “Presentation and Response” 贈 答. Zhong Rong’s opinion of the Li Ling and Su Wu poems was rather different. He claimed that, “If Ling had not met with this pain and hardship, he could not have achieved so much in writing” 使陵不遭辛苦，其文亦何能至此.46 Yet in reality, so far as we can tell, the poems attributed to Li Ling were written by someone else, who in all probability did not suffer so much as Li Ling, whereas the one authentic Li Ling poem we have has no special literary merit. Even if we were confident of the authenticity of the Li Ling poems, they bear little relation to the deepest traumas of his life, the humiliation of his defeat and the murder of his family. If Zhong Rong’s comment, then, is hard to take seriously as a historical judgment, perhaps we should interpret it simply as a sign of his appreciation of the deep feeling embedded in “Li Ling-Su Wu poetry.” Zhong Rong is arguing that an ordinary person would not have been able to write poems so emotionally rich—that only someone who had suffered as much as Li Ling could have crafted such poems. We cannot know Jiang Yan’s opinions on such matters in detail, since he left no treatise of literary criticism comparable to the Shipin. Although his skillful imitation of Li Ling is a concrete refutation of Zhong Rong’s claim that passionate emotion cannot be feigned in art, Jiang Yan probably shared Zhong’s admiration for Li Ling. Six Dynasties readers believed that poetry demanded intense passion and rich experience, but they did not demand that poems preserve that passion and experience in literal detail. Instead, they could be transmuted into literary vessels that could then be reused in new ways, into which new poetic inspirations could be poured.

46

Zhong Rong Shipin jianzheng gao 140.

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Silk Fan and Summer Breeze Like the “Old Poems” and “Li Ling-Su Wu” poems, the “Song of Resentment” 怨 歌行 attributed to Ban Jieyu also belongs to the tradition of Han pentasyllabic poetry. In spite of their importance to the later tradition, all these works laden with formulaic phrases and images are problematic in regard to both dating and authorship. Stephen Owen has described this formulaic structure as the “grammar” of early pentasyllabic verse, arguing that it is normally composed of set topics arranged in fix sequences. Although this is a fair description of some Han-Wei poems, the development of particular topoi also allowed for a great deal of variation and individuality. This section will trace the linked topoi of silk fan and summer breeze as they appear in Ban Jieyu’s poem, Jiang Yan’s imitation, and also a number of other Six Dynasties verses, tracing the formation of individual and dual poetic voices around an allegory of art’s own function. The source of one of Jiang’s finest imitations, the original “Song of Resentment,” deserves further examination as part of this tradition of “Han poetry”: Song of Resentment Favorite Beauty Ban

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新裂齊紈素 皎潔如霜雪 裁為合歡扇 團團似明月 出入君懷袖 動搖微風發 常恐秋節至 涼風奪炎熱 棄捐篋笥中 恩情中道絕

Newly cut white satin from Qi, Brilliantly pure as frost and snow. Trimmed to make a fan of shared pleasure, Its round shape recalls the bright moon. Passing in and out of the lord’s embrace, When it is stirred a breeze arises. But always you fear that the autumn will arrive, And cool winds snatch away the fiery heat: Discarded in a bamboo chest, Affection severed halfway.

Note that the first two words of the penultimate line are identical with the first two words of the penultimate line of “Old Poem #1”: qi juan 棄捐. In that poem they form part of a common yuefu formula: “throw it away and don’t talk about it anymore.” This formula of colloquial poetry is here adapted to a higher register, where the subject complains that she herself has been “discarded,” but the

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metrical position is the same.47 Much of the corpus of Han poetry shows these traces of frequent imitation and adaptation, which are either absent, or more cleverly disguised, by writers like Lu Ji who try to mark each couplet with some signature phrase. The most conventional image in the poem, though, is the mention of passing in and out of the lord’s embrace and sleeve. This seems to be a clever variation of a poetic formula about the wind passing through someone’s embrace—here it is the fan that the loved one sometimes holds dear, and sometimes discards, while the wind in turn is produced by the fan. The basic topos of wind passing through the loved one’s embrace appears in a love poem by Cao Zhi, written in the voice of an abandoned wife, “Sevenfold Sorrow” 七哀:

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願為西南風 長逝入君懷 君懷良不開 賤妾當何依

I’d like to be the southeast wind, And often enter your embrace. If your embrace is not opened to me, What can this poor woman depend on?

The penultimate couplet of the poem introduces the image of the wind, continuing into the final couplet. Lu Ji also makes use of the image in his imitation of “Old Poem #9”: Imitating “There Is a Marvelous Tree in the Garden” 擬庭中有奇樹48

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歡友蘭時往 苕苕匿音徽 虞淵引絕景 四節逝若飛 芳草久已茂 佳人竟不歸 躑躅遵林渚 惠風入我懷 感物戀所歡 采此欲貽誰

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My dear friend left in the season of thoroughwort, Far off his voice and aspect are hidden from me now. The pool of Yu draws in the dying sunlight, The four seasons pass as if they have flown away. Fragrant grasses have already grown lush, And the Fair One still does not return. I linger while circling the forest pool, And a sweet breeze finds my embrace. Sensing these things I cherish their delights, And plucking this, on whom can I bestow it?

For the yuefu formula and its proper translation, see Hans H. Frankel, review of Burton Watson’s Columbia Book of Chinese Poetry: From Earliest Times to the Thirteenth Century, 292. For a previous translation see Lai Chiu-Mi, “The Craft of Original Imitation: Lu Ji’s Imitations of Han Old Poems,”147.

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The same image of the breeze passing through the speaker’s embrace appears in the penultimate couplet. The topos can be adapted for a variety of contexts. In Lu Ji’s poem it is merely part of his own reverie, and he does not mention longing to become the wind himself. This is in keeping with his model: Old Poem #9

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庭中有奇樹 綠葉發華滋 攀條折其榮 將以遺所思 馨香盈懷袖 路遠莫致之 此物何足貢 但感別經時

In the courtyard there is a marvelous tree,49 Its green leaves emit a rich moisture. I seize a branch and pluck the blossoms, To give to the one I’m thinking of. That sweet fragrance fills the breast and sleeve, The road is long and I cannot reach her. This thing is hardly worth giving,50 Except that I sense how long parting has lasted.

In the original “Old Poem,” it is specifically the scent of the tree that fills up the speaker’s breast, so Lu Ji has modified that image to conform to another poetic convention. “Old Poem #9” is a sort of yongwu poem, a “poem on an object,” but unlike the more sophisticated Southern Dynasties yongwu poems, or even Ban Jieyu’s “Poem on Resentment.” Here, there is no identification of speaker and object. Instead, the sweet-smelling branch can be considered an objectification of the loved one’s virtues. The fact that its scent enters the speaker’s breast suggests that it is a sort of substitute for the loved one, especially considering the conventional implications of this image we have already seen. “Old Poem #9” lacks both the proverbial expressions and colloquial phrasing of “Old Poem #1,” but it does return to a generic parting situation, rather like the Li Ling-Su Wu poems. Stephen Owen suggests that Lu Ji’s imitation may have been based on another poem that happened to share the same first line as “Old Poem #9.”51 But even though Lu Ji does not follow the “Old Poem” line by line, his entire imitation is equally focused on the scented thoroughwort intended as a gift to a parted friend, just as in the “Old Poem.” The lush vegetation and image of the breeze carrying the scent along are also shared. Though it is true that the marvelous tree loses its centrality in Lu Ji’s imitation, there is a greater psychological emphasis, as the speaker observes the passing of time and comments on his 49 50 51

The Wuchen and Yutai xinyong texts have前 for中. The Wuchen text of the Wen xuan has貴 for貢. The Making of Early Classical Chinese Poetry, 285.

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own senses and reactions, as we have seen Lu Ji do frequently in his versions of the “Old Poems.” Whereas the “Old Poem” discusses the object twice (lines four and seven), Lu Ji mentions this topic only in his final line, leaving more space for the speaker’s experience alone. These transformations are exemplified perfectly in the adaptation of the wind image, which in the “Old Poem” is a general statement about a property of the tree, but in Lu Ji’s imitation is focused specifically on the speaker’s experience, including the first-person pronoun. For Lu Ji, the breeze which passes back and forth among giver and receiver comes to rest with the first-person speaker (wo 我); the poem of shared communication belongs to the individual poet. Again, Owen’s theory does not take into account the imitative poet’s desire to improve and vary the source according to specific inspirations. Yet another early occurrence of this topos of the wind is in the anonymous “Poem on the Incense Burner,” in which the scent of the incense is carried by the wind to the lord’s breast, but does not stay there for long:52

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四座且莫諠 願聽歌一言 請說銅鑪器 崔嵬象南山 上枝似松柏 下根據銅盤 雕文各異類 離婁自相聯 誰能為此器 公輸與魯班 朱火然其中 清煙颺其間 從風入君懷 四坐莫不歡 香風難久居 空令蕙草殘

Don’t be rowdy, you who are seated all around, Please allow me to sing a song. I’ll tell you about a bronze incense burner, Lofty as the Southern Mountains. Above, its branches are like pine and cypress; Below, its roots rest on a bronze dish. The carved patterns are variegated, Intricately carved and interwoven. Who could make such a vessel? Only Gongshu and Lu Ban. Scarlet flames burn inside it, A fresh smoke billows within it, Following the breeze to the lord’s breast: No one seated around could not be pleased! But the fragrant breeze cannot stay long, In vain it makes the patchouli leaves wither.

Yoshikawa points out that the final couplet here introduces the theme of transience common in Han poetry (as in the “Nineteen Old Poems”). The similarity 52

Yutai xinyong jianzhu 1.4–5, where it is identified merely as another “Old Poem” 古詩; see Lu Qinli 334. There is a translation in Owen, The Making of Early Chinese Classical Poetry, 137. See also Yoshikawa Kōjirō’s article “Ko kōro shi” 古香爐詩, in Yoshikawa Kōjirō zenshū, 6: 331–39.

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with Ban Jieyu’s “Poem on Resentment” is so close that it seems certain one influenced the other. Both are representative yongwu poems “about things” that describe a single object and its effects on people. Both objects produce a special kind of breeze that can be used to please the lord, but which cannot be permanent. Since we cannot date the “Poem on the Incense Burner” precisely, any more than we can the “Poem of Resentment,” it is impossible to say how the influence was directed. One important difference is in the tone. The “Poem on the Incense Burner” is jovial throughout, and even the hint of worry in the final couplet seems more like a teasing caution than deep concern, while the “Poem on Resentment” earns its title through implications of real emotional distress. One good example of the difference this makes is line ten of “Poem on an Incense Burner,” identifying the maker of the incense burner as “Gongshu and Lu Ban.” According to several classical sources, Gongshu and Lu Ban are actually the same person, so this line can be read humorously.53 Perhaps owing to the sheer ubiquity of these images, Jiang Yan transformed the wind topos in his imitation of the “Poem of Resentment,” as the third poem in his “Diverse Forms.” Among numerous other innovations, including those discussed in the first chapter, he leaves out the lord’s embrace entirely, and the speaker instead worries about the cool autumn winds replacing the fan’s breeze:54 Diverse Forms #3 Favored Beauty Ban: Poem on a Fan 班婕妤：詠扇

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紈扇如團月 出自機中素 畫作秦王女 乘鸞向煙霧 彩色世所重 雖新不代故 竊愁涼風至 吹我玉階樹 君子恩未畢 53

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This fine silk fan is like the round moon, Deriving from the white silk of the loom. A painting shows the Princess of Qin, Who rides a simurgh into smoky haze. Bright colors are most prized by the world, But new ones can never replace the old. I worry that the cool breeze comes, And blows on us by the trees on the jade steps. While my lord’s favor has not been used up,

Yoshikawa, “Ko kōro shi,” 336–37; Yu Guanying, “Lun ‘Gongshu yu Lu Ban.’” See, e.g., Zhao Qi’s commentary to Mengzi (Mengzi zhushu 7a.1b), identifying Gongshu as Lu Ban, and also Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1: 192, l. 186n. Brigitta Lee discusses this imitation in “Imitation, Remembrance, and the Formation of the Poetic Past in Early Medieval China,” 20–26.

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零落在中路

I wither and perish midway through the journey.

The description of the painting on the fan here is no simple image, but an allusion to a particular story that adds a great deal of new context. Nong Yu 弄玉 was the Princess of Qin and legendary daughter of Duke Mu of Qin 秦穆公 (?–621 bce). She was also the wife of Xiao Shi 簫史, who excelled at playing the flute (xiao 簫, so he is also called by that surname), and imitating the cry of the phoenix. When Duke Mu gave him his daughter in marriage, he also built the Phoenix Terrace 鳳臺 for him. One evening, according to legend, he played his flute to summon a phoenix, and then rose into the sky to become an immortal, along with his wife Nong Yu.55 Jiang Yan’s imitation is not as playful and intimate as the “Poem of Resentment.” Whereas Ban Jieyu’s fan itself goes in and out of the lord’s breast and sleeve, Jiang Yan only describes its movement at a distance. He takes the personification farther, so that more of the poem could be taken to describe a palace lady directly, and not a fan representing a palace lady. The most striking addition, again, is the ekphrasis in the second couplet describing the painting on the fan. This adventure of an immortal maiden adds a new dimension to the poem, and one is tempted to speculate whether there might have been other Ban Jieyu poems to influence Jiang Yan, just as he had a range of Old Poems and Li Ling Poems to choose from in his first and second imitations. The topic of immortal transcendence is common in Jiang Yan’s works and probably reflects his own preoccupations more than his model’s. The painting on the fan suggests an analogy between the function of the fan and art itself. Like the fan, poetry can provide a special pleasure to one’s host, but that pleasure is only temporary, and always in danger of being replaced by some other entertainment. The nature of the winds in these poems is of special importance. The fan can stir up one kind of breeze, but nature provides its own winds as well, the cooling winds of autumn. The current of air produced by a fan is only an imitation, we might say, of nature’s winds. On the other hand, the fan does not actually create wind, but only displaces air, a process in which air applies pressure back on the fan itself. The fan’s relation to the wind is thus analogical to that of art and emotion; though art can be used to inspire emotion in its audience, emotions drive the creation of art as well. In Jiang Yan’s poem, an autumn chill is not the only threat to the fan’s prized place; it can also be replaced by another, newer fan. Jiang Yan is alluding here to Ban Jieyu’s replacement by the Zhao sisters while also reminding us of the 55

See Lie xian zhuan 1.17a. Jiang Yan also wrote an encomium to her (Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 5.198).

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artificiality of the fan itself, which is painted with bright colors to earn it popularity, but still has no assurance that it will remain in a state of favor forever. Art is impermanent and inauthentic, but can also construct representations of permanence, like the immortal painted on the surface of the fan, or its round shape suggesting the moon, whose incessant waxing and waning form a cycle that itself is constant. Jiang Yan is not the only reader of the poem to emphasize the fan’s shape. Modern scholars have discussed when round fans were first used in China. Lu Ji wrote a poem about Ban Jieyu, “Favored Beauty Ban” 班婕妤, that identifies the shape of the fan as well, sparing one character to mention it in the fourth line of the poem, which summarizes the “Poem of Resentment” in five words:56

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婕妤去辭寵 淹留終不見 寄情在玉階 託意為團扇 春苔暗階除 秋草蕪高殿 黃昏履綦絕 愁來空雨面

The Favored Beauty departed from favor, Hesitating a while, then seen no more. She expressed her feelings on the jade steps, Lodging her thoughts in a round fan. Spring moss shadowed the stairway, And autumn weeds grew over the high palace. By twilight the traces of her shoes were gone. Sorrow came, in vain fell the rain upon her face.

Jiang Yan may have been influenced by this poem, since he mentions the jade stairs as well. He has also followed Lu Ji in diminishing the yongwu qualities of the “Poem of Resentment.” The relations among all these Ban Jieyu poems are difficult to characterize. Jiang Yan’s poem follows the “Poem of Resentment” closely, but that poem itself may be an imitation of some other work, and Jiang Yan was influenced by the “Poem of Resentment” as well. These are all simply poems, presenting different kinds of fans, each creating its own displacement in the world, in a cycle never finally completed. In 1912, Ezra Pound adapted a translation of the “Poem of Resentment” by Herbert Giles into this poem:57

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Lu Qinli 661. The poem is included in Lu Ji’s collected works under the title “Plaint of the Favored Beauty” 倢伃怨. The earliest source for the poem is the Yuefu shiji, and it could be a misattribution, of an imitation, of an impersonation. See Personae: The Shorter Poems of Ezra Pound, 111. The “Fan-Piece” was originally published in Lustra (1913–1915), not in Cathay. See discussion in Wai-lim Yip, Ezra Pound’s Cathay, 60–61, and Hugh Kenner, The Pound Era, 197.

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Fan-Piece, for her Imperial Lord O fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade, You also are laid aside. Though Ezra Pound’s translation practice has been criticized, in this case his variations from the original are certainly intentional. He had access only to the reasonably faithful translation of Herbert Giles, so it might be better to call this poem an imitation. Pound’s poem takes a haiku-like form: the last line actually has seven syllables, but if one counts words the poem does conform to a 5–7–5 count. In just three brief lines Pound has contributed one original and extremely vivid detail, the “grass-blade,” recalling perhaps the analogy of life’s brevity to the dew on a grass-blade. Somewhat like Lu Ji, the final line states the point of the “Poem of Resentment,” rather than leaving the comparison implicit. Pound omits the roundness of the fan, but he found a new point of likeness between the fan and the palace lady, since Ban Jieyu’s position in life is as fragile and endangered as “frost on the grass-blade.” Like imitation, translation can induce personification, and translation from Chinese to English often requires the insertion of specific pronouns. The “Poem of Resentment” is in itself a tour de force of personification, and each new “fanpiece” is a reenactment of that first poetic insight, one that exists prior to its realization in any actual poem. Each time the poem is rewritten, two contradictory tendencies emerge. There is a centrifugal force that pulls the poem away from the speaker, to a point of view further away from the imagined Ban Jieyu (the process of ni 擬), and also a centripetal force that intensifies the selfconsciousness of the personification of the fan and the poetic act (the irony of prosopopoeia or niren 擬人). This tension mirrors the trajectory of the fan back and forth without final destination. The origins of pentasyllabic verse, then, lie in a process of imitation and adaptation of which we see only traces now. It is a process that continues throughout the history of Chinese verse, and even extends to the history of poetry outside China. Certain extant poems are instances when the imitation achieves a perfection of form and mastery of style; when Jiang Yan compresses a compendium of parting couplets, or when someone creates a poem that merely describes a fan, but suggests the arc of a human life at the same time. Imitation enacts a cycle of creation and transmission that evolves separately but parallel to human life, often reflecting human passions but retaining an aestheticized distance from them at the same time. This poetics of impersonation and re-enactment is precisely the channel by which the separate universes of individual experience approach each other in the realm of art.

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Echoing through the Rafters: The Afterlife of Jian’an Who says that past and present differ? Another age and ours may share a tune. Xie Lingyun1

⸪ Unlike the earliest pentasyllabic poems, with their shadowy origins in the Han dynasty, the next period in the history of pentasyllabic verse has been preserved in some detail in the historical record. This is the literary salon of Cao Cao’s 曹操 (155–220) court at Ye 鄴 (located in the southwest of modern Linzhang 臨漳 County, Hebei), during the Jian’an 建安 period (196–220), when Han imperial rule was collapsing. A comparison of Jiang Yan’s and Xie Lingyun’s imitations of these writers suggests the complex course of Jian’an poetry’s reception. Cao Zhi 曹植 (192–232), who was generally regarded by later readers as the outstanding poet of the era, receives less attention than we might expect. At the same time, Xie Lingyun’s depiction of the Jian’an era tells us more about Xie Lingyun than anything else, since his imaginative reconstruction is intimately concerned with his own political position and ideals. The imitation of admired models from the past, though certainly a way of paying homage, is also a way of construing literary history in one’s own image.2 Imitations of the Jian’an court show off the theatrical side of imitation poems, since they seem to revive these courtiers as they write occasional poems for one another. Yet Xie Lingyun’s imitations, in particular, deploy the ambiguity of their subjects with brilliant effect—each poem simultaneously an imaginative eulogy to an earlier poet and also a statement of his own point of view. Here Xie takes advantage of the general feature of poetry, that the reader (who is reading aloud) naturally imagines himself as the speaker of the poem. Jiang Yan can write his imitation of the fan poem because any reader of the original poem identifies with the fan. No matter how closely a single historical author may be identified with a poem, the poem is re-experienced and reimagined by 1 2

誰謂古今殊，異世可同調 (Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu 78).

One study that has illuminated this dimension of the poems is Lee, “Commemorating Literary Perfection.”

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004282452_006

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each new reader. In the complex interrelations of Jian’an imitations, with one poet imitating a poem composed in a social context, the imitative act mirroring the original social context, we can recognize the double voice of imitation poetry: writer as reader, reader as poet, poet as actor.3 That the Jian’an poets were the models for many successful imitations attests to their place in Chinese literary history. There was something fascinating in the lives of the Cao princes and their courtiers, writing their exuberant poems at one of the most tumultuous moments in Chinese political history. The interweaving of the celebration of life and the confrontation of death, as well as collective composition and individual voices, became a model of what poetry was. In Xie Lingyun’s retrospective fantasy the note of transience is especially clear. Although he wrote that “another age and ours may share a tune,” his suite simultaneously emphasizes the pastness of Jian’an, with implicit references to the plague in 217 that killed off half the Jian’an poets. Jiang Yan imitated four of the eight poets that Xie Lingyun had imitated. A comparison of these various imitations suggests the cumulative effect of canonization and criticism, as each new reading tends to build on earlier ones. At the same time, placed in context of his series of thirty “Diverse Forms,” Jiang Yan’s imitations do place the Jian’an poets more explicitly in the context of poetic tradition. Yet the pathos of Xie Lingyun’s series that is reflected in Jiang’s imitations suggests another layer of significance in imitation poems generally. As we read along in the series of thirty “Diverse Forms,” the transition from one style or period to another implies a recognition of the loss of those poets as well. For both Xie and Jiang, imitating the Jian’an poets is a séance-like summoning of the voices of the dead to speak again in the present. Indeed, this summons is part of the implicit message of these imitations for their own later readers. In a sense, by writing these poems that seem to revive poets of the past, Xie Lingyun and Jiang Yan are asking us today to revive them once again by reading them imaginatively. Wang Can Poems and “Wang Can” Poems The imitations of the Jian’an poets, unlike those of “Old Poems,” Li Ling, or even Ban Jieyu, refer explicitly to events of the poets’ lives. They are not so much stylistic imitations per se, except in the general sense that “style makes 3

Mei Jialing elaborates further on this interpretation of Xie Lingyun’s suite in Han Wei Liuchao wenxue xinlun: nidai yu zengda pian. A related study is Doran, “‘Perspective and Appreciation in Xie Lingyun’s ‘Imitations of the Crown Prince of Wei’s Gatherings at Ye.’”

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the man” (in Chinese wen ru qi ren 文如其人). It is essential to place these poems in the context of the original authors’ lives, as well as their poems. A representative case is one of the finest poets of the court, Wang Can 王粲 (177–217), whose life encompasses both journeys through hostile countryside and eulogistic poems at the Ye court. Wang Can spent several years studying with the polymath Cai Yong 蔡邕 (132–192) in Chang’an when the capital was sent into confusion by the overthrow of Dong Zhuo 董卓(?–192). In the following year, 193, Wang fled south to join the governor of Jingzhou 荊州 (modern Hubei and Hunan), Liu Biao 劉 表 (144–208). Either during this trip or recalling it later, Wang Can wrote “Sevenfold Sorrow” 七哀, which depicts both his own hardships and the anarchy that beset the final years of the Eastern Han dynasty:4 Sevenfold Sorrow

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西京亂無象 豺虎方遘患 復棄中國去 委身適荊蠻 親戚對我悲 朋友相追攀 出門無所見 白骨蔽平原 路有飢婦人 抱子棄草間 顧聞號泣聲 4

The Western Capital was in chaos and disorder, Dholes and tigers fomenting ruin there.5 So I had to leave the central states, And went to Jing and Man for refuge.6 My family faced me in misery, And my friends clung onto me. When I left the gate I saw nothing But white bones covering the plain. On the road was a starving woman, She embraced her child, and left it in the grass. She looked back and heard it sobbing,

Wen xuan 23.1087; translations in Miao, Early Medieval Chinese Poetry, 130; Diény, “Lecture de Wang Can (177–217),” 294–95. The poem discussed here is the first of two “Sevenfold Sorrow” by Wang Can included in the Wen xuan. There is also a third preserved in the Guwen yuan 古 文苑, but throughout this chapter “Sevenfold Sorrow” will be used exclusively to refer to the first of these. See Lu Qinli 365–66 for all three texts. 5 The dholes and tigers represent the various bandits and warlords rampant at the end of the Eastern Han. 6 The Man were a foreign people of the south, known from antiquity. Cf. Mao shi 178/4: “Foolish indeed the Man of Jing, / Taking our great nation as a rival” 蠢爾蠻荊、大邦為讎. But “Man and Jing” was used a general term for the southern states of Chu and Yue, or the people of the South. Here it indicates Jingzhou, with an added implication of foreignness because of the mention of the Man. Wang Can served with Liu Biao in Jingzhou 荊州 until Liu’s death in 208, when Wang joined Cao Cao in Ye. He discusses his feelings of homesickness and frustration in the “Fu on Climbing a Tower” (Wen xuan 11.489–92).

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揮涕獨不還 未知身死處 何能兩相完 驅馬棄之去 不忍聽此言 南登霸陵岸 回首望長安 悟彼下泉人 喟然傷心肝

But wiping her tears, alone, did not go back. “Not even knowing how we are to die, How can I keep the two of us alive?”7 I drove my horse on past her, Not bearing to hear these words. Southward I climbed the banks of Baling, And gazed back towards Chang’an.8 Now I understand that man of the “Underground Springs,”9 And cry from the pain in my innermost heart.

This poem depicts the suffering of one of the countless refugees left homeless in the tumult of Jian’an, the final reign period of the Eastern Han.10 It is a masterpiece because of the way it combines a memorable and realistic anecdote, told in straightforward language, with the framing of allusion and history. Wang Can passes a mother forced by desperation to abandon her own child, but then gazes back towards the capital, thinking of the legacy of the Han empire. Finally, he recalls the classic poem in the Book of Songs, “Underground Springs,” almost as if he has been cast down in the underworld himself, only able to gaze hopefully at the world of light represented by imperial order. Most modern studies of the poem begin by dating it to 208.11 But it is worth noting that Qing critic Zhang Yugu 張玉穀 (1721–1780) suggested that Wang Can wrote the poem later on, recalling the journey.12 This is not a particularly important issue, except to the extent that, by dating the poem to 208, critics are identifying it as a kind of spontaneous or inevitable response to those events, and thereby misreading the poem. It is at least equally likely that Wang Can could have written the poem after he had already arrived at Ye for an appreciative audience there. As we will see below, fifth-century imitators of the Jian’an 7 8 9

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Li Shan notes that this couplet is spoken by the woman. Baling was the tomb of Emperor Wen of the Han, and Chang’an the Western Han capital, so both are reminders of past glory. According to the Mao preface to Mao shi 153, “Xia quan” 下泉, the author composed the poem out of his longing for a just sovereign and benevolent government (Mao shi zhengyi 7C.9a). Though in literature it extends beyond this period into the reign of Cao’s son Cao Pi 曹丕 (187–226), who declared himself Emperor of the new Wei 魏 dynasty in 220. E.g., Xu Gongchi, Wei Jin wenxue shi, 103. See Zhang Yugu, Gushi shangxi, 9.214: “[Wang Can] recalls the events from his journey to Jing, and laments them” 追敘赴荊時事而感懷也. See also Mu Zhai, “Lun Wang Can yu wuyan shi de chengshou—jian zheng ‘Qi ai shi, ‘Za shi’ de xiezuo shijian,” arguing that Wang Can’s pentasyllabic poems date to after 209.

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poets read Jian’an poetry as relating to the full trajectories of the poets’ lives. Wang Can’s poem can indeed be understood in this way—as a sort of retrospective imagining of a journey long completed.13 In that case, Wang Can would have written the poem for one of the most brilliant and appreciative literary audiences known to history. By Jian’an, the authority of the Han had already disintegrated, and Cao Cao was steadily gaining control of northern China. After conquering the city of Ye in 204, Cao Cao made it the base of his military expeditions, establishing Ye as his capital in 213. Cao Cao gathered a coterie of talented writers and scholars to his court at Ye, including the so-called “Seven Masters of Jian’an.” Throughout this period Cao Cao was engaged in military expeditions, first defeating local warlords in Northern China, and later attempting to overturn the rival states of Wu and Shu. At the court of Ye there was still time for revelry and literature, as described by Liu Xie in Wenxin diaolong:14 [The Jian’an writers] were bold and free before the ale goblets and bronze dishes, and they rested easily on their mats and cushions. They wielded the brush to complete their drunken songs, and modulated the ink to assist their laughing conversations.

傲雅觴豆之前，雍容衽席之上，灑筆以成酣歌，和墨以藉談 笑。 Wang Can was one of these talents, having joined Cao Cao in 208 after the death of Liu Biao. Because his abilities were never appreciated by Liu Bao, Wang had felt frustrated throughout his fifteen years in Jingzhou, and rejoiced at the chance to serve Cao Cao (although he continued to feel his true merit undervalued). He joined in the celebrations of the court, and wrote one of several “Lord’s Feast” 公讌 poems from this time.15 It seems that his poem was not written on the same occasion as those of Liu Zhen 劉楨 (170?–217) and Cao Zhi 曹植 (192–232), which were addressed to Cao Pi 曹丕 (187–226).16 Though

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Not to mention that the practical issues of writing and preserving a poem during a harrowing journey in the third century would be daunting also. See Wenxin diaolong zhu 45.673. Wen xuan 20.943–44; Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 20.15a–16a. Translated in Owen, The Making of Early Classical Chinese Poetry, 205–6. See Robert Joe Cutter, “Cao Zhi’s (192–232) Symposium Poems,” 7–9, and Itō Masafumi, Ken’an shijin to sono dentō, 146.

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the poem’s eulogistic metaphors are conventional and doubtless obligatory, it is easy to imagine that they were heartfelt as well: Lord’s Feast

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昊天降豐澤 百卉挺葳蕤 涼風撤蒸暑 清雲卻炎暉 高會君子堂 並坐蔭華榱 佳肴充圓方 旨酒盈金罍 管絃發徽音 曲度清且悲 合坐同所樂 但愬杯行遲 常聞詩人語 不醉且無歸 今日不極歡 含情欲待誰 見眷良不翅 守分豈能違 古人有遺言 君子福所綏 願我賢主人 與天享巍巍 克符周公業 奕世不可追

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Awesome heaven lets fall rich moisture, And the hundred plants rise up bud by bud. The cool breeze sweeps away humid summer, And fresh clouds block out the blazing sun. At our lofty meeting in the hall of gentlemen, We sit together shaded by the ornate rafters. Savory meats fill the square and round dishes, Sweet ale tops the golden cups. The pipes and strings make a fine sound, Its tune comes clear and sad. Sitting together we share our happiness, Complaining only that the cups are passed too slowly. We often hear the words of the Songs poet: “We won’t go home until we’re drunk!”17 If today we do not drain our pleasures, For whom shall we save our passions?18 Though I am cherished far more than would be meet, I will observe my duty and not transgress my place. The ancients had a saying that has persisted: “May fortune attach to the gentleman!”19 I hope that our worthy host May find enjoyment lofty as heaven. He can match the legacy of the Duke of Zhou; For generation upon generation he will not be equaled.20

Mao shi 174/1: “At ease, we drink into the night, / Not returning till we are drunk” 厭厭夜 飲、不醉無歸. Li Shan glosses han qing 含情 as “to keep in one’s joyful emotions and not release them” 含其歡情而不暢之. Mao shi 4/1: “Oh, happy is our lord, / May fortune and wealth attach to him!” 樂只君子， 福履綏之. Cf. Jiang Yan’s imitation below. The weighty, archaic diction here helps to convey the sentiment, asserting Cao Cao’s rightful place as successor to the heroes of the Zhou. “Can match” 克符 echoes Mao shi 235/6: “Before Yin lost its people, / It was worthy of the Supreme Lord” 殷之未喪師、克 配上帝; “generation upon generation” 奕世 appears in Guo yu 1.9: “Bearing their virtue

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In addition to his pentasyllabic poetry, Wang Can wrote a number of ceremonial songs celebrating the Wei; these display his classical learning, and traces of his erudition are present here.21 The formal and classical diction here contrast powerfully with the more colloquial tone of “Sevenfold Sorrow,” in accord with the different topic. In the contrast between these two poems by Wang Can we can discern the range of Jian’an literature: the clear-eyed depiction of human suffering and the jubilant celebration of a great court. Different as the two poems are, they are linked by their attention to the sovereign. The imagined sovereign is conspicuous throughout “Sevenfold Sorrow” by his absence—the capital emptied of its emperor, the roads unguarded, the people abandoned. The ebullient praise of the new ruler in the “Lord’s Feast” poem is justified by the awareness of the consequences of anarchy in “Sevenfold Sorrow.” Though the physical journey from the capital to Jingzhou was harrowing, it is Wang Can’s psychological journey, from the anguish of “Sevenfold Sorrow” to the celebration of “Lord’s Feast,” that is even more dramatic. Fifth-century imitations of Jian’an poetry are centered around this same drama rather than the themes of individual Jian’an poems. It is a drama whose outlines are only implicit in the writings of the Jian’an poets, but defined clearly by the fifth-century poets who wrote about their lives. From the point of view of literary history, the Jian’an court established pentasyllabic shi poetry as a major genre, defining its boundaries and conventions. The Wenxin diaolong continues, after the passage quoted above, to identify the special characteristics of Jian’an writing: When we examine the writings of this time, they generally tend to be righteously impassioned (kangkai). Truly, because that time had ongoing war and anarchy, customs were in decline and the people were resentful. They had profound intentions and far-reaching brushes, so their works were passionate and full of vital energy.

觀其時文，雅好慷慨，良由世積亂離，風衰俗怨，竝志深而 筆長，故梗槩而多氣也。 It is obvious how Wang Can’s “Sevenfold Sorrow,” with its evocation of war and its mood of horror and outrage, suits Liu Xie’s summary of the essence of

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for generation upon generation, not shaming those who came before” 奕世載德，不忝 前人. “Yu er wu ge” 俞兒舞歌, Song shu 20.571.

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Jian’an writing. His “Lord’s Feast” poem is also vigorous and impassioned, even if the mood is celebratory and the substance less dramatic than “Sevenfold Sorrows.” There are examples of pentasyllabic verse from before the Jian’an period, but they are often suspect in attribution and dating. Though the Jian’an writers wrote prolifically in a variety of genres, including fu and prose forms, the volume and range of their pentasyllabic poetry were unprecedented. Jian’an shi were different from earlier poetry in their subjective and autobiographical qualities as well. Although the shorter fu was often used in the Han as a vehicle for personal emotions, the speaker of these fu was rarely identified with the author of the piece, but often some fictional substitute, such as a palace lady, as in Sima Xiangru’s “Fu on the Tall Gate Palace” 長門賦, or even an animal, as in Mi Heng’s 禰衡 “Fu on the Parrot” 鸚鵡賦. Jian’an poets wrote shi poems that purport to relate their own experiences and feelings, without such ventriloquistic devices.22 David Knechtges identifies this development as “an increasing specificity of place, time, and voice” in the late Eastern Han, exemplified by Cai Yong’s “Fu Relating a Journey” 述行賦, and suggests that this trend originated in the fu.23 Wang Can’s “Sevenfold Sorrow,” in particular, derives its sense of historicity from Han travel poems, such as Ban Biao’s 班彪 “Fu on a Western Journey” and Cai Yong’s fu.24 In fact, Wang Can learned much from Cai Yong during his years in Chang’an. If we are to believe the story in Wang’s biography, that Cai Yong gave him his library, it seems that if the Han dynasty had only survived longer, Wang Can might have become as accomplished and versatile a scholar as his teacher.25 The fall of the Han forced Wang’s genius in the direction of lyric poetry instead. “Sevenfold Sorrow” vividly evokes Wang Can’s reaction to his experiences, portraying his own life with extraordinary precision.26 In his analysis of “Sevenfold Sorrow,” Jean-Pierre Diény criticizes the literal and autobiographical interpretation of this poem by the Five Officials and later commentators.27 Diény identifies a system of allusions and intertextual resonance that demonstrate the poem’s complex design and artificiality, including 22

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According to Suzuki Shūji, the anonymous yuefu and “old poems” of this period offer a romanticized depiction of the pain of parting from one’s loved ones, while Wang Can’s “Sevenfold Sorrow” can be seen as a more realistic depiction of one refugee’s experience (Kan Gi shi no kenkyū, 454). Knechtges, “Poetic Travelogue in the Han Fu,” 152. Itō, Ken’an shijin to sono dentō, 81. Sanguo zhi 21.597. Cf. Suzuki Shūji, Kan Gi shi no kenkyū, 615. Diény, “Lecture de Wang Can,” 295–99.

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a series of doublings and antitheses: “central states” opposed to “Man of Jing” (ll. 3–4); “embraced” and then “left” (10); “climbed the banks” opposed to “gazed back” (17–18); finally “that man” versus “my liver and heart” (19–20). He concludes that the success of the poem lies “dans la richesse du réseau de relations que le poème entretient à l’extérieur de lui-même avec toute une tradition littéraire, ainsi que dans l’harmonieuse disposition des correspondances intérieures.”28 In spite of this analysis of the poem as a harmonious juxtaposition of interior and exterior correspondences, Diény himself argues that the woman who abandons her baby is a double of the narrator himself. She is a fictional, even allegorical, character who represents the suffering of thousands, but she also embodies the personal sorrows of Wang Can to which the poem finally returns. The sequence of events and the details of the poem are crafted artistically, and are by no means direct descriptions of Wang Can’s experience, yet the poem is centered around Wang Can’s actual journey and tragedy of exile in a country ravaged by civil war. The final couplet alludes implicitly to the real joy he must have felt when he was finally under the protection of Cao Cao, the just sovereign only dreamt of by the “Underground Springs” poet. The autobiographical impulse intrinsic to the poem can be discerned via commentaries to the text as well. Diény disputes the Wuchen reading of “Sevenfold Sorrow,” allying himself with Li Shan, who refrains from making any direct interpretive comments about the poem (as is his usual practice). Although Li Shan’s comments are confined to identifying textual allusions and parallels, they still provide implicit support for an autobiographical reading of the poem, although with characteristic subtlety. A note to the second couplet of “Sevenfold Sorrow” points out that the phrase “Jing Man” 荊蠻 has already been explicated in the notes to Wang Can’s “Fu on Climbing the Tower.” Li Shan normally notes previous occurrences of a phrase, especially within the Wen xuan itself, to refer the reader to his earlier explication. But in fact the phrase “Jing Man” does not occur in the “Fu on Climbing the Tower.” The link between the poems is not these words themselves, that is, but rather the fact that Wang Can’s fu was written in Jingzhou, and expresses the longing for home he felt there. The intertextual reading of “Sevenfold Sorrow,” then, cannot be disentangled from the autobiographical reading, as Li Shan’s commentary to the Wen xuan shows in so many ways. The cry of pain at the end of “Sevenfold Sorrow” can be read as a sigh of relief when we know that Wang later arrived at the righteous court that the “Underground Springs” poet had only dreamt of. But we should not aim to distinguish personal emotion from textual allusion so sharply. A consummate 28

Ibid., 299.

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scholar like Wang Can surely could have viewed his own life in the context of literature as well; it is not sufficient to seek out the influence of the life on the work without also considering how the work in turn creates the life.29 The allusion to “Underground Springs” is not just literary embellishment but one of the keystones of meaning by which Wang Can understood himself; it may be autobiographical in the same sense as the story of the woman abandoning her baby. When Xie Lingyun, in his series of eight poems “Modeled on the Collection of the Crown Prince of Wei at Ye” 擬魏太子鄴中集, imitated Wang Can, his subject was both the biography and poetic oeuvre at once. In this sense it is a highly sophisticated reading of Wang Can’s poetry.30 The poem is preceded by a brief preface: Modeled on the Collection of the Crown Prince of Wei at Ye: Wang Can His home was originally in Qinchuan.31 He was the son of a noble house, but forced to flee into exile during the wars, which caused him much sorrow. 家本秦川，貴公子孫，遭亂流寓，自傷情多。

幽厲昔崩亂 桓靈今板蕩 伊洛既燎煙 函崤沒無象 29

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Long ago the world fell into the upheaval of You and Li,32 And recently there was the chaos of Huan and Ling.33 The banks of the Yi and Luo have burned to ashes, The passes of Han and Xiao collapsed in disorder.34

Cf. Paul de Man in “Autobiography as De-Facement”: “Autobiography, then, is not a genre or a mode, but a figure of reading or of understanding that occurs, to some degree, in all texts” (The Rhetoric of Romanticism, 70). Wen xuan 30.1432–39; Liuchen zhu Wenxuan 30.38b–48a; Huang Jie, Xie Kangle shi zhu, 4.9b–19b; Gu Shaobo, Xie Lingyun ji jiao zhu, 199–234; Li Yunfu, Xie Lingyun ji, 119–36. English translation in J.D. Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1: 159–68; German translation in von Zach, Die chinesische Anthologie: Übersetzungen aus dem Wen hsüan von Erwin von Zach, 1.568–75; and Japanese translations in Shiba and Hanabusa, Monzen, 310–21; and Uchida and Ami, Monzen: shihen, 2: 683–98. Wang Can’s native place was actually Gaoping 高平 in modern Shandong. Qinchuan refers to the Chang’an area, where Wang Can studied with Cai Yong. This misleading, if not inaccurate, statement is a good indication of Xie’s limited interest in historical detail here. Scholars who treat these poems as a historical source for the biographies of Jian’an poets may not be reading them properly. You and Li were incompetent kings of the Zhou dynasty. Huan and Ling were the last Eastern Han Emperors. Amending 像 to 象 based on the Wuchen text.

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整裝辭秦川 秣馬赴楚壤 沮漳自可美 客心非外獎 常歎詩人言 式微何由往 上宰奉皇靈 侯伯咸宗長 雲騎亂漢南 紀郢皆掃盪 排霧屬盛明 披雲對清朗 慶泰欲重疊 公子特先賞 不謂息肩願 一旦值明兩 並載遊鄴京 方舟汎河廣 綢繆清讌娛 寂寥梁棟響 既作長夜飲 豈顧乘日養

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I packed my belongings and departed Qinchuan, Fed my horse and went to the territory of Chu.35 Though the waters of Ju and Zhang may be fair, The traveler’s heart is not sustained by foreign sights.36 I often sighed with the poet of the Songs: “Ruined, ruined”: where to go now?37 The Supreme Minister served Emperor Ling, The Marquis and Earls all took him as leader. The clouds of riders had wrought chaos south of the Han, But he swept them clear away at Jiying.38 The fog cleared to let in his grand luminosity, The clouds dispersed to show his pure air.39 Fortune and peace should come as a pair: It was the lord’s sons alone who first favored me. Though my desire was only to rest my shoulders, In one day I came upon twin brilliances.40 Sharing a carriage we roamed the Ye capital, In parallel crafts we crossed the Yellow River’s breadth. How dearly cling the pleasures of those lofty feasts, And softly linger the echoes in the rafters.41 When we have drunk all through the long night, What need to rest ourselves at day?

The penultimate couplet alludes to a story that is recorded in Liezi 列子.42 Han E 韓娥was a traveling singer who sang in Qi 齊 in exchange for food. After 35 36 37

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I.e. Jingzhou 荊州, where Wang Can went to serve with Liu Biao 劉表. This couplet recalls Wang Can’s sentiments in the “Fu on Climbing the Tower.” Citing Mao shi 36 “Shi wei” 式微: “We are ruined! We are ruined! / Why not return?” 式微 式微，胡不歸. The implication is actually the sense of the following line, “Why not return?”, which rhymes with the first line. Jiying 紀郢 is Ying 郢, the ancient capital of Chu, located in modern Jiangling江陵 City, Hubei. Both metaphors convey extravagant praise for Cao Cao. Xu Gan’s 徐幹 Zhong lun 中論 contains a very similar sentence: “King Wen’s intelligence was brilliant, as when clouds disperse to show the sun; and instantaneous, as when fog opens to show the sky” 文王之 識也，灼然若批雲而見日，霍然若開霧而觀天. See Zhong lun jiaozhu 16.239. The “twin brilliances” are the sun and moon, according to Gu Shaobo representing Cao Pi. But they could also represent Cao Zhi and Cao Pi together. Dong 棟 can more precisely be translated “purlin.” Liezi jishi 5.177–78.

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he left, the sound of his music continued to echo in the rafters for three days, so that people thought he had never left. This is a splendid metaphor for the effect of Wang Can’s poetry, which remained so meaningful to Xie Lingyun that he chose to rewrote it, creating new echoes for the music of Jian’an. The “Wang Can” poem embodies the full range of Wang Can’s experience, which Xie could have studied from Wang’s “Sevenfold Sorrow” and other writings. The poem begins very much in the “Sevenfold Sorrow” vein, using the same word for disorder that Wang Can had.43 It covers his journey in just a few couplets, including a Shijing allusion that parallels the conclusion to “Sevenfold Sorrow,” then briskly transitions to another description of Cao Cao’s conquests and praise of his virtue, and finally describes the revelry at Ye. This biography in verse of Wang Can begins with the decline of the Han dynasty and concludes with the present moment (within the fiction of Xie’s series) of the feast. The content of Xie’s poem is quite different from any particular work of Wang Can’s. Nearly all Wang Can’s poems, including his “Fu on Climbing the Tower” and his shi poetry, are set in a particular context and relate an emotional progression. Though here “Wang Can” does sigh in regret in lines 9–10, little of the poem relates directly to personal emotion or feeling. When the opening describes the setting of “Sevenfold Sorrow” #1 and #2, there is no trace of the moving, realistic story that is told in “Sevenfold Sorrow,” or any of the yuefu elements of Wang Can’s poetry. Xie Lingyun, throughout his poetry, including his yuefu, rarely employs the plain language of the older yuefu songs. Instead, the poem borrows its setting and themes from Wang Can’s “Lord’s Feast” poem, but with entirely different effect because of the “Sevenfold Sorrow”-style introduction. One might say that he has borrowed the tune but set it to different lyrics. In an actual occasional poem for a feast it would be inappropriate to discuss one’s experiences earlier in life, or to retell recent historical events of which everyone in the room would already be fully aware. To suit the context of his re-creations, though, Xie needs to provide that context. As a result, his poem is more specific in place, time, and voice than any of Wang Can’s work. For instance, Xie mentions Wang Can’s time spent in Qinchuan both in the preface and the poem itself. The questions posed by Diény are irrelevant to a poem that is based so neatly on Wang Can’s biography, and even supplied with a prose introduction that comments on his personality. Xie’s poem makes sense of the themes of “Sevenfold Sorrow” and “Lord’s Feast” as two threads in the same fabric of Wang Can’s life. By weaving them back together he has made a 43

Wu xiang 無象 “disorder.” See above, “Sevenfold Sorrow,” l. 1.

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poem that lacks the lyric intensity of Wang Can’s, but has its own narrative coherence and the seamless consistency of fiction. In his “Poems in Diverse Forms,” Jiang Yan’s imitation of Wang Can likewise presents an interpretation of Wang Can’s life:44 Diverse Forms #7 Palace Attendant Wang Can: Harboring Gratitude 王侍中粲：懷德

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伊昔值世亂 秣馬辭帝京 既傷蔓草別 方知杕杜情 崤函復丘墟 冀闕緬縱橫 倚棹泛涇渭 日暮山河清 鸛鷁在幽草 客子淚已零 去鄉三十載 44

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Those days long ago I met with the turmoil of the age: With fodder for my horse, I depart the imperial demesne. I suffered a parting comparable to “Creeping Grass,”45 Only then knew I the sorrow of “Tall Pear-tree.”46 The passes of Xiao and Han are once again desolate hills,47 And the Ji palaces far off are in turmoil.48 Leaning on the oar I ride the Jing and Wei,49 At sunset the mountains and rivers are chilly. Storks and herons stand amid the dark plants, This traveler’s tears already streaming down. Having left home for thirty years,

This poem is also preserved in Wenxuan jizhu 61.681–86. The only other poems translated in this chapter that are preserved there are Jiang Yan’s imitation of Cao Zhi (61.676–80) and of Cao Pi (in part; 61.675–76). For this part of the manuscript the only commentaries included are Li Shan, the Wuchen, and Lu Shanjing. The Lu Shanjing commentary is very short, so the Wenxuan jizhu manuscript does not differ greatly from the received texts. Mao shi 94, “There is creeping grass on the moor” 野有蔓草, on the illicit meeting of lovers. Li Shan quotes the Mao preface, which associates the poem specifically with a time of political disturbance when lovers are not joined according to proper ritual customs, but must meet in secret or haphazardly (Mao shi zhengyi 4D.11a). “Diverse Forms” #1 also alludes to this poem. An allusion to Mao shi 119, “Pear Tree” 杕杜, about the loneliness of someone divided from his family, as in ll. 6–7: “Alas for the one who travels on, / Why doesn’t somebody help him?” 嗟行之人，胡不比焉. Li Shan identifies Xiao 崤 as Xiaogu 崤谷 Pass, also known as Sanguan 散關, located in modern Shaanxi, Baoji 寶鷄 County, and Han 函 as Hangu 函谷 Pass, south of modern Lingbao 靈寶 County, Henan. It is also possible, however, that Xiao refers to Xiao Mountain or the Two Xiao, as in Ban Gu’s “Western Capital Rhapsody.” See Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1: 98. The Ji Palace was built by Duke Xiao 孝 of Qin (381–338 BCE) at Xianyang. See Shi ji 5.203. The Jing and Wei are two rivers, one of which is clear and the other muddy (as in Mao shi 35), which meet south of Gaoling 高陵 in Shaanxi.

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幸遭天下平 賢主降嘉賞 金貂服玄纓 侍宴出河曲 飛蓋遊鄴城 朝露竟幾何 忽如水上萍 君子篤惠義 柯葉終不傾 福履既所綏 千載垂令名

I was fortune enough to find peace under heaven. My sagely host bestowed a fine reward, And I wore a cap of gold and marten with black tassels.50 I accompanied feasts by the Yellow River’s bends, Under a flying canopy visited the city of Ye. “How long can the morning dew last? It is fleeting as duckweed on the water.”51 But my lord is constant in favor and duty, His branches and leaves will never fall. May happiness and wealth attach to you, Your fair name passed on a thousand years.52

Most striking, given the preceding discussion, is the structural similarity between this poem and Xie’s “Wang Can.” Jiang Yan may well have had Xie’s poem in mind while writing his own. Jiang begins with the “world’s troubles,” describes Wang Can’s journey, and ends with the arrival at Cao’s court and gratitude for Cao’s generosity there. This narrative is all quite similar to Xie’s poem, though with less emphasis on the feast (here covered only in lines 15–16). Perhaps because it is four lines shorter, though, Jiang’s poem feels more cramped than Xie’s. Sun Yuefeng 孫月峰 (1542–1613) comments that Jiang’s imitation “attains Jian’an ‘wind and bone,’ but is slightly inferior because its trajectory is too fragmented” 有建安風骨，所少遜者，畦徑太分耳.53 The incongruous “Old Poems”-style couplet “How long can the morning dew last? / It is fleeting as duckweed on the water” adds to this impression. Jiang’s poem lacks the organic fluidity of Wang Can’s, and suggests Jiang’s difficulty in copying the Jian’an mode, which was so different from his own flowery and sentimental style. Xie achieves a smoother imitation by adapting his own technique to the topic of the Jian’an court. The contrast might also suggest Jiang’s 50 51

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The proper regalia for Wang’s position as palace attendant. The image of duckweed is also used in Jiang Yan’s “Old Poem” imitation, though with different implications. Li Shan also cites Li Ling’s words to Su Wu: “Man’s life is as the morning dew” 人生如朝露 (Shi ji 54.2464). This couplet is not a quotation, so far as we know, but it resembles the “Old Poems” or the Li Ling poems so closely that it feels out of place in this Wang Can imitation. I have put it in quotation marks to indicate its incongruity here. This couplet adapts Wang Can’s “Lord’s Feast” (Wen xuan 20.944): “The ancients had a saying which has persisted, / ‘May good fortune comfort our lord’” 故人有遺言，君子 福所綏, which in turn derives from Mao shi 4/1: “Oh, happy is our lord, / May fortune and wealth comfort him!” 樂只君子，福履綏之. See Pingzhu Zhaoming Wenxuan 7.42b.

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attempt to create a suite of different voices within his poetry: the “Old Poems” couplet seems out of place within an ordinary poem, but is consistent with the overall method of the “Diverse Forms.” Perhaps Jiang Yan’s poems should not be read as integral poems but rather as miniature suites within larger ones. In spite of the differences, both Jiang and Xie choose for the subject of their imitations not the subject of any of Wang Can’s poems, but Wang Can’s life and poetry in tandem. These examples show us that imitation poetry can in practice involve a dramatic transformation of the source texts. Rather than simply writing a pastiche of Wang Can poems, both Xie and Jiang attempt something more ambitious, nearly achieving a study of Wang Can’s life. In this sense they are aspiring to revive Wang Can as a person, not merely rewrite his work. The Ghost Poems of Xie Lingyun Xie’s “Wang Can” is just one of eight poems in the suite “Modeled on the Collection of the Crown Prince of Wei at Ye.” Though based on historical figures and their poems, the suite can be seen as a literary construct purposefully distanced in striking ways from the poems that form its primary sources. Xie Lingyun adroitly exploits the various distances between his imitations and the original poems, and between himself and the original Jian’an writers, creating multiple layers of dramatic irony.54 Xie imitates Cao Pi 曹丕 (187–226), Wang Can, Chen Lin 陳琳 (d. 217), Xu Gan 徐幹 (170–217/218), Liu Zhen 劉楨 (170?– 217), Ying Yang 應瑒 (170?–217), Ruan Yu 阮瑀 (ca. 167–212), and Cao Zhi 曹植 (192–232). The first and last are the two prodigiously gifted sons of Cao Cao. Cao Cao himself, though in later times considered a major poet in his own right, did not have much of a literary reputation in the Six Dynasties, perhaps because his literary achievements were overshadowed to such a great extent by his military and political deed.55 Between them are six of the so-called “Seven Masters of Jian’an,” omitting Kong Rong 孔融 (153–208). Kong Rong is known as one of the seven masters because he is one of the seven Jian’an writers whom Cao Pi discusses in his famous essay “Lun wen” 論文 in Dian lun 典論; however, he did not participate in the literary activities of the other Jian’an writ-

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See again Mei Jialing, Han Wei Liuchao wenxue xinlun—nidai yu zengda pian, 1–62. In modern times, though, his literary star has risen, particularly in the West. See, for example, the recent translation of his poetic works, with thorough annotation, by Diény: Les Poèmes de Cao Cao.

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ers.56 Kong Rong had an uncompromising character, and was executed in 208 for offending Cao Cao. For the purposes of our discussion, the “Jian’an Masters” were Wang Can, Chen Lin, Xu Gan, Liu Zhen, Ying Yang, Ruan Yu, and sometimes Cao Zhi. According to the biography of Wang Can, the literary clique led by Cao Pi was formed in 211—the same year that Cao Pi was appointed “leader of court gentlemen for miscellaneous purposes” (wuguan zhonglang jiang 五官中朗 將).57 But we also have evidence that these writers were engaged in group composition as early as 209, when Ying Yang, Wang Can, and Chen Lin all composed “Fu on the Goddess” 神女賦.58 However, the entire group was together for only a short interval, as Ruan Yu died in 212 of unknown causes, and the remaining five writers all died in 217 or 218.59 In 219, Cao Pi wrote a letter to Wu Zhi 吳質 reflecting on those happy times which departed so swiftly:60 … Some years ago during the plague, several men close to me suffered the same calamity. Xu, Chen, Ying, and Liu all vanished at once, causing me a pain I can barely speak of! In the old days we enjoyed ourselves, traveling in carriages side by side, sitting next to one another on mats—how could I have lost them all in a moment? Each time the goblets were flowing with wine, silk and bamboo instruments played in unison; our ears burned from the wine, but we looked up and composed poems. That time passed so swiftly I didn’t myself realize what happiness it was. It seemed that we could sustain ourselves through the passage of a hundred years. Who suspected that in just a few years they would all wither and perish? Recently I have compiled their remaining writings, and made a collection for each. Seeing their names I realize it is already a register of ghosts….

昔年疾疫，親故多離其災。徐，陳，應，劉一時俱逝，痛可 言邪！昔日遊處，行則連輿，止則接席，何曾須臾相失？每 56 57 58 59

60

For example, while all the others wrote fu on shared topics, no fu by Kong Rong are extant. See Yu Shaochu, Jian’an qizi ji, 2–3; also Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 160. See Yu Shaochu, “Jian’an qizi nianpu,” in Jian’an qizi ji, 418; also, the biography of Wang Can, Sanguo zhi 21.599. See Yu Shaochu, “Jian’an qizi nianpu,” 414. The others died of the same epidemic in Ye, but Wang Can died while traveling (see “Jian’an qizi nianpu,” 439, 440). For Xu Gan’s death date of 218, see Yu Shaochu, “Jian’an qizi nianpu,” 442. Wen xuan 42.1896–98; Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 42.12a–15a. For the date, see “Jian’an qizi nianpu,” 440, citing Shen Yucheng 沈玉成 and Fu Xuancong 傅璇琮, Zhonggu wenxue congkao 中古文學叢考.

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至觴酌流行，絲竹並奏，酒酣耳熱，仰而賦詩。當此之時， 忽然不自知樂也。謂百年已分，可長共相保。何圖數年之 間，零落略盡，言之傷心。頃撰其遺文，都為一集，觀其姓 名，已為鬼錄。 Cao Pi’s firsthand lament at the death of so many friends, as he has only their writings left to console himself, remains moving today. The collection of these writings is a “register of ghosts” (gui lu鬼錄), recording the voices and characters of men already gone from this world. As in his “Lun wen” essay, Cao Pi also presents himself as the host and judge of the court writers. He goes on to discuss the writings of each of the Seven Masters, excluding Kong Rong. After allotting each man words of praise tempered with sound criticism, he concludes: Though these men could not match the ancients, they were the best of their own age. Those who survive now cannot equal them. “The laterborn deserve our awe,”61 and those who will come after us are hard to deceive. But I fear whether you and I will last long enough to see them.

諸子但為未及古人，自一時之雋也。今之存者，已不逮矣。 後生可畏，來者難誣，然恐吾與足下不及見也。62 Here Cao Pi makes an interesting temporal distinction. His friends of the past are gone now, and no one in the present can equal them. But Cao Pi then points out, citing the Analects, that the “later-born” to come in the future may surpass even the Jian’an masters, when they reflect back on Jian’an writing in their own time. However, that will probably be too far in the future for Cao Pi or Wu Zhi to experience themselves. Yet Cao Pi’s prediction came true, as Xie Lingyun arrived to look back at the Jian’an court and admire its poets. Cao Pi’s letter seems to have provided the inspiration for Xie’s series, which is preceded by an introduction in the voice of Cao Pi compiling the works of his dead friends, and recalling the happier days they spent together. Cao Pi is identified as Heir Designate, a position to which he was appointed in 217, and thus held at the same time that he wrote the letter to Wu Zhi. Some phrases are repeated: “[those men] have withered and are nearly gone” 零落將盡 is the same except for the substitution of a different 61 62

Quoting Analects 9/23: “The later-born deserve our awe. How can we know that those to come will be inferior to the people of our time?” 後生可畏，焉知來者之不如今也. The Wuchen text lacks the character kong 恐.

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adverb (jiang 將 for lüe 略). However, the substantive argument of the preface is new and original to Xie: At the end of the Jian’an period, while I was at the palace in Ye, we roamed during the day and feasted at night, enjoying ourselves to the utmost. Take the fair mornings, beautiful landscapes, appreciative souls,63 and joyous events64 from all under heaven: it is hard to obtain all of them at once. My brother and my friends, those several refined gentlemen, enjoyed them all to the utmost. Why is it that one cannot discover examples of such pleasures in the texts of old? While King Xiang reigned in Chu there were Song Yu, Tang Le, and Jing Cuo;65 while Prince Xiao reigned in Liang there were Zou Yang, Mei Sheng, Yan Ji, and Sima Xiangru.66 The revelers there were brilliant but the host was not literary. Under Emperor Wu of Han, Xu Yue and other talents67 were skilled at repartee, but Emperor Wu greatly doubted and envied them, so how could they have held earnest conversations? Without deceiving those who are still to come,68 surely they [the Jian’an masters] were worthier

63 64 65

66

67

68

Cf. Obi Kōichi’s 小尾郊一discussion of this term in Xie’s poetry in Sha Reiun: kodoku no sansui shijin, 254–55. Frodsham translates 樂事 as “music.” Deng Shiliang鄧仕樑demonstrates why this is unlikely in “Lun Xie Lingyun ‘Ni Wei taizi Ye zhong ji shi,’” 10. Song Yu 宋玉, Tang Le 唐勒, and Jing Cuo 景差 are three shadowy writers at the court of King Xiang of Chu 楚襄王 (r. 298–265 bce). According to the Shi ji biography of Qu Yuan, they wrote cifu 辭賦, i.e., fu (Shiji 84.2491). Though a number of fu pieces are attributed to Song Yu their authenticity is questionable. While Prince Xiao, or Liu Wu 劉武 (r. 168–144 bce), reigned in Liang a number of fu writers assembled at his court, including Zou Yang 鄒陽 (ca. 206 – ca. 129 bce), Mei Sheng 枚 乘 (d. 141 bce), Yan Ji 顏忌 (ca. 188–105 bce), originally known as Zhuang 莊 Ji, and Sima Xiangru 司馬相如 (179–117 bce). Some apocryphal fu by these writers are contained in the Xijing zaji 西經雜記; for discussion of both the historical court and the fu in the Xijing zaji, see Knechtges, “The Fu in the Xijing zaji.” Emperor Wu of Han (156–87 bce) was a great sponsor of literature, and the fu genre in particular thrived at his court more than any other in the Western Han. Xu Yue 徐樂 (fl. 128 bce) was one of several men recruited to the court for his rhetorical skills. See Knechtges, “The Emperor and Literature: Emperor Wu of the Han,” 55. Oddly Xie does not mention the more famous figures from this court, such as Dongfang Shuo 東方朔 and Mei Gao 枚皐, perhaps because his argument demands that he minimize the achievements of these historical courts. There is a later instance of this usage of fangjiang, as the noun “the future” rather than as an adverb “just about to,” in the essay “Er jiao lun” 二教論 by the monk Dao’an 道安

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than we of the present day.69 The years and months pass like a current, and those men have withered and are nearly gone. As I collect these poems and recall these men, I grieve for the past and my sadness grows. The poems are as follows:

建安末，余時在鄴宮，朝遊夕讌，究歡愉之極，天下良辰， 美景，賞心，樂事，四者難并。今昆弟友朋，二三諸彥，共 盡之矣。古來此娛，書籍未見，何者。楚襄王時有宋玉，唐 景，梁孝王時有鄒，枚，嚴，馬，遊者美矣，而其主不文。 漢武帝徐樂諸才，備應對之能，而雄猜多忌，豈獲晤言之 適。不誣方將，庶必賢於今日爾。歲月如流，零落將盡，撰 文懷人，感往增愴。其辭曰： Xie’s preface is written in Cao Pi’s voice, but frequently reflects back onto his own circumstances. We must disentangle at least two voices and personal histories to understand the full implications of the preface. Since the conclusion describes the speaker collecting the writings of the other men, and is written after several had died, it would seem that the character ji 集 in the title should be interpreted as “collection,” some anthology of the Jian’an poets. Li Shan supports this view by citing Cao Pi’s “Letter to Wu Zhi,” quoted above, in which Cao Pi mentions that he has compiled a collection of writings of these same men. Some scholars believe that Xie’s poems are modeled on an actual collection entitled Ye zhong ji, but there is no trace of this collection in the Sui shu “Jingji zhi” 隋書經籍志 or in the commentary of Li Shan.70 The Tang poet-critic Jiaoran 皎然 (720–ca. 795) does have an item in Shi shi 詩式 entitled “Ye zhong ji,” but it consists of just forty-nine characters of general remarks about the Jian’an writers.71 Rather than conjecturing a collection that evaded the notice of Li Shan and the compilers of the Sui shu, it seems more likely that Jiaoran is referring loosely to the works of the Jian’an period generally by this denomination. After all, Jiaoran was a devoted partisan of Xie Lingyun and of the “Modeled on the Collection …” in particular (he called it the “sun and moon among poems” 詩中之日月). It would have been

69

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(596–667): “The virtue (karma) that is accumulated in the present, will be of profit in the future” 今之積德利在方將. See Guang Hong ming ji 廣弘明集, T 52.2103: 8.142b. Li Shan is silent here, but Zhang Xian says that this line means: “If what I say is not judged a lie, I hope later generations will consider us today to be more worthy” 我所述不作誣 誑，庶使後代以我今日為賢. I have provided an original translation based on Cao Pi’s letter to Wu Zhi, quoted above. See further discussion of this line below. See Deng Shiliang, “Lun Xie Lingyun ‘Ni Wei taizi Ye zhong ji shi,’” 4. See Jiaoran, Shishi, 1.3.

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natural for him to borrow Xie’s own term to refer to the writings of the Jian’an period.72 Jiaoran’s use of the term is not anything close to evidence that such a collection ever existed. The word ji 集 can also mean “gathering,” and the poems themselves all refer to feasting and drinking, as if they were written at a single occasion. Huang Jie 黃節 supports this view by citing a passage from the Chu xue ji 初學記 quoting Cao Pi’s collected works (Wei wendi ji 魏文帝集):73 While I was Crown Prince, in the Northern Garden and the lecture halls of the Eastern Pavilion we would compose poems. I ordered Wang Can, Liu Zhen, Ruan Yu, Ying Yang, and others to write together.

為太子時，北園及東閣講堂，並賦詩，命王燦，劉楨，阮 瑀，應瑒等同作。 Huang Jie then comments: “This must be the ‘poems of the gathering at Ye’” 此 即鄴中集詩也. In fact, there are many other examples of group composition at Ye, so it is doubtful that Xie’s title refers to any specific gathering. As we have seen from the imitation of Wang Can, Xie’s poems are not based on individual poems by the Jian’an writers at all.74 Frodsham hedges by giving his translation the title “Eight Poems After the Style of the Collected Poems of the Assembly in Yeh by the Crown Prince of Wei,” thus translating ji as “the collected poems of the assembly.” The poems all seem appropriate to a gathering, and often borrow phrasing from Jian’an “Lord’s Feast” poems, so it makes sense to read them as modeled after a hypothetical collection by Cao Pi (inspired by the comment in “Letter to Wu Zhi”), and at the same time based on a hypothetical gathering 72

73

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Jiaoran’s original surname was Xie, and he proclaimed himself to be Xie Lingyun’s descendant, although there is some question whether he actually belonged to the Xie family from Chen commandery. Xie Kangle shi zhu 4.10a, Chu xue ji 10.230. Incidentally, Yu Shaochu thinks this preface was written by a later editor of Cao Pi’s collected works (Jian’an qizi ji 410). However, Yi Jianxian thinks it is a genuine Cao Pi work (Wei Wendi ji quanyi, 527). Yi argues that “Crown Prince” 太子 has accidentally been changed from “Intermediate Gentleman for Miscellaneous Purposes” 五官中郎將, but that otherwise the preface is authentic (since Ruan Yu was dead by the time Cao Pi became Crown Prince). This brief quotation from the Chu xue ji is not very reliable evidence for the existence of such a collection. Deng Shiliang argues (in “Lun Xie Lingyun ‘Ni Wei taizi Ye zhong ji shi,’” 4–5) that Xie is directly imitating the “Lord’s Feast” poems. Although Xie certainly borrows a good deal from these poems, they also include substantial content that bears no relation to any extant Lord’s Feast poem.

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at Ye (inspired by the many real gatherings of Cao Pi, Cao Zhi, and the Jian’an masters). Elaborating on our previous examination of the imitations of Wang Can, in the preface to Xie’s entire suite we can observe a similar kind of duality. The suite is at once an imitation of writings and also an imitation of events. In this sense it becomes a truly unique kind of writing, paralleled but not entirely equaled by Jiang Yan’s “Diverse Forms.” Based on this understanding of Xie Lingyun’s preface and its relationship to Cao Pi’s writings, there become apparent several different linkages between the historical Xie Lingyun and Cao Pi, the fictional Cao Pi reflecting on the historical Jian’an masters, the fictional Cao Pi anticipating the actual Xie Lingyun, and so on. Xie Lingyun reflects on the historical Cao Pi mourning his friends, while Xie Lingyun’s fictional Cao Pi in a fictional 219 is also mourning those real friends, and imagining a real future (that of Xie Lingyun). The fictional 219 and the historical 219 inform and alter one another from the perspective of Xie Lingyun, who is forced to imagine both. While most participants are reflecting back on events in the past, the fictional “Cao Pi“ is being written and performed by Xie, so when he alludes to future events they are in fact already known. The effect is that by the fifth century the fictional “Cao Pi” turns out to be an even richer character than the historical Cao Pi. Both past and present, and both fiction and history, are defined by their relation with one another: Xie Lingyun defines his own place in history in relation to his imagined version of Cao Pi’s recollections. Xie’s insights into his present moment are offered via the medium of the historical prince imagining his own future: understanding, even of the immediate present, is mediated by memory and desire. The preface can also be read in the context of Xie’s life. The elegiac mode of the entire suite suggests that Xie might have written it sometime after the death of his friend Liu Yizhen 劉義真 (407–424), Prince of Luling 廬陵王. Along with Yan Yanzhi 顏延之 (384–456) and the monk Huilin 慧琳, they had formed a literary foursome with quixotic political ambitions, ultimately shattered by the exile of Xie, Yan, and Huilin in 422.75 Though Liu Yizhen was one possible successor to Liu Yu, founding emperor of the Song, he was never close to the throne. The group seems to have had high expectations, and Liu even mentioned in public once that if he came to power, he would make Xie and Yan his ministers, and Huilin the governor of West Yu Province 西豫州.76 This careless statement of his ambition led to the ruin of all four, and Liu Yizhen was murdered at the command of Xu Xianzhi 徐羨之 (?–426) in August of 75 76

See Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 28–31. Song shu 61.1636.

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424.77 “Modeled on the Collection …” can easily be seen as an expression of Xie’s regret that their group never fulfilled its hopes of achieving a literary court like that at Ye. Fang Hui 方回 (1227–1307) elaborated on this kind of interpretation of the preface as political criticism:78 This preface must have made Emperors Wu and Wen of the Song put their teeth on edge. “Their host was not literary” clearly is mocking Liu Yu, while “greatly doubted and envied” alludes indirectly to the executions of Xu [Xianzhi 徐羨之], Fu [Liang 傅亮], Xie [Hui 謝晦], and Tan [Daoji橝道濟].79

此序使其君宋武帝，文帝，見之皆必切齒。其主不文明譏劉 裕，雄猜多忌亦能誅徐傅謝檀者之所諱也。 It is certainly easy to see how the Song ruler might have felt offended. Gu Shaobo 顧紹柏 also interprets the preface as a complaint about Xie’s lack of appreciation by Emperor Wen, quoting the Song shu biography of Xie.80 The biography claims that Xie was frustrated because Emperor Wen admired only his writing, but did not employ him in a position of power. The ideal figures of the past that Xie points to in his preface were mostly entertainers valued at the court for their literary prowess but not necessarily entrusted with political power. Even though Sima Xiangru may have attempted to sway Emperor Wu with his fu, this was because it was only his fu that the Emperor deigned to notice. If Xie’s “Modeled on the Collection …” was intended as a complaint about his own status, its criticism of Emperor Wen is exceedingly subtle. Moreover, Gu thinks that the last line of the preface is expressing Xie’s grief at the death of the friends, even though it is just a reformulation of lines from Cao Pi’s

77 78

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Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 48–49. Quoted in Huang Jie 黃節, Xie Kangle shizhu, 4.10a: but Huang Jie’s quotation is actually a free paraphrase (quoted from memory?). I cite here Fang Hui, Wen xuan Yan Bao Xie shiping, 4.20b. The first three were executed in 426 (Song shu 5.74). Tan Daoji, though initially an ally of the other three, turned against them and helped to defeat Xie Hui. See Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1: 52–53. In any case it was precisely this faction that had arranged the murder of the Prince of Luling, so Fang’s claim is problematic. Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu 201, n.1, quoting Song shu 67.1772.

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letter to Wu Zhi.81 Though these identifications of political or personal significance are reasonable, they are not beyond doubt.82 Instead of trying to constrain the collection with a single political or biographical reading, we should recognize Xie’s poetic suite as an idealized representation of the Jian’an court that interacts with Xie’s private concerns and contemporary circumstances only tangentially. Even Xie’s praise for Jian’an is not entirely justified, historically. He praises the Jian’an court because its members were able to converse freely, but this claim is not really justified when one considers the literary men whom Cao Cao put to death over the years: we have already mentioned Kong Rong’s death in 208, and another example is Yang Xiu 楊修 (175–219), a close friend of Cao Zhi’s executed by Cao Cao in 219.83 Though later critics often praised their bold, uninhibited writing, it seems to have mostly been limited to assigned topics, and they were often writing directly at the command (ming 命) of one of the Caos. They had little freedom to comment on political or strategic issues.84 Moreover, the court of Xie’s own time was not so unfavorable as Fang Hui suggests; we have seen already how Emperor Wen appreciated Xie’s writing. The historical vagueness of Xie’s argument here only emphasizes that his Jian’an court is an imagined court that exists beyond his own time or the late Han, yet can represent either of them.85 The preface to the suite reflects this ambiguity: written in Cao Pi’s voice, the referents of each claim can be found either in Cao Pi’s time or in Xie Lingyun’s contemporary context. The first few sentences of the preface do not refer to literary ability at all, only to the pleasures of life, or four in particular: “fair mornings, beautiful landscapes, appreciative souls, and joyous events.” Then, “Cao Pi” points out the exceptional character of those days: “Why is it that one cannot discover examples of such pleasures in the texts of old?” The historical 81 82

83 84

85

Ibid. Deng Shiliang concurs in the difficulty of dating these poems (“Lun Xie Lingyun ‘Ni Wei taizi Ye zhong ji shi,’” 10). Yet another view, contrary to Gu’s, is He Zhuo’s 何焯 hypothesis that they were written while Xie was together with the Prince of Luling! See Pingzhu Zhaoming Wenxuan 7.36b. I consider some general difficulties with dating Six Dynasties poems in chapter 6. See Sanguo zhi 19.558 and 19.560. For more on the dark side of Jian’an courtier life, see Williams, “Irony and Death in the Writings of Liu Zhen.” See Cheng Yu-yu, “Shi lun gongyan shi zhi yu Yexia wenshi jituan de xiangzheng yiyi”; and Mei Chia-ling, “Lun Jian’an zengda shi ji qi zai zengda chuantong zhong de yiyi” 論建安 贈答詩及其在贈答傳統中的意義, in Han Wei Liuchao wenxue xinlun, 101–57. Cf. Cheng Yu-yu’s analysis of the imaginary construction of the Eastern Jin capital in Yu Chan’s 庾闡 “Yang du fu” 揚都賦 (“Mingshi yu ducheng” 名士與都城, in Cheng, Wenben fengjing, 33–74).

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precedents he names, at the courts of King Xiang of Chu and Prince Xiao in Liang, were both courts with numerous talented fu writers, but they cannot compare to Jian’an because “the host was not literary.” Here Xie Lingyun might be thinking of himself, impersonating Cao Pi, and what a literary host he would have made. Then “Cao Pi“ writes that Emperor Wu of Han had men skilled at repartee and debate who served in his court, but because of his jealous nature, they could not have “earnest conversations.” Xie oddly chooses the example of Xu Yue, whose only known work is his petition to the emperor, rather than a writer of fu as in the previous examples. He is probably thinking of Emperor Wu’s famous comment upon reading petitions by Xu Yue, Yan An 嚴安, and Zhufu Yan 主父偃: “Where have you all been? Why have I met you only now?” 公皆 安在？何相見之晚也.86 As we shall see in the poems of the suite as well, Xie seems to be presenting the Jian’an court as a place receptive to various forms of intellectual activity not limited to poetry, but encompassing philosophy and rhetoric as well. According to Xie, happiness is fine weather and fair landscapes; and even more so it is appreciative friends and joyous events. Such happiness can only exist if it is written down, and it will only be written down if the “host” is literary, and he must be generous as well for there to be trust and friendship. Of course Xie cannot be describing his own experiences, but he can still know Cao’s because they were written down, just as Cao recalls them by rereading these poems. There is a neat irony in Xie’s question of why there is no historical example of such happiness, when for him the Ye court is precisely such an example. Differentiating the historical memory of Emperor Wu’s and the other courts from the living memory of Cao Pi emphasizes the fictional status of the preface and increases the sense of authentic feeling behind it—Xie longs to place himself in the position of Cao Pi, reflecting on pleasures that have vanished but were once real, rather than merely on imaginary ones. But finally, whether one belongs to the brilliant literary scene of Jian’an or the perilous and philistine court of the Liu-Song, a sensitive person will be left alone to gather up poems from happier times and to mourn. Xie’s gathering takes place in his mind, even though it is one that he hopes to share with readers of the future. The pivotal line in the preface is “Without deceiving those who are still to come, surely they [the Jian’an masters] were worthier than we of the present day.” Here “Cao Pi“ returns from discussion of courts of the past back to the present. The translation given here differs from the traditional interpretation 86

Shi ji 64a.2802. Xu Yue is also listed as a zongheng jia 縱橫家, author of one pian, in the “Yi wen zhi,” Han shu, 30.1739.

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invented by Wuchen commentator Zhang Xian 張銑: “If what I say is not judged a lie, I hope later generations will consider us today to be more worthy.” If we compares this line and the following ones of Xie’s preface to Cao Pi’s letter to Wu Zhi quoted above, it becomes clear that Xie is following Cao’s letter closely, and that this line in particular is a paraphrase of several sentences in the letter. The key passages are underlined below:

謝：不誣方將，庶必賢於今日爾。 曹：諸子但為未及古人，自一時之雋也。今之存者，已不逮 矣。後生可畏，來者難誣，然恐吾與足下不及見也。 Xie: Without deceiving those who are still to come, surely they [the Jian’an masters] were worthier than we of the present day. Cao: Though these men could not match the ancients, they were the best of their own age. Those who survive now cannot equal them. “The laterborn are to be feared,” and those who will come after us are hard to deceive. But I fear whether you and I will last long enough to see them.

謝：歲月如流，零落將盡，撰文懷人，感往增愴。 曹：何圖數年之間，零落略盡，言之傷心。頃撰其遺文，都 為一集。 Xie: The years and months pass like a current, and those men have withered and are nearly all gone. As I collect these poems and recall these men, I grieve for the past and my sadness grows. Cao: Who suspected that in just a few years, they would wither and nearly all perish. Lately I have compiled their remaining writings, and made a collection of them all. Comparing these passages, we can appreciate how closely Xie has borrowed from Cao Pi’s letter. “Without deceiving those who are still to come …” is especially difficult to parse not because Xie’s choice of words was careless, but because he has compressed several clauses from Cao Pi’s letter into just eleven characters that relate past, present, and future all at once. Xie copies the wording of Cao Pi reflecting on his past, as Xie reflects on Jian’an, while Cao is also imagining the “later-born,” who will include Xie himself—the temporal relations and inversions of the preface react against one another in a series of reflections, a mise en abyme. This temporal complexity is mirrored in the repetition and variation of the suite as a whole. Certain themes, such as the music of feasts, are repeated over

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and over in different guises; but the same sentiments are expressed in different voices by each of the participants. All the poems are written in a series of gradually modulated parallel couplets, sustained brilliantly throughout. While the preface mourns and analyzes Xie’s dreams, the poems dramatize them in elegant language. As we begin the first poem, attributed to Cao Pi himself, we move from the imagined present of Cao Pi alone in 219, back further to the gathering of the group at Ye long before. This must predate not just the plague of 217, but the death of Ruan Yu in 212. Cao Pi’s poem is placed first in the series because he was the host of the gatherings at Ye, and the poem serves as a second, poetic, introduction to the series. Little is tied directly to the person or poetry of Cao Pi himself, but instead Xie focuses on his role as a host: Modeled on the Collection of the Crown Prince of Wei at Ye: Cao Pi, Crown Prince of Wei 魏太子

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百川赴巨海 眾星環北辰 照灼爛霄漢 遙裔起長津 天地中橫潰 家王拯生民 區宇既滌蕩 群英必來臻 忝此欽賢性 由來常懷仁 況值眾君子 傾心隆日新 論物靡浮說 析理實敷陳 羅縷豈闕辭 窈窕究天人 澄觴滿金罍 連榻設華茵

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The hundred rivers end in the vast ocean, The myriad stars revolve around Polaris. Glittering and gleaming they illuminate the heavens, In the remote distance they swell to long rivers.87 When a great tide overswept heaven and earth, My kin and king gave succor to the people.88 Once the realm was pacified, Many brilliant men came to join him. It is my poor nature to admire worth, And forever to treasure benevolence. All the more, when I met these gentlemen, Was my admiration deepened and renewed each day. Discussing things there are no trivial statements, Analyzing patterns the arguments are truly thorough. The discussion never lacks for words, Exhaustively probing Heaven and Man. A purified ale fills the golden goblets, Our seats cross over one another on the flowered mats.

Chang jin 長津 could indicate either the Milky Way or “a long river.” Though the Milky Way is the more natural reading within the couplet, the latter reading, which is Gu Shaobo’s, refers back to the opening line of the poem and forms an interesting chiasmus. Cao Pi’s father Cao Cao. The Wuche text has 皇 for 王.

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急絃動飛聽 清歌拂梁塵 莫言相遇易 此歡信可珍

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The hurried strings stop flying birds to listen,89 Pure songs sweep the dust from the beams.90 Don’t say that meeting friends is easy: This happiness is truly to be cherished.

Though this poem is set in the time of the earlier gathering at Ye, it recapitulates several themes from the preface. The metaphors of rivers flowing to the sea and the stars circling the Pole Star are used to depict the attraction of Cao Cao’s court to worthy men throughout the realm. “Cao Pi“ presents himself here as a humble admirer of these writers, although he also reminds us of his inherited status (“my kin and king,” line six). The second half of the poem celebrates the conversation, drinking, music, and friendship that they shared. Considering that these poems are entitled ni 擬 “imitations,” there are few identifiable textual parallels between this and any known poem by Cao Pi or other Jian’an writers. It bears an obvious relation to the “Lord’s Feast” (gong yan 公讌) poems written by several Jian’an writers, such as this couplet from Wang Can’s poem quoted above:91

佳肴充圓方 旨酒盈金罍

Savory meats fill the square and round dishes, Sweet ale tops the golden cups.

The second line here is a close match to line 17 of Xie’s poem. Also worth noting is the use of qing 清 “clear,” both in Wang Can’s and Xie’s poem (l. 20). The word occurs nine times in Xie’s series of eight poems. Robert Joe Cutter has observed that Cao Zhi uses qing three times in one “Lord’s Feast” poem, perhaps “to imbue the evening’s outing with purity and clarity for a eulogistic purpose, a use of qing not without literary precedent.”92 The implications of qing are similar in Xie’s poems, as again and again he emphasizes the lofty and serene quality of the revelry at Ye. The second half of the poem thus comports well with the Jian’an tradition of symposium poems. What is quite different in Xie’s poem, though, is its first half, which self-consciously elaborates the context of the 89

90

91 92

Li Shan cites Baopuzi 抱朴子: “When Hu Ba 瓠巴 played the qin, the flying birds came down to listen.” The same chapter of Liezi alluded to in Xie’s “Wang Can,” l. 24, also mentions Hu Ba: “When Hu Ba played the qin, the birds would dance and the fish would jump” (Liezi jishi, 5.175). Li Shan cites Liu Xin’s 劉歆 (?–23 ce) Qi lüe 七略: “At the beginning of the Han, a man of Lu, named Yu Gong, was expert at playing ya 雅 (refined) music. When he played a sound, it stirred all the dust on the rafters.” Wen xuan 20.944. See Cutter, “Cao Zhi’s (192–232) Symposium Poems,” 10.

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celebration, alluding to the decline of the Han and describing Cao Cao’s role. The Jian’an poets were also liberal with praise for their sovereign, but they did not temper their eulogies with the same historical perspective that Xie shows here. This poem is a fitting introduction to Xie’s poetic suite, with its florid celebration of the Jian’an court. It may be surprising how intellectual Xie’s version of the Jian’an court is (especially in lines 13–16). This poem depicts a court rich in philosophical argument, and reminds us that Xie mentioned the strategist Xu Yue in his preface, in addition to the writers of fu. The final couplet shows how closely the poem is working in tandem with the preface: “Don’t say that meeting friends is easy” corresponds to the discussion of the four pleasures that are hard to have all at once. The “Cao Pi” poem is attributed to the host of the occasion, and fittingly has the cheeriest, most optimistic tone of the suite. The one allusion to civil war is phrased discreetly (“When a great tide crossed heaven and earth”), and the praise addressed directly to the other guests is suitably rich. It is worth noting again how little “Cao Pi” resembles any extant poem of the Jian’an period. Of all the men discussed in the suite, Cao Pi’s personality is conveyed least distinctly. The character “Cao Pi” here is instead an ideal host and monarch. By taking on this role of “Cao Pi,” Xie Lingyun makes himself, like Prospero, the conjurer of all the other characters in his own drama. Whereas literature throughout the Han was primarily an affair of the court, Xie Lingyun is writing primarily on his own. Instead of writing for a court audience, he is forced to invent one, as he does by drawing on the actual history of Jian’an. The ideal of writing collaboratively for an audience of other fine poets was unlikely to be realized in Xie’s time, not just for political reasons but also for literary reasons, as the notion of private, personal poetry slowly grew more and more accepted. In this sense Xie’s imitation affirms the difference between his own situation and that of the past. While lamenting the loss of the past, parallel to Cao Pi’s own lament for his friends, Xie simultaneously celebrates the power of poetry to restore what is lost and to invent a community that no longer exists, and likely never had. Community and Individual at the Jian’an Court At first glance Xie Lingyun’s imitations of Jian’an poets and Jiang Yan’s selection of four Jian’an poets for his “Poems in Diverse Forms” seem to reaffirm the traditional appraisal of the Jian’an poets. Examining the individual imitations, it becomes clear that the relative appraisal of Jian’an poets by Xie and Jiang is

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somewhat different from that of their successors.93 Zhong Rong in Cao Zhi’s individual entry praises him as “Shining effulgently over past and present, towering alone and apart” 粲溢今古，卓爾不群.94 For Zhong Rong, Cao Zhi is the supreme poet, with Liu Zhen ranked second. The entry continues with effusive praise, and relatively little concrete description of Cao’s poetry. By contrast, Xie Lingyun leaves Cao Zhi for last and awards him little distinction, while Jiang Yan uses his imitation of Cao Zhi to focus on Cao Zhi’s friends. Later readers have often chosen Cao Zhi’s “Presented to Prince Biao of Baima” 贈白馬王彪 as his masterpiece. Zhong Rong identified “Chensi’s poem presented to his younger brother” 陳思贈弟 as one of the paragons of pentasyllabic verse (in the Shipin preface).95 Both Xie Lingyun and Jiang Yan use their imitations to display a different side of Cao Zhi’s character and writing. Xie’s “Cao Zhi, Marquis of Pingyuan” 平原侯植 opens with an ambiguous preface and continues with the most exuberant revelry of all of Xie’s suite: Modeled on the Collection of the Crown Prince of Wei at Ye: Cao Zhi The lord’s son did not join in worldly affairs, but only found beauty in idle ramblings, though he sighed deeply with anxiety for his life.

公子不及世事，但美遨遊，然頗有憂生之嗟。

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朝遊登鳳閣 日暮集華沼 傾柯引弱枝 攀條摘蕙草 徙倚窮騁望 目極盡所討 西顧太行山 北眺邯鄲道 93 94 95

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Roaming in the morning, we climb phoenix towers; At set of sun we gather by flowery ponds.96 Bending down the boughs we twist the pliant branches, Seizing twigs and gathering patchouli plants. Loath to leave we extend our gaze to the utmost, Eyes exhausting all that they can notice. Looking to the west, there are the Taihang Mountains; And gazing north, the road to Handan.

There is a recent study of the reception of Jian’an literature: Wang Mei, Jian’an wenxue jieshoushi lun. Zhong Rong Shipin jianzheng gao 149. Zhong Rong Shipin jianzheng gao 117. For another example, Suzuki Shūji shows how “Presented to Prince Biao of Baima” integrates key themes from Cao Zhi’s and Jian’an poetry generally (Kan Gi shi no kenkyū, 641–44). Although these are generic terms for common features of the imperial court and environs, Xie Lingyun might have had in mind specific locations at Ye as well. “Phoenix towers” could refer to the Tower of the Golden Tiger 金虎臺, built by Cao Cao in 213 (Sanguo zhi 1.42), while “flowery pools” could refer to Lotus Pond 芙蓉池, about which Cao Pi wrote a famous poem (Wen xuan 22.1031–32).

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平衢脩且直 白楊信裊裊 副君命飲宴 歡娛寫懷抱 良遊匪晝夜 豈云晚與早 眾賓悉精妙 清辭灑蘭藻 哀音下迴鵠 餘哇徹清昊 中山不知醉 飲德方覺飽 願以黃髮期 養生念將老

The even roads are long and straight, The white poplars sway gracefully indeed. The Heir orders there be drinking and feasting, And in my rejoicing I pour out what is held in my heart. In refined pleasure one cannot distinguish day and night, Nor ever say that one is early or late. The many guests are all wondrously adept, Their fresh words sprinkled with fragrant idioms. Circling cranes descend at the plaintive sound, The echoing melody fills the clear heavens.97 From Zhongshan ale we are still not drunk,98 Only by imbibing virtue can we feel sated.99 I’d like to last till my hair has gone yellow, And nourish my vitality as I approach old age.

Xu Gongchi interprets Cao’s “sighing from anxiety for his life” 憂生之嗟 in terms of Cao Zhi’s fear that his brother Cao Pi would kill him.100 But the poem itself belies this claim; the final couplet—the only hint of worry out of eleven couplets of exhausting revelry—expresses a “sigh of anxiety over life,” but in the manner typical of this period. This can be read as merely a desire for long life, the wish to become an immortal commonly expressed by Cao Pi and Cao Cao, as well as Cao Zhi. Xu Gongchi has perhaps been influenced too much by the mythology that has grown up around Cao Zhi’s life: the story of the melancholy poet-prince, mistreated by his cruel older brother. The classic example of this myth is the “Poem of Seven Steps,” which Cao Zhi supposedly wrote while taking seven steps, under threat of death from Cao Pi if he failed.101 Although this poem was probably not written by Cao Zhi at all, there was indeed a melancholy concern 97

98 99 100 101

This is an allusion to the story of Music Master Kuang’s 師曠 performance for King Ling of Chu 楚靈王. When Kuang played the “qing zhi” 清徵 music, sixteen black cranes came from the south. When he played it again, they lined up, and when he played a third time, they began to crunkle and then to dance, and the sound “was heard in heaven” 聲 聞於天. See Han Feizi jijie 3.64. Zhongshan 中山 was used to refer to fine ale, based on a story about an alehouse in Zhang Hua, Bo wu zhi, 10.3a. Cf. Mao shi 247/1: “We are drunk with ale, / And we are sated with kindness” 既醉以酒、 既飽以德. Xu Gongchi, Wei Jin wenxue shi, 80. See Cutter, “On the Authenticity of ‘Poem in Seven Paces,’” for a thorough study of the origins and debunking of the myth.

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for his own life in Cao’s authentic poetry, as in “Presented to Prince Biao of Baima,” a moving expression of the troubles Cao Zhi faced in his later years after Cao Pi took his place as emperor. Xu and other modern readers are predisposed to read Xie Lingyun as praising Cao Zhi because of a popular story well known to modern readers. Xie Lingyun is said to have claimed that if all the talent in the universe were divided into one stone (shi 石, equal to ten bushels, dou 斗), Cao Zhi would take eight of them and Xie himself one bushel, while all other writers together would share the final bushel. This story is preserved in the idiom “eight bushels of talent” (ba dou zhi cai 八斗之才). But the earliest source for this account seems to be an anonymous Northern Song anthology of dubious veracity, Common Tales Explained (Shi chang tan 釋常談),102 of which a Ming dynasty scholar said, “its quotations are careless and crude, and very frequently laughable” 其中援引蕪陋，極有可笑.103 Cao Zhi was appreciated as an important poet in the Six Dynasties, but his unique status developed later, its affirmation was only then ascribed to Xie Lingyun as a convenient figure of authority. Both Xie and Jiang Yan, though, present Cao Zhi as the outgoing and highspirited prince of his younger years. This light-hearted version of Cao Zhi accords better with the view expressed in a classic revisionist study of the poet by Hans Frankel.104 Frankel argues that we should avoid the Intentional Fallacy of identifying the melancholy in Cao Zhi’s poetry with the melancholy of the historical figure. Xie Lingyun and Jiang Yan, likewise, emphasize his role as creative versifier and lordly host more than that of self-pitying poet. Reading the preface and poem together, they match Xie’s preface to the entire suite. Though Cao Zhi was uninterested in “worldly affairs,” he devoted himself wholeheartedly to picking flowers, roaming the countryside, drinking, and writing poetry. On this point Huang Jie appropriately cites the biography of Cao Zhi: “Zhi acted willfully, not polishing his behavior, and drinking without restraint” 植任性而行，不自彫勵，飲酒不節.105 In the context of the entire suite, his political failure can be seen as a virtue, because it allowed him to enjoy the pleasures of court life to the utmost. His anxiety about death is the inverse of Cao Pi’s sadness in the preface to the series: Cao Pi regrets the mortality that has already conquered his friends, while Cao Zhi is only in fear 102 103 104 105

Shi chang tan B.12. Xie Zhaozhe 謝肇淛 (1567–1624) wrote this in the Wenhai pisha 文海披沙, quoted in the Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao 24.2644. “Fifteen Poems by Ts’ao Chih: An Attempt at a New Approach.” Sanguo zhi 19.577.

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of it. Thus the suite returns to its beginning, and the pleasures of life are tied inescapably to their transience. Here Cao Zhi’s melancholy bears no relation to his own political ambitions, let alone ill treatment from his brother. It is simply the hint of death that accompanies the enjoyment of life. Jiang Yan’s imitation may have been inspired in part by Xie’s “Cao Zhi,” just as Jiang’s other imitations of Jian’an poets tend to be. Li Shan points out that lines 11–12, “I lift my robes to pick bright pearls, / Pause to pluck the patchouli and pollia,” recall line four in Xie’s “Cao Zhi” poem: “Holding the twigs and gathering basil plants.” Jiang Yan’s imitation does focus more on Cao Zhi’s relationship with his friends in Ye, as indicated in the title, “Offered to Friends.” This is very much based on the model of the exchange poem, that genre popular throughout the Six Dynasties, even though it is impossible for an imitation to be an exchange poem itself, lacking the proper occasion. The imitation alludes to some of Cao’s other exchange poems written before “Presented to Prince Biao of Baima”: Diverse Forms #5 Cao Zhi, Prince of Chensi: Offered to Friends 陳思王曹植：贈友

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君王禮英賢 不恡千金璧 雙闕指馳道 朱宮羅第宅 從容冰井臺 清池映華薄 涼風盪芳氣 碧樹先秋落 朝與佳人期 日夕望青閣 褰裳摘明珠 徙倚拾蕙若 眷我二三子 辭義麗金雘 延陵輕寶劍 106 107

Our king treats his fine ministers with courtesy, Not chary of jade discs worth a thousand in gold. Paired watchtowers signal the imperial boulevard, Vermilion palaces are arrayed by superior mansions. As we dally by the Terrace of the Frozen Well,106 The clear pond reflects the clustered flowers. A cool breeze stirs the fragrant air, Emerald trees are first to shed their leaves in autumn. In the morning I meet with splendid gentlemen, In the evening gaze toward green pavilions. I lift my robes to pick bright pearls, Pause to pluck the patchouli and pollia. How I adore my several companions, Their phrases’ purport fair as gold and chalcedony. Yanling discarded his precious sword,107

The Terrace of the Frozen Well was built by Cao Cao in 213, north of the Bronze Sparrow Terrace. See Lu Hui, Yezhong ji, 3a. Ji Zha 季札 of Wu 吳 was a nobleman during the Spring and Autumn period who held the fiefdom of Yanling 延陵. Jizha left a precious sword on his friend Xu Jun’s 徐君 grave

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季布重然諾 處富不忘貧 有道在葵藿

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While Ji Bu treasured an affirmation of promise.108 While situated in wealth, they did not forget the poor— For the proper way is with mallow and beanleaf.109

This poem may be disappointing to a reader who expects to find evocation of Cao Zhi’s famous melancholy, especially since the themes of loneliness or the pursuit of immortality would seem to fit naturally with the content of the other poems in the “Poems in Diverse Forms.” Instead Jiang’s imitation derives mainly from Cao Zhi’s poems presented to friends, especially “Presented to Ding Yi” 贈丁儀, which also describes the palace gardens in autumn (ll. 1–4),110

初秋涼氣發 庭樹微銷落 凝霜依玉除 清風飄飛閣

In early autumn the cool air blows, And the trees in the courtyard wither slightly. Frost thickens over the jade steps, And fresh breezes gust by the soaring turrets.

criticizes the successful for forgetting about those who are less fortunate (9–10),

在貴多忘賤 為恩誰能博

Those who are prominent often forget the lowly, Who can be free in giving out favors?

and alludes to the story of Ji Zha of Yanling to affirm Cao’s own loyalty to his friend (13–16):

思慕延陵子 寶劍非所惜

108 109

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In admiration I think of the Master of Yanling, Who was not chary of his precious sword.

because he knew that Xu had desired it while alive. See Liu Xiang, Xin xu, 7.4a-4b. Ji Bu 季布 of Chu 楚 was proverbial for his trustworthiness. See Shi ji 100.2731. Li Shan cites Lu Ji’s “Don’t rely on your carnivorous ways, / To mock the mallow and beanleaf” 無以肉食資，取笑葵與藿 (Wen xuan 28.1302). Lu Ji’s couplet employs the following allusion: Duke Xian 獻of Jin 晉 once rejected the petition of a man named Zu Chao 祖朝 to offer advice for the state with the words: “Those who eat meat are already concerned with that, what more can the beanleaf eaters contribute?” 肉食者己慮之 矣，藿食者尚何與焉 (Shuo yuan jizheng 11.693). Having no more to eat than beanleaf was a signifier of poverty. Commentator Lu Shanjing 陸善經 also says that “mallow and beanleaf represent insignificance and poverty” 葵藿喻微賤也 (Wenxuan jizhu 1: 680). Wen xuan 24.1119–20; Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 24.11b–12b. According to Li Shan the poem’s recipient was actually Ding Yi’s brother Ding Yi 丁翼 [or 廙], but the two are often confused in our sources and it is really a moot point.

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子其寧爾心 親交義不薄

Please let your mind be at rest: The duties of friendship are by no means light.

This poem by Cao Zhi must predate his “Presented Again to Ding Yi and Wang Can” 又贈丁儀王粲, so it can be dated prior to 217, the year of Wang Can’s death. Jiang is also drawing inspiration from other Cao Zhi poems, such as his poem to Ding Yi’s brother (who unfortunately shares the same name in Pinyin romanization), “Presented to Ding Yi” 贈丁翼, which opens:111

嘉賓填城闕 豐膳出中廚 吾與二三子 曲宴此城隅

Splendid guests fill the castle towers, And rich meats appear from the central kitchen. You several gentlemen and I Feast privately in a castle nook.

Jiang Yan seems to have taken the phrase “you several gentlemen” from this poem by Cao Zhi, as Li Shan notes. Since all the references to friends can be understood as plural, Jiang Yan’s title “Offered to Friends” 贈友 should be read as plural as well, after the manner of Cao Zhi’s “Presented Again to Ding Yi and Wang Can.” A plurality of (imaginary) recipients is particularly appropriate since this poem, like most of Jiang’s imitations, is a composite of several sources. In the final line of the imitation, Jiang Yan alludes to a poem by Lu Ji which concludes (“Junzi you suo si xing” 君子有所思行):

宴安消靈根 酖毒可不恪 無以肉食資 取笑葵與藿

Feasting and pleasure dissolve the root of the soul, One should not be unwary of the serpent eagle’s poison.112 Don’t rely on your carnivorous ways To mock the mallow and beanleaf!

Lu Ji’s original yuefu poem is a straightforward piece that criticizes wealthy city-dwellers for ruining their health with too much fine living. By adapting this allusion for his own imitation of Cao Zhi, Jiang changes the significance of the allusion itself, and reworks the other materials he borrowed from Cao Zhi. Jiang ’s final couplet refers to both “Presented to Ding Yi 儀” and the final 111 112

Wen xuan 24.1126–27. Zhen du 酖毒 is the poison of the zhen 鴆 or serpent eagle. See Read, Chinese Materia Medica: Avian Drugs, 90, #317.

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couplet of Lu Ji’s poem. Yet by bringing these two allusions together, Jiang changes the sense of both. The rich ought not only to remember their friends in need, but also to think of the dangers to which their extravagance leaves them exposed. This message of self-restraint comes too abruptly to be entirely convincing, just as the story of Yanling does not fit without the more leisurely setup provided by Cao Zhi. There are similarities here to Xie Lingyun’s “Cao Zhi,” in which the revelries that occupy most of the poem end in a final couplet that introduces thoughts of mortality: a pleasurable reverie with a more serious note at the end. The Jian’an poets wrote many poems that seem to be detached from any individual human referent: yuefu poetry modeled after earlier poems, or yongwu poems about particular objects. Jiang Yan does not often imitate or allude to these poems in his Jian’an imitations, but instead has chosen those poems that highlight the identities of author, recipient, and patron. As a result, contradictions and ambiguities naturally arise. In a poem addressed to Ding Yi by Cao Zhi, even if we cannot identify the precise historical circumstances that may have affected its composition, we are certainly aware of the general context: Cao Zhi’s own concern about his succession to the throne and his treatment by both his father and older brother, and Ding Yi’s personal ambitions and eventual support of Cao Zhi in the contest for succession. When Jiang Yan entitles his imitation, “Offered to a Friend,” the “friend” is an abstraction. Even the author is an abstraction—we know that Jiang Yan is imitating Cao Zhi, but Cao Zhi at what age, at what location, in what situation? For an original poem these are facts that can or cannot be ascertained, but for an imitation these questions are not even reasonable. The mention of the monarch in Jiang Yan’s “Offering to Friends” reminds the reader that the poem is set in Cao Cao’s court; a particular place in Ye, the Terrace of the Frozen Well, is even mentioned. The poem explicitly represents the Jian’an court, but contains little that recalls Cao Zhi as historical figure or poet. There is even a line from an yuefu attributed to Cao Pi: “In the morning I meet with splendid gentlemen” 朝與佳人期, originally applied to a “Nine Songs”style meeting with a magical lady. The use of that yuefu or Chuci language here seems to emphasize the interchangeability of individuals within the setting of the Jian’an court. Cao Zhi’s role as genial host here is not unlike his role in Xie Zhuang’s 謝莊 (421–466) “Fu on the Moon” 月賦, a prosopopoeia in which Wang Can declaims a long poem about the moon to comfort Cao Zhi following the deaths of Ying Yang and Liu Zhen.113 The chronology is inaccurate and the principal focus of the fu is on the lyrical description and love poetry inspired 113

Translation from Knechtges, Wen xuan, 3: 30–39.

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by the moon, but the Jian’an setting still deserves some attention in the context of our study. Wang Can introduces himself with a brief biography (ll. 22– 25):

臣東鄙幽介 長自丘樊 昧道懵學 孤奉明恩

I am an obscure and humble scholar from the eastern border, And I was raised in hills and copses. Although ignorant in lore, deficient in learning, I alone have received my wise lord’s favor.

But Cao Zhi’s role is only to command Wang Can to begin his recitation, and to applaud it at the end (ll. 92–96):

陳王曰善 廼命執事 獻壽羞璧 敬佩玉音 復之無斁

The prince of Chen said: “Excellent!” He then commanded attendants To offer a toast, present jade discs. “I admire your precious verses, And I shall never weary of reciting them.”

Thus in the “Fu on the Moon” Wang Can composes poetry that reflects on his own experiences and feelings, while Cao Zhi’s role is only to listen to and appreciate it (to be his zhi yin 知音, “the one who appreciates his sound”). In all these sources, Southern Dynasties poets are looking back to the Jian’an court as the ideal of a receptive audience. Xie Lingyun states this idea most clearly, but the conclusion of the “Fu on the Moon” has the same implication. Jiang Yan’s imitations of Jian’an writers find among those strong personalities a web of social interaction. It is this web of friendship, obligation, and remembrance that Jiang chooses as the focus of his imitations. We can see this emphasis on the environment of Jian’an in Jiang Yan’s imitation of Cao Pi, “Revels and Feasting,” yet another statement of the “Lord’s Feast” theme but with a variation in the ending: Diverse Forms #4 Cao Pi, Emperor Wen of the Wei: Revels and Feasting 魏文帝曹丕：遊宴

置酒坐飛閣 逍遙臨華池

We toast each other, seated in soaring pavilions, Or roam at leisure round Floriate Pond.

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神飇自遠至 左右芙蓉披 綠竹夾清水 秋蘭被幽涯 月出照園中 冠珮相追隨 客從南楚來 為我吹參差 淵魚猶伏浦 聽者未云疲 高文一何綺 小儒安足為 肅肅廣殿陰 雀聲愁北林 眾賓還城邑 何以慰吾心

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A divine breeze comes upon us from afar,114 As all around us the lotus petals unfold. Green bamboo line the clear streams, Thoroughwort of autumn shade secluded banks. The moon rises to illuminate the garden, Cap and pendants trail one after another.115 A guest came from southern Chu, And played the panpipes for us. Fish from the depths were hiding in the shallows, And the listeners were never tired. How gorgeous were those lofty writings! Could petty scholars suffice to make them? What a chill in the shade of the vast hall now, As sparrows call sadly in northern forests.116 When the assembled guests return to city and town, How will I be able to assuage my heart?

The major source for this imitation seems to be Cao Pi’s “Composed at Lotus Pond” 芙蓉池作. There are also textual parallels to Cao Zhi’s “Lord’s Feast” 公讌詩, such as this scenic couplet (ll. 7–8):117

秋蘭被長坂 朱華冒綠池

Autumn thoroughwort clothes the long slope, Vermilion flowers covers the green pond.

Or this one (ll. 11–12):

神飆接丹轂 輕輦隨風移

114 115

116

117

A divine gale drags the crimson wheels, Light chariots sprint along with the wind.

The “divine breeze” appears also in Cao Zhi’s “Lord’s Feast” poem (Wen xuan 20.942–43). “Cap and pendants” was the costume of officials, so this line merely indicates that there were many officials present. This line closely resembles a couplet from Cao Zhi’s “Lord’s Feast”: “Roaming in the West Garden on clear nights, / The flying canopies trail one after another” 清夜遊西園，飛蓋相追隨. The association of sadness and “northern forests” was made as early as Ruan Ji’s 阮籍 “Singing of My Cares” #1 (Wen xuan 23.1067): “Lone geese shriek in the outer wilds, / Soaring birds call in northern forests. / Dithering and dallying what do I see? / Only sad thoughts wound my heart” 孤鴻號外野，翔鳥鳴北林。徘徊將何見，憂思獨傷 心. Wen xuan 20.942–43.

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It is worth noting that these two poems: Cao Zhi’s “Lord’s Feast,” and Cao Pi’s “Written at Lotus Pond”—may be related. Huang Jie argues that the “Lord’s Feast” was written to match “Written at Lotus Pond.”118 If that is true, and was also recognized by Jiang Yan, then Jiang Yan’s imitation is not just an imitation of “Written at Lotus Pond,” but also an imitation of a poem written in response to “Written at Lotus Pond.” Jiang is not just imitating a single poem, but belatedly joining in the group composition of Jian’an. In general this imitation has an independent unity that makes it one of Jiang’s more successful works. The description of drinking and music is familiar by now, but in lines thirteen and fourteen the topic changes to writing itself: “How gorgeous are those lofty writings! / Could petty scholars suffice to make them?” This assertion of the value of “art for art’s sake” recalls the brash argument of Cao Pi’s famous “On Writing” from Dian lun. But the xing 興 image in the next couplet changes the mood; now the vastness of the ceremonial hall is overwhelming, and the music reminds us of sorrowful chirping in the forests instead. Finally “Cao Pi” wonders how he will entertain himself after the party is over and all the guests have gone home. This situation, presented by Jiang Yan, reminds us of the considerable importance of Cao Zhi’s role as auditor in the “Fu on the Moon,” or Cao Pi’s service as host. A brilliant poet like Wang Can still needed a place to flourish, such as the Jian’an court. In like fashion, imitation poetry often mirrors personal relationships, and imitations of Jian’an were a way of engaging with the poetry of Jian’an while also reliving some experience of the court itself. Coda: Imitation, Interpretation, Impersonation Imitation poetry was a phenomenon contingent on the literary and intellectual culture that developed from the Eastern Han through the Qi-Liang era (the first to sixth centuries ce). It relied particularly on an appreciation for the role of adaptation and the interweaving of sources, based in an understanding of the writer as a kind of craftsman fashioning a beautiful artifact. These kinds of assumptions were what allowed major writers to apply serious effort to poems of imitation. It seems to have been Fu Xuan who took the initiative in inventing the explicit idea of the imitation poems, but his efforts in the area of pentasyllabic verse were grounded in a pre-existing custom of revising and refining song-poems. This idea of applying one’s own ingenuity and passion to produce a better version of existing poems was an essential premise of Lu Ji, 118

Note to “Lord’s Feast” in Huang Jie, ed., Cao Zijian shi zhu, 1.1b.

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Xie Lingyun, and Jiang Yan’s efforts to create their own imitation poems. Without actually replacing the original, the imitation would stand as a more refined and compelling intensification of the finest part of its materials. As refined versions of their sources, imitation poems also acted as critical interpretations of those sources. Six Dynasties writers found endless satisfaction in rewriting “Old Poems” in their own original ways, finding new points of identification in them. Jiang Yan, likewise, uses imitations of Li Ling and Ban Jieyu to identify the significance of these figures as poetic personae, while simultaneously embellishing the source texts with his own craft. Together with Xie Lingyun, he engaged in a systematic effort to examine the Jian’an legacy from the point of view both of its Cao hosts and the courtier-poets. We see not just the critical legacy of individual Jian’an poets, but also the importance of the Jian’an court as a whole greater than any of these individuals. The Jian’an poets were constantly writing to one another, exchanging poems and composing poems on a shared theme. Their poems gain new significance from this, as so many of them embody a form of hypothetical relation among poets. Though social poetry has remained an important feature of Chinese literature ever since, it was rare for a later poet to find himself in quite as propitious circumstances, surrounded by as many able poets and supported by patrons of equally fine literary cultivation. Thus, Jiang’s and Xie’s imitations of Jian’an poetry pay particular attention to this feature; their reconstructions placed very distinctly in this social context. As interpretations, these imitation poems are not objective historical reconstructions from impassive observers: they are reanimations of Jian’an poetry in which the imitating poet participates. The imitating poet seems to hide his own face behind the persona of the earlier poet while adjusting the mask to conform to his own features. The melding of the personae, as when we read Xie Lingyun’s imitations for clues to his own political frustrations, is central to the interest of these poems. We attempt to distinguish between two voices, but in general are forced to accept both and make our own reconciliation between them. When a writer chooses to specialize in imitation and lets impersonation become his own identity, even he may no longer recognize which part of his persona is a mask. This is the question addressed in the remainder of this book: an interpretation of Jiang Yan as a poet of imitation. Although Jiang Yan is clearly an extreme case in the Six Dynasties, whose prowess at imitation would become proverbial, we have already seen to what extent imitation poetry developed within a culture hospitable to it. By drawing attention to this context shared between Jian’an poetry and Jiang’s own time, Jiang Yan offers an insight into the poetic tradition as he understands it—an insight that distracts us from the poet himself—or does it?

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Part 2 Jiang Yan between Poetry and Life

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Self-portrait As Sea Anemone, And Other Impersonations

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Self-Portrait as Sea Anemone, and Other Impersonations of Jiang Yan1 Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking. Fernando Pessoa2

⸪ The first half of this book has examined imitation poetry as a phenomenon of Six Dynasties poetry in general. Jiang Yan is the central figure in this history, not only because he has a large body of imitations of different types, but also because the principles of imitation poetry recur visibly throughout his work, even in his writings in other poetic genres. This chapter examines the paradoxical way in which Jiang Yan’s works present a self-portrait that occludes or obliterates the author’s own identity. Whether in imitation poems or his other works, Jiang employs a set of devices that make it difficult to date his works. Though we can follow the narrative arc of Jiang’s official career, the rhetorical substitutions of his poems displace them from that very biography. His habit of presenting himself through alter egos seems to reflect something unique to his character. Jiang’s “Fu on Bitter Regret” sums up the various tendencies of his work, combining impersonations of historical figures to form a universal depiction of frustrated expression. At the end of his life, a mysterious case of writer’s block was the fitting dénouement to a literary career defined by selfconcealment. This chapter examines imitation poetry at its most personal: in the context of the life of a poet for whom it became the most intimate means of expression. Jiang Yan is an exceptional character even in the Six Dynasties, but he is exceptional in a representative way. Though this chapter’s focus is on Jiang Yan himself, we are reading him not only as a poet but as a reader of others’ poems. The way that Jiang Yan’s poems fail to disclose him to us reveals one aspect of his identity, one that is constructed from the Chinese literary tradition. 1 2

This chapter was originally published, in slightly different form, in Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews 34 (2012): 131–57. Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith, 343. Original text: “Esculpir en silencio nullo todos os n[ossos] sonhos de fallar”; item 9-26 in Pessoa archives, Livro do desasocego, 1: 41.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004282452_007

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Throughout this chapter, as throughout this book, we can never quite complete the interpretive leap from work to life, or back again. We tend to lose ourselves somewhere in between, waving forlornly to the shores of historical understanding like Jiang Yan’s own totem, the sea anemone. Jiang Yan and Prosopopoeia The defining technique of Jiang Yan’s mature works is literary impersonation, the substitution of other voices for his own. The most prominent examples of this technique are his imitation poems, modeled after the works of earlier poets. Even in his poems not explicitly identified as imitations, Jiang Yan frequently adopts an alien persona. His literary impersonation of animals, plants, historical figures, and other poets is related to the classical Greco-Roman trope of prosopopoeia. Prosopopoeia was often used as a literary exercise—a student would be assigned to compose a speech in the voice of a historical figure, for example. Its function as a rhetorical device was thus comparatively narrow, but its larger implications are already suggested in Quintilian’s description of its utility for the various purposes of “persuading, rebuking, complaining, praising, or condoling.”3 Prosopopoeia thus can take on many of the ordinary functions of literature, which raises the question of whether there is any fundamental difference between writing in the voice of another and writing as oneself. Paul de Man even called prosopopoeia “the trope of autobiography.”4 He sees the autobiographical as a “a figure of reading or of understanding that occurs, to some degree, in all texts,”5 yet because it is only a figure or representation, it always fails in some sense to speak for the self. Prosopopoeia is thus a rhetorical manifestation of this more fundamental dilemma. For Jiang Yan, prosopopoeia has a different but parallel kind of ambivalence. The correspondences between the objects of impersonation and his own self-conception are obvious and sometimes explicit, but the trope of prosopopoeia negates their autobiographical import. His beautiful laments about the impossibility of selffulfillment are couched in the voices of others, denying himself that fulfillment on yet another, rhetorical level. There is an important strain of prosopopoeia in earlier Chinese literature, particularly in the Chuci and fu, where the construction of an alternate 3

Quintilian, Institutia oratoria, 9.2.30: “… et suadendo, obiurgando, querendo, laudando, miserando personas idoneas damus.” Cf. Analects 17/9. 4 “Autobiography as De-facement,” The Rhetoric of Romanticism, 76. 5 Ibid., 70.

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persona is employed for expressive purposes. A revealing case is “Fisherman” 漁父, the story of Qu Yuan’s 屈原 encounter with a fisherman recluse who mocks his ambitions. Though modern scholarship questions the attribution of this and other works to Qu Yuan himself, that traditional attribution would render the fisherman a literary construct the author uses to challenge the character who bears his own name.6 Outside of the Chuci, another prominent example of prosopopoeia occurs in one of the first proper fu compositions, where Jia Yi 賈誼 (201–169 bce) writes of being visited by an owl that sighs and flaps its wings at him. Jia Yi takes this as a kind of consolation, and recites a long speech that “replies with the thoughts” 對以意 of the bird, advising Daoist indifference to worldly affairs.7 This framing device remains a source of pleasure and subtle recontextualization throughout the speech, as the reader intermittently recalls that the ideas and arguments belong to a loquacious owl. The owl is transparently an impersonation, but also the frame through which we interpret the primary speech. The preface begins by describing an encounter between “Jia Yi” and an “owl,” but ultimately both “Jia Yi” and the “owl” are different representations of Jia Yi himself. The concealment of his own authorship exemplifies the Daoist ideas propounded by the speech, as another kind of negation of the self. Six Dynasties writers more frequently chose ordinary objects, and even creatures as tiny as insects, as the subjects of fu. This forms the yongwu 詠物 tradition of “poems on things or creatures” which continued to be influential throughout classical literature. Any such poem contains the potential for prosopopoeia, speaking directly in the voice of the creature or object concerned. Jiang Yan, though, writes full-throated impersonations, of which his “Fu on the Sea Anemone” 石劫賦 is an especially revealing example.8 The sea anemone is a sedentary animal consisting of a thick stalk and a mouth surrounded by small tentacles.9 In his poem Jiang Yan emphasizes the tiny and insignificant nature of the sea anemone to an almost pathological extent. The first-person presentation of the sea anemone’s point of view stresses the poet’s identification with it. Whereas Jia Yi’s owl was clearly a pretext, never once referring to its own animal identity during its speech, Jiang Yan’s fu 6 See Timothy W.K. Chan, Considering the End, 187–207. 7 Jia Yi, “Fu niao fu” 鵩鳥賦 in Wen xuan 13.604–8; translation in Knechtges, Wen xuan, 3: 41–48. 8 Jiang Wentong ji 1.23a–b; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 159; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 1.22–23; and partially in Yiwen leiju 97.1677. 9 For the identification of shijie as sea anemone see Bernard Read, Chinese Materia Medica: Turtle and Shellfish Drugs, 70–71.

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plays throughout with the dual identity of sea anemone and courtier. The sea anemone wills its own consumption on the “jade platter” of a wealthy diner, a conventional image that recurs frequently in Jiang Yan’s work, representing the scholar-official’s submission to his patron. Jiang Yan’s own self-presentation as a sea anemone is in turn a literary analogue of this political self-abnegation:10 Some sea folk eat the sea anemone. It is also known as the “purple stalk,” and is a kind of shellfish. In the spring it puts forth flowers. It is so curious that I have playfully written this short fu about it.

海人有食石劫，一名紫 𧄤11，蚌蛤類也。春而發華，有足異者， 戲書為短賦。

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我海若之小臣 具品色於滄溟 既鑪天而銅物 亦翕化而染靈 比文豹而無恤 方珠蛤而自寧 冀湖濤之蔽迹 願洲渚以淪形

I am a petty officer of the Sea God,12 I take my rank and color from the emerald ocean. As Heaven is a forge, and all things are its bronze; It gathers in the Transformations and forms the Spirits. I am like a spotted leopard without any worry;13 Similar to a pearl oyster content in itself.14 I hope to conceal my tracks in the ripples of a lake, Long to erase my form in the islets and cays.

故其所巡 左委羽 右窮髮 日照水而東昇

Thus, of the places I inspect, On the left is the Weiyu Peak, 15 On the right is the Hairless Pole.16 When sun shines on the waters as I rise in the east,

10

11 12 13 14 15 16

The implied depreciation of human worth that is seen here is common in works employing prosopopoeia. As Dryden says in “The Hind and the Panther,” Part Three, ll. 14–15: “If men transact like brutes ‘tis equal then / For brutes to claim the privilige of men.” This character (pronounced xiāo) seems to be used exclusively in this compound. Yiwen leiju has 虈 here. Cf. “Far Roaming,” Chuci buzhu 5.173. Alluding to Zhuangzi jishi 19.671. The same image of the oyster is used in Zuo Si’s “Wu du fu” 吳都賦. See Wen xuan 5.207. See Huainanzi 4.9a: “The Lamp Dragon (Zhulong) is north of Yanmen. Up to the Weiyu Peak, you cannot see the sun” 燭龍在雁門北，蔽於委羽之山，不見日. The Hairless Pole is mentioned at the beginning of Zhuangzi (see Zhuangzi jishi 1.14). It is a place so cold that nothing can grow. These two locations indicate the remoteness of the sea anemone’s travels.

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山出波而隱沒 光避伏而不耀 智埋冥而難發 何弱命之不禁 遂永至於夭閼

When hills rise amid the waves I go into hiding.17 Radiance hides itself away and shines no longer, Wisdom buries underground and rarely appears. Why can fragile lives not be guarded, So they always suffer early destruction?

20

已矣哉！ 請去海人之仄陋 充公子之嘉客 儻委身於玉盤 從風雨其何惜

Alas! I beg leave of the humble isolation of sea dwellers, To satisfy the fine guests of the lords’ son. If I may surrender myself to a jade platter, Though I endure tempests, what should I regret?

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Before discussing this fu in its entirety, two textual points are of special interest. The second character in the alternate name of the sea anemone, zixiao 紫 𧄤, is a rare character that includes the graphical element chen 臣, “servant, officer,” which is also employed in the first line of the fu proper. The graphical similarity seems to strengthen the personification of the sea anemone, which throughout is described in terms more appropriate to a submissive official than to an animal. The first line of the fu proper (“I am a petty officer of the Sea God” 我海若之小臣) also has a variant, fu 夫 in Yiwen leiju for wo 我 in Jiang Yan’s collection, which might suggest a third-person rendering in English. The fact that both readings appeared, through whatever sort of editorial intervention or mishap in transmission, seems suggestive of the duality of the entire composition, Jiang’s full identification with the sea anemone. Of course, in a classical Chinese text the distinction between first-person and third-person speakers is rarely clear-cut, and even following the reading wo我the translation could revert to the third person later in the fu. Although the translator is forced to choose, as readers of classical texts we should recognize that here and elsewhere the most plausible reading of the original is both first-person and third-person, both self and other. The pressure to choose between these is an exigency of translation that obscures the subtlety of the original. Jiang Yan introduces the fu casually by emphasizing that he wrote it “playfully,” but many of its figures of speech are passionate and personal.18 The fu is an impersonation in which Jiang Yan assumes the voice of the sea anemone 17 18

Jiang Yan likes to employ the phrase chu bo 出波, as in both his “Fu on Lotus Blossoms” 蓮花賦 and “Fu on Green Moss” 青苔賦. Scholars have attempted to date this fu to Jiang Yan’s period of exile in Wuxing 吳興 (modern Pucheng 浦城, Fujian), based on internal evidence, but the contradictions it presents could easily date to any period of his life.

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but complains of problems far more likely to confront the scholar-official. The formal assumption of the sea anemone’s identity is a kind of erasure of the author’s own identity, which is itself one topic within the poem: “I hope to conceal my tracks in the ripples of a lake, / I long to erase my form in the islets and cays” (ll. 7–8). In context, Jiang is praising the anemone’s life of reclusion, but the specific language here seems more extreme than the topic demands. The middle passage of the fu describes the remote landscape where the sea anemone is forced to live, and decries the neglect of its radiance and wisdom. The conclusion makes an abrupt turn, however, as the sea anemone says that it would prefer to return to the capital and the jade platters of a wealthy table. Even though it would be consumed there, at least it would feel a moment of appreciation. The sea anemone in itself is a puny, insignificant creature; in Jiang Yan’s presentation its main virtue is providing a tasty delicacy for the nobility. On a metaphoric level the fu is defending the value of an official career over the consolations of reclusion, or a Zhuangzian indifference to one’s fate. The alternatives from which the speaker is choosing are two alternate forms of self-immolation: to erase its tracks and live in obscurity, or to surrender itself to the consumption of a patron. Neither alternative can be accepted with assurance, and we are left with just the image of the awkward, tender sea anemone, helpless to control its fate but still imagining hypothetical forms of satisfaction. One case of intertextual reference demonstrates a persistent concern for Jiang Yan. The conclusion of the “Fu on the Sea Anemone,” where the sea anemone offers itself up on a “jade platter,” employs a borrowed figure for authorial self-effacement with rich implications. This is an allusion to an “Old Poem” (not one of the “Nineteen Old Poems”) that is a prosopopoeia on citrus trees. The poem is preserved in entirety only in much later anthologies, so it may have been reassembled from separate fragments. Nearly all the individual couplets must be of an early date, since they are cited as “Old Poems” in Yiwen leiju and the Li Shan commentary to the Wen xuan:19

橘柚垂華實 乃在深山側 聞君好我甘 19

Tangerine and pomelo dangle splendid fruits, There on the side of the deep hills. I heard the lord appreciates my sweetness,

The first two couplets are preserved in various sources including Yiwen leiju 86.1477. The Li Shan commentary to Jiang Yan’s imitation of Liu Zhen quotes the first two couplets and the final couplet, separately (see Wen xuan 31.1456). The third couplet is cited in Li Shan’s commentary to Zhang Heng’s 張衡 (78–139 ce) “Four Sorrows” 四愁詩 (Wen xuan 29.1357). For the entire poem see Gu shi ji 20.7a; Lu Qinli 335.

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竊獨自彫飾 委身玉盤中 歷年冀見食 芳菲不相投 青黃忽改色 人儻欲我知 因君為羽翼

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And so I further adorn myself. Entrusting my body to a jade platter, Though years pass I hope to be consumed. Sweet fragrances have nothing to rely on, But green and yellow transform their colors suddenly. If somebody wants to know about me, I rely on my lord like wings.

For Jiang Yan in the last lines of the fu, “If I may surrender myself to a jade platter, / Though I endure tempests, what should I regret?” (ll. 21–22), as for the anonymous poet in the third couplet of this poem, being consumed on a jade platter is the height of ambition. Jiang was fond of this poem and alludes to it in another poem discussed below, as well as in his imitation of Liu Zhen 劉楨 (170?–217 ce) in the “Poems in Diverse Forms” 雜體詩, which alludes to lines five and ten. The dual allusion seems to confirm that they did originally belong to a single poem, and moreover suggests that that poem was actually written by, or once attributed to, Liu Zhen. This attribution is especially plausible since the poem’s concise employment of a single striking metaphor is similar to that of Liu Zhen’s “Poems Addressed to a Younger Cousin” 贈從弟. Jiang’s repeated use of the poem approaches a leitmotif in his oeuvre, suggesting how his poetic impersonations are the literary analogue of his own subservience to noble patrons. Intertextuality is not an abstract concept; it is the linguistic realization of shared experiences and undeniable facts. Jiang finds expression in words of an “old poem,” making their sense of alienation his own. We can see this as one case of the paradox of any attempt to use writing for self-expression, when the linguistic medium is necessarily borrowed and adapted from exterior models. In Chinese literary theory this is exemplified in the advice of Jiang’s near-contemporary Liu Xie 劉勰 (ca. 465–522):20 Thus you should copy literary forms (ti) to establish practice, and follow your nature to train your talent. You may use this method as the proper compass of writing.

故宜摹體以定習，因性以練才，文之司南，用此道也。

20

“Ti xing” 體性, in Wenxin diaolong zhu 27.506. Cf. previous translations by Shih, The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, 225; and Owen, Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, 217.

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Copying the works of others is the way to learn to write, but so is following your nature. The only way to succeed is to do both at the same time, but where does that leave your own nature? Jiang Yan dealt with this problem more explicitly than most writers by identifying works as imitations of earlier poems, and by filling his own compositions with impersonations. His impersonation of the sea anemone is one example of this singular solution to this challenge inherent in the Chinese poetic tradition. The use of prosopopoeia reveals an underlying consistency throughout Jiang’s writings, linking together his writings of various genres, those identified as imitations and those not so identified, those explicitly autobiographical and those explicitly impersonative. In one case, an impersonation of the humble sea anemone suggests Jiang’s submissive conception of his own duty, while in another, a series of odes intermingles depiction of local flora and eminent virtues. In his finest works, though—the “Fu on Bitter Regret” 恨賦, “Fu on Parting” 別賦, and thirty “Poems in Diverse Forms”—Jiang does not impersonate just a single character, but simulates an entire suite of voices for an almost theatrical effect. The juxtaposition of multiple voices puts into question the authenticity of any particular one, testing the identity of Jiang Yan himself. Though Jiang is rarely innovative in style or theme, he makes a unique contribution in the multiplicity of his impersonations. Jiang Yan’s poetic imitations are the key to a reading of Jiang as a poet of impersonations.21 The impersonation of an animal, as in the “Fu on a Sea Anemone,” or of a poet, as in the “Poems in Diverse Forms,” subsumes the author fully into an alter ego. Jiang Yan also writes occasionally in the yongwu mode, describing an object, perhaps with some personification, but not employing the trope of prosopopoeia. Though these distinctions are easy to draw in theory, in practice they become blurry, as in the case of the “Ode to the Bayberry,” discussed below, a yongwu poem with textual links to the “Fu on a Sea Anemone” and other more autobiographical pieces. Jiang’s close imitations of the style of individual poets often seem to relate in complex ways to his own biography, as in the parallels between his imitations of Pan Yue and his own elegiac poetry. His “Fu on Bitter Regret,” by contrast, is so successful precisely because it employs multiple impersonations, arranging intertextual references only within a controlled framework of historical reflection. Read in light of Jiang’s oeuvre as a whole, it makes use of imitation and impersonation in limit21

Apart from the “Diverse Forms,” these include “Xue Liang wang tu yuan fu” 學梁王兔園 賦 (Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 2.94–98); “Xue Wei Wendi” 學魏文帝 (Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.102); “Xiao Ruan gong shi shi wu shou” 效阮公詩十五首 (Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.121–27); “Shanzhong Chuci” 山中楚辭 (Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 5.174–76).

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ed ways to make a larger statement on the imperial past and the significance of writing. Treating Jiang’s works as a whole united by the themes of imitation and impersonation has direct consequences for interpretation, particularly for attempts to date Jiang’s works. Dating has been the focus in much of modern Chinese scholarship, with the result that there are four separate nianpu for Jiang Yan, as well as numerous specialized studies.22 Though these are laudable attempts to reconstruct Jiang’s life, they tend to rely on textual parallels or simplistic psychological readings. In the former case, an allusion to the Chuci is understood as evidence that Jiang was in southern China while writing the composition; in the latter, a melancholy tone indicates that Jiang must have been writing from exile. Although many of the elements of Jiang’s poems are drawn from his life experience, the process of representation is more complex. It is a theater in which Jiang Yan reappears in various guises, implicitly asking the reader to guess which is the real one. Losing Oneself in Things: Impersonation of Plants and Animals As with the sea anemone, Jiang frequently employs images of the humblest and most self-abnegating objects, giving themselves up to be consumed at princes’ tables. Jiang rose to success through his writing, and half his surviving collection consists of compositions for official use on behalf of patrons. Jiang’s subordination of his own thoughts to those of his patrons was a presumption in much of his writing. Certainly it required tremendous efforts on his part to rise from a humble background to the high rank of his later life.23 Jiang’s ancestral home was at Kaocheng 考城 in Jiyang 濟陽 (modern Lankao 蘭考,

22 23

Yu Shaochu, “Jiang Yan nianpu”; Yu Shaochu and Zhang Yaxin, Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu, 435–60; Wu Piji, Jiang Yan nianpu; and Ding Fulin, Jiang Yan nianpu. The major sources are Jiang Yan’s biographies in Nan shi 59.1447–51 and Liang shu 14.247– 51. Jiang Yan also wrote an autobiography, the preface to an early collection of his works, dating to early in the Yongming 永明 period (483–494). The preface mentions a number of Jiang’s official titles, but stops at attendant gentleman of the secretariat; Jiang’s biography records that he was promoted to general of the imperial guard early in the Yongming period (Liang shu 14.250). See Jiang Wentong wenji 10.16b–19a; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 289–91; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 378–81. For an informative essay following both his biography and oeuvre, see Cao Daoheng, “Jiang Yan.” Another overview of Jiang’s life and work is Xiao Hezi, Jiang Yan ji qi zuopin yanjiu.

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Henan), though his family had fled south with the fall of the Western Jin.24 Though the Jiang family had some illustrious members in the past, after his father Jiang Kang 江康 died in 456, Jiang Yan and his mother were quite poor for a time. Jiang seems to have taken up his first official post in 463, at the age of twenty by traditional Chinese count. This was a moderately important position as the tutor of an imperial prince, and for Jiang, an opportunity to forge personal relationships that would sustain him through another four decades in the dangerous world of Six Dynasties politics. His first position consisted of instructing Prince Liu Zizhen 子真 (457–466) of Shi’an 始安 in the Five Classics. He may also have instructed other princes, including Prince Liu Jingsu 景 素 of Jianping 建平.25 It was on the staff of Liu Jingsu in South Yanzhou 南兗州 (modern Yangzhou) that Jiang suffered his first great reversal. He was implicated in a crime and sent to prison, where he wrote his famous “Letter to the Prince of Jianping” 詣建平王上書 to defend himself.26 This letter is in part an imitation of Zou Yang’s 鄒陽 (ca. 206–ca. 129 bce) letter to the King of Wu after his own imprisonment.27 After the death of Emperor Ming in 472, his eldest son Liu Yu 劉昱 (463–477, r. 472–477) succeeded him. Liu Jingsu began to plot against the new child-emperor. Jiang Yan supposedly wrote fifteen poems in imitation of Ruan Ji 阮籍 (210–263), as a warning to Liu Jingsu not to act rashly. At this time Liu Jingsu was transferred to a position in Zhufang 朱方 (in the area of modern Dantu 丹徒 county, Jiangsu), so Jiang Yan followed him as an adjutant to the defense command and concurrent aide for Donghai commandery.28 Over the 24

25

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A new Kaocheng was established in the south, corresponding to the northern one in the regional administration, but located in Nanxuzhou 南徐州 (modern Dantu 丹徒 county in Zhenjiang 鎮江, Jiangsu). For more on this issue, see Ding Fulin, Jiang Yan nianpu, 18–20, and Yu Shaochu, “Du Wen xuan Jiang Yan shiwen shisuo,” 482–85. Ding and Yu believe Jiang would have instructed various princes at the court. Jiang mentions only Zizhen in his autobiography, so Zizhen was probably his principal pupil. Jiang Wentong ji 3.5b–6b; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 9.327–31; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 230–31; Wen xuan 39.1786–91. There is a study of this letter: Fukui, “Kō En no ‘Kenpei ō ni keishite jōsho’ ni tsuite.” The original letter is “Shangshu Wu wang” 上書吳王, in Wen xuan 39.1760–64. Although one might consider this work an early example of Jiang’s predilection for imitation, this case seems more typical of Han and Six Dynasties literary practice. One passage that comes just before the conclusion of the letter does seem a precursor to Jiang’s later “Fu on Bitter Regret,” giving a catalogue of worthy men who were either crushed by unjust punishments or outrageous humiliations, or who fled into reclusion. Zhenjun canjunshi 鎮軍參軍事, ling Donghai jun cheng 領東海郡丞. Donghai commandery covered the territory around the modern border of Shandong and Jiangsu provinces.

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next two years, Jiang Yan was in an uneasy situation, opposing his own master and fearing the consequences of rebellion. It may have been during this period that both his wife and son Jiang Qiu 江艽died.29 Around 474, Jiang Yan was exiled by Liu Jingsu to become prefect of Wuxing. Scholars have been eager to assign all of Jiang’s works of uncertain date to this period because his exile provides a convenient explanation for the melancholy that pervades his works. In fact, though, Jiang’s fu describe anxieties that would apply just as much to service in an official post as to exile (such as the metaphor of consumption by the patron in the “Fu on a Sea Anemone”). Other evidence suggests that this period of exile was in fact a relatively happy period in Jiang’s life: for once, circumstances rendered impossible the conscientious striving for favor and success that characterized his long career; he was free to write and read literature as he pleased. During this period Jiang composed the major series of poems, “Fifteen Odes to Plants and Trees” 草木頌, consisting of tetrasyllabic poems in praise of fifteen distinct species he observed in Wuxing.30 Founded on Jiang Yan’s personal observation of the trees and herbs of Wuxing, these poems are also an attempt at displaying his inner feelings, “relieving the strife of my soul” 以寫勞魂. Different aspects of virtue and character are presented and developed in the context of fifteen attractive plants. The poems describe local southern flora, some of which were not common topics for poetry: the golden chastetree, tree of longing (a.k.a. jequirity or saga tree), camphor, coir palm, fir, tamarisk, bayberry, mountain peach, mountain pomegranate, magnolia, sedge, goldthread, mountain yam, pollia, and betony. Though the pollia, for instance, is familiar as an emblem of virtue in the Chuci, other choices like the mountain yam are more humble, and Jiang describes their lowly virtue in obscurity. The parallel to his own circumstances, or at least to his own idealized self, is clear, while other poems describe the medicinal powers of plants in a way that has no obvious reference to the author. The variety of personifications and the presentation of so many distinct vegetable-human correspondences recall the varied impersonations of the “Diverse Forms” or “Fu on Bitter Regret.” Jiang Yan’s odes are not unprecedented. Guo Pu 郭璞 (276–324) had written a series of encomia to illustrations (tu zan 圖贊) of places, animals, and plants in the Erya 爾雅 and Shanhai jing 山海經, which seem to have provided a 29

30

Scholars variously date these events to different years, each with the utmost confidence. For this conjecture see Cao Daoheng, “Jiang Yan,” 511, n.1. I am skeptical of our ability to date either the death of his wife or son; see below for separate discussion of each. Jiang Wentong ji 3.21a–23b; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 56–64; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 5.190–95. Many of these poems are also preserved in the “Fruits,” “Trees,” or “Fragrant Plants” sections of the Yiwen leiju, creating a large number of variants.

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direct inspiration for Jiang’s odes.31 In comparison with Jiang’s poems, though, the primary aim of Guo’s is clearly to record notable facts about their topic, and they lack Jiang’s moralistic focus. Jiang Yan’s poems consist of eight tetrasyllabic lines, so they are more spacious than Guo Pu’s. He uses the extra room to describe the plants in a more laudatory way with a strong element of personification. This extended personification of the plants is inspired by the “Ode to the Tangerine” in the Chuci, as well as the emblematic use of fragrant plants throughout the “Li sao” and “Nine Songs.” Besides the charm of its incidental descriptions and comparisons, the novelty of Jiang’s work is in the combination of so many distinct personifications. The series as a whole has thematic coherence and a progressive structure that provides a context for individual poems. The series can be divided into three sets of five poems each. The first five tend to emphasize the metaphorical virtues (loyalty, constancy, modesty, etc.) of the plants, while the second set of five emphasize visual splendor, which is a counterpart to their inner virtue. Finally, the last five poems in the series praise edible plants and combine homage to abstract virtues with identification of the specific powers of those plants. The first poem establishes the parallels between botany and morality that are the central concern of the series: 1. Golden Chastetree 金荊32

江南之山 連障連天 既抱紫霞 亦漱絳煙 金荊嘉樹 涵雲宅仙 姱節詎及 幽意誰傳

31 32

33

The mountains of the Southland Join as a screen and join with Heaven. There they embrace the purple clouds of sunset And drink up scarlet mists. The golden chastetree is an excellent tree, It contains the clouds and accommodates immortals.33 What can match its fair virtue? Who can pass on its hidden intent?

See Yan Kejun, “Quan Jin wen,” 121.5a–11a and 122.1a–123.13a. For a discussion of these poems, see Satake, Seishin bungakuron: gengaku no kage to keiji no akebono, 360–72. According to Li Hui-lin this is not Vitex negundo, a small shrub, but instead the Bauhinia tree, a tall tree commonly used in ornamental furniture today. Jiang’s poem celebrates its towering height. See Li Hui-lin, Nan-fang ts’ao-mu chuang: A Fourth Century Flora of Southeast Asia, 100–101. Yiwen leiju 89.1549 has 雲 for 露.

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The lovely tree, though described as accommodating the immortals, also seems to partake of their virtues in the final couplet. This is a normal kind of personification, with a sort of equation between the tree and human immortals. Several plants in the series represent various kinds of humility and lack of pretension. The coir palm, for instance, lacking gaudy blossoms to attract attention, stays safe and is not chopped down. This is a common trope of Daoist thought, the virtue of uselessness, which we see again in Jiang’s “Fu on the Green Moss” below.34 Like the sea anemone, these are figures for Jiang’s desired insignificance. The single example of impersonation most relevant to Jiang’s other work is in the ode to the bayberry, which ends with a paraphrase of the same “Old Poem” about the tangerine quoted above.35 The bayberry is also edible and so naturally parallel to that poem.36 The final couplet also reasserts the theme of some of Jiang’s fu: self-abnegation in submission to the lord: 7. Bayberry 楊梅37

寶跨荔枝 芳軼木蘭 懷蕊挺實 涵英糅丹 鏡日繡壑 炤霞綺巒 為我羽翼 委君玉盤

It is a treasure beyond the lychee, More fragrant than magnolia. It embraces buds and raises fruits, Holding blossoms mixed with red.38 Mirroring sunshine it embroiders the valley; Gleaming with sunset it brocades the ridge. If you will be wings for me, I’ll place myself on your jade platter.39

Here Jiang employs personification in an especially dramatic way. He first invests the plant with human virtues, then describes its consumption in a way that seems to invert those virtues as self-destruction. Throughout these poems Jiang Yan is simultaneously describing the plants of the Southland and investing them with the personality and personal virtues that he presumably wants 34 35 36 37 38 39

See e.g. Zhuangzi jishi 19.668. Lu Qinli 335. The importance of this image for Jiang Yan can also be seen in his reuse of it in his imitation of Liu Zhen in the “Diverse Forms.” Myrica rubra. This berry is also known in English as the “Chinese strawberry.” See also Li Hui-lin, Nan-fang ts’ao-mu chuang, 117–18. Yiwen leiju 87.1494 has 黃 for 英. This is an allusion to the same “Old Poem” referenced in the “Fu on the Sea Anemone” above.

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to claim for himself. There is not a uniform direction of movement between the two, but instead an alternation that playfully undermines both the reliability of the description and the significance of the personification. The trope in the seventh ode is closer to objectification, with the speaker offering to surrender himself to the mercy of his lord. These two lines both derive from the same “Old Poem,” but in that poem they belong to different couplets; here Jiang has combined these two evocative phrases in a neat parallel couplet. In each case, a kind of service is offered, but described in the form of a transformation: if you will become my wings, I will become your sweet fruit; i.e., if you help me to succeed in my career, I will be a loyal servant to you. A berry can represent talent or wisdom, but a person can also be merely a berry on a jade platter. There is a problematic relation between the poet’s identity and the images of the poetry: in the process of speaking for another (whether a person or object) the voice of the author is disguised or lost. Finding human qualities in fruits and trees, Jiang Yan’s own qualities are represented only obliquely. There is a tension between revelation and concealment, between representation and self-presentation. Jiang Yan identifies the allegorical virtues of the plants with his own attributes or the attributes he aspires to possess. Yet he represents these ideal virtues by means of the ordinary and humble plants that surround him. He keeps a playful distance from the plants that makes it unclear where he places himself among them. The “Fifteen Odes to Plants and Trees” for the most part take an optimistic point of view, and are truly poems of praise, but the “Fu on Green Moss” 青苔 賦 is a prosopopoeia on a plant with much darker content.40 This poem is essentially an impersonation of moss, where the moss represents the Daoist recluse living in quiet passivity apart from the affairs of the world. In a sense it is also a precursor to the “Fu on Bitter Regret”; here Jiang studies transience from the impersonal point of view of the moss, while in the “Fu on Bitter Regret” through a series of historical figures. Neither fu is datable, but since the “Fu on Green Moss” treats a related theme in a far more straightforward and plain fashion, it is natural to suppose that it is earlier, suggesting how Jiang Yan’s poetic method develops through different forms of impersonation. This fu is something of a bridge between the simple impersonations of plants and the more complex ambitions of the “Fu on Bitter Regret.” Commentators again infer that Jiang Yan wrote this fu in Wuxing, since he describes himself being in the hills, but the setting is a literary construct. The first line comes verbatim from “Lamenting Time’s Fate” 哀時命 in the Chuci. 40

Jiang Wentong ji 1.2a–3a; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 202–3; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 18–21; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 1.18–21.

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In this sense the fu might seem to be a prolix extension of one of Jiang Yan’s odes to trees and plants. But the second half of the fu, on the transience of human beauty and love, to which the moss is a faithful witness, takes a different point of view. As Cao Daoheng 曹道衡 has pointed out, this fu is much indebted to Bao Zhao’s 鮑照 (ca. 414–466) “Fu on the Ruined City,” his fu on visiting the city of Guangling, which describes the onetime grandeur that had been a mere ruin for centuries.41 Although one passage of Jiang Yan’s fu is certainly drawing on this precedent (which would continue to be a key theme in Chinese poetry), the perspective is entirely different, that of the moss versus that of the poet himself. This impersonation is Jiang Yan’s formal innovation relative to Bao Zhao’s fu: I dug out pillars in a hillside to make a chamber.42 There was moss there that drew my interest, so I composed this:

余鑿山楹為室，有苔焉，意之所之，故為是作云。 嗟青苔之依依兮 無色類而可方 必居閑而就寂 以幽意之深傷 …. 若乃崩隍十仞

50

毀冢萬年 當其志力雄俊 才圖驕堅 錦衣被地 鞍馬耀天 淇上相送 41 42

43 44

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Ah, how glossy and how green the moss— With which no other hue can compare. It must abide in reclusion and take up silence, Grieving deeply for its willed obscurity. And there are walls ten yards high crashing into the moats,43 And peaks lying fallen for ten thousand years.44 While mighty and heroic in will and strength, Its talented ambitions proud and firm; A brocade garment covering the earth, Saddle and horse resplendent under heaven. Saying farewell on the river Qi,45

For translation and dating, see Knechtges, “Pao Chao’s ‘Rhapsody on the Ruined City’: Date and Circumstances of Composition.” Quoting “Lamenting Time’s Fate” (Chuci buzhu 14.264): “I dug out pillars in a hillside to make a chamber” 鑿山楹而為室兮. The two lines differ only by filler words that Jiang Yan has removed. Jiang Wentong ji has 千 for 十. Mao shi 193/3: “The mountaintops all collapse and crumble” 山冢崒崩. In light of this allusion, the meaning seems to be as I have translated it, yet it is hard not to hear also the echo of “tombs lasting ten thousand years.” Here describing fair young men, as in Mao shi 48/1.

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江南採蓮 Gathering lotus south of the Jiang.46 妖童出鄭 Those splendid youths set out from Zheng, 美女生燕 Fair ladies come from Yan. 而頓死豔氣於一旦 And their lovely breath is choked dead in a day, 埋玉玦於窮泉 Their jade pendants buried in the subterranean springs. 寂兮如何 How desolate is it there— 苔積網羅 Where the moss grows and covers all. 視青蘪之杳杳 Looking at the selinum so far and remote, 痛百代兮恨多 I mourn for the hundred ages—my regret is vast. 故其所詣必感 What it leads to must stir emotion— 所感必哀 Once there is emotion then there is sorrow. 哀以情起 Sorrow arises from feelings, 感以怨來 Stirrings come from regret. 魂慮斷絕 The anxieties of the soul are excruciating, 精念徘徊 The thoughts of the spirit waver helplessly. 睹也 彼木蘭與豫章 既中繩而獲夭 及薜荔與蘪蕪 又懷芬而見表 至哉青苔之無用 吾孰知其多少

Look there47 At the magnolia and camphor, Meeting the surveyor’s line they find an early death; As for creeping fig and the selinum, They bear fragrance and show off their appearance. Great is the uselessness of the green moss: How can I know if it is for the better or for the worse?

The image of the moss growing over the ruined cities is highly effective, although it is hard to sympathize with the sense of loss from the point of view of Daoist detachment that the moss offers. Jiang’s use of impersonation does not seem ideally suited to his subject matter, as the reclusive moss is not inherently sympathetic to human suffering. When the poet describes the destruction and death of the “splendid youths” and “fair ladies,” he does not sustain the detachment we expect from the moss. Instead, watching the destruction as it continues to survive itself, the moss feels the onset of grief: “What it leads to must stir emotion—/ Once there is emotion then there is sorrow.” But this feeling of sympathy for other people conflicts with the solipsism of the moss, creating a confusion in the structure of the poem that leads to an ambivalent conclusion: “How can I know if it is for the better or for the worse?” (l. 75). This 46 47

Here describing young women, as in the yuefu “Jiangnan” 江南: “In the Southland you can gather lotus” 江南可采蓮. See Yuefu shiji 26.384. Following the Chu xue ji variant 睹 for 者.

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inconsistency is surely one reason this fu has not received as much acclaim from later readers as either the “Fu on the Ruined City” or Jiang Yan’s own “Fu on Bitter Regret.” The two different points of view make more sense, however, if we note that Jiang’s identification with the moss could itself represent a way of protecting the self by concealment, maintaining one’s identity by declining to assert oneself in the face of the dangers of participation. Self as Other in Jiang Yan’s Elegiac Poetry Jiang Yan is striving for an indirect perspective on suffering, a means of representation that does not rely on his own voice. The solution he finds in his best work is the impersonation of human characters who have suffered, the imaginative re-enactment of their experiences and laments. To appreciate the complexity of these pieces, we could contrast them with Jiang’s writings directly expressing his own grief. Jiang has two fu that deal with the death of friends and one on the death of his son, in addition to a set of ten poems mourning his wife. While he was in Zhufang serving Liu Jingsu, his friend Yuan Bing died. In response, he wrote the “Fu Lamenting a Friend” 傷友人賦48 and also a “Biography of My Friend, Yuan” 袁友人傳.49 The introduction of the fu praises Yuan’s special talents, and the first section of the body of the fu continues to point out his various abilities, comparing his poetic writings to those of Wang Bao and Sima Xiangru, and his historical writings to those of Sima Qian and Ban Gu. The larger portion of the fu, continuing to the end, describes their friendship itself and Jiang’s grief at having it come to an end, in a joint portrait that emphasizes their shared ideal: the pursuit of scholarship. The moving idealization of friendship in this work has its own conventional aspects, but on the whole is an exception to the pattern of imitation and impersonation in Jiang’s other work. It adapts conventional poetic figures and allusions in a way that is rather typical of its period, as we might expect of an early work. In his finest works Jiang differentiates himself from his contemporaries precisely by his reuse of historical styles. 48 49

See Jiang Wentong wenji 2.6a–7b; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 2.68–71; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 141–42; (in part) Yiwen leiju 35.605. The final section of the fu returns to Jiang Yan taking up office in Zhufang. Yu Shaochu and Zhang Yaxin attempt to date the fu to autumn based on a line comparing Yuan Bing to the “grasses of autumn,” but this seems like overreading. Ding Fulin dates Yuan Bing’s death specifically to 474 based on Jiang Yan’s having written him a letter the year before (Jiang Yan nianpu 78).

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For example, Jiang Yan’s imitation of Pan Yue in the “Diverse Forms” is based on Pan Yue’s three “Mourning the Departed” 悼亡 poems.50 The relation between the poets, their grief, and their poems indicates some of the larger implications of impersonation, as a form of writing that symbolically revives its object: Diverse Forms #11 Imperial Gatekeeper Pan Yue: Relating Grief 潘黃門岳：述哀

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青春速天機 素秋馳白日 美人歸重泉 凄愴無終畢 殯宮已肅清 松柏轉蕭瑟 俯仰未能弭 尋念非但一 撫衿悼寂寞 恍然若有失 明月入綺窗 髣髴想蕙質 銷憂非萱草 永怀寄夢寐 夢寐復冥冥 何由覿爾形 我慚北海術 爾無帝女靈 50 51 52 53

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Green spring hastens Heaven’s mechanism, Pale autumn hurries the white sun. My fair one has returned to the layered springs, And my misery cannot end.51 The funereal hall is already still and quiet, The pines and cypresses turn desolate. Even for a moment I cannot forget you, I think of you incessantly, never just once. I beat my breast and mourn in loneliness, And feel confused as if something is missing. The bright moon penetrates the embroidered curtains, And I seem to recall your face, the essence of melilotus. No daylilies can relieve my sorrow,52 Endless longings lodge in my dreams. In my dreams I become oblivious again, And have no way to view your form. I am ashamed to lack the arts of the Northern Sea,53 You lack the divinity of the Heavenly Princess.54

Wen xuan 23.1090–93. See translations in Lai Chiu-Mi, “The Art of Lamentation in the Works of Pan Yue: ‘Mourning the Eternally Departed.’” Imitating “Dao wang shi” #1: “My lady returned to the deep springs, / Forever secluded away from me in the layered earth” 之子歸窮泉，重壤永幽隔. Xuan cao is hemerocallis fulva or daylily. It is known as the herb of forgetting and is used to extinguish sorrows. Li Shan quotes from the Lie yi zhuan, a lost work attributed to Cao Pi, a tale of a Daoist mystic from the Northern Sea who could help people contact the dead. See Sou shen ji 2.5a. This refers to the goddess of Wu 巫 mountain, also known as Yao Ji 瑤姬. Li Shan quotes from a poem in Song Yu’s 宋玉 collected works (lost in the Song) which resembles the “Gaotang Fu” but is somewhat different. Liang Zhangju 梁章鉅 comments that Li Shan

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駕言出遠山 徘徊泣松銘 雨絕無還雲 華落豈留英 日月方代序 寢興何時平

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I ride out to the distant mountains, But linger and weep over that epitaph among the pines. The rain is gone and no clouds return, When flowers fall how to stay their blossoms?55 The sun and moon exchange places in sequence, But sleeping and waking when will I find peace?

The poem was likely written considerably later than Jiang’s poems mourning his own wife, but there is also a sense in which all these poems of mourning do not belong to a particular moment or occasion. Both Pan Yue’s poems and the imitation refer to the passage of time after the death of the wife. In one notable line, Pan Yue writes, “Thinking back, it seems like yesterday, / Who can tell she has already been dead a year?” 念此如昨日，誰知已卒歲. Jiang Yan’s imitation more obliquely comments: “The funeral hall is already still and quiet, / The pines and cypresses turn desolate” 殯宮已肅清，松柏轉蕭瑟. More generally, the poems contrast the sharp rupture of death with the familiar repetitions of nature. Pan Yue’s third poem opens with the couplet: “The radiant spirit revolves the mechanisms of Heaven, / The four seasons pass by in turns” 曜靈運天機，四節代遷逝, a couplet that Jiang Yan follows in the opening of his imitation: “Green spring hastens Heaven’s mechanism, / White autumn hurries the white sun” 青春速天機，素秋馳白日. The poem exhibits Jiang’s imitative method of combining allusions to several of Pan Yue’s poems, as well as other sources, and imitating his connubial lamentations in their entirety. If it were an exercise in style based on a single poem, it would not achieve the renewed coherence of Jiang’s poem. At the same time, though, it remains closely tethered to its models, so much so it could almost be mistaken for a long-lost poem in the same series by Pan himself (just as Jiang’s imitation of Tao Qian was long included as the sixth poem in the “Returning to the Fields and Gardens to Live” 歸田園居). As a new poem in the voice of an earlier author, it is thus a kind of impersonation, a reanimation of Pan Yue speaking of a grief that is shared by Jiang Yan. In the context of the “Diverse Forms,” it is merely one of thirty imitations, but that

55

must quote from Song Yu’s collected works here because this version includes the phrase di nü 帝女. See Wen xuan pangzheng 26.19a. Both images show the irreversible nature of time. Li Shan traces the phrase yu jue 雨絕 to its use in the “Fu on the Parrot” of Mi Heng: “Why must we be parted today like the rain?” 何今日之雨絕 (Wen xuan 13.614). The You Mao text of the Wen xuan has liang 兩, but according to the Wenxuan kaoyi the graph should be 雨. In Jiang’s poem, of course, only 雨 is feasible.

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context only strengthens the implication that the grief described is not an isolated, individual event, but rather something intersubjective. The elements of Jiang’s work that are only implicit in his shorter fu or individual imitation poems are realized fully in his symphonies of sentiment, the “Fu on Bitter Regret” and “Fu on Parting,” where he describes the sufferings and wrongful deaths of a number of historical characters. In the “Fu on Bitter Regret” in particular, he deals explicitly with the theme of others’ grief and its re-enactment.56 He introduces the poem as follows:

試望平原 蔓草縈骨 拱木斂魂 人生到此 天道寧論 於是僕本恨人 心驚不已 直念古者 伏恨而死

Take a look out over the plain, Where the creeping grasses encircle men’s bones, And trees an armspan around catch their souls.57 When human life has come to this, Let’s not speak of the Way of Heaven! So was I ever a man of bitter regret, Living in ceaseless dread. I think only of the ancients, Who bore their regrets unto death.

Jiang Yan identifies an equivalence between himself—or at least the speaker of this poem—and those men and women from the past who felt the same kind of regret. In the remainder he goes on to describe their sufferings and mourn for them, in a reverie on these ancients in which Jiang Yan reimagines their regrets, condensing and reshaping them in a single coherent work. In the “Fu on Green Moss,” Jiang Yan laments the passage of time and the transience of human life from the perspective of another insignificant plant. He expands on the theme more profoundly and effectively in his “Fu on Bitter Regret,” treated from the perspective of six historical figures. Like the “Fu on Parting,” this is a portmanteau composition that introduces a theme, then deals with multiple historical examples of that theme, and sums it up with a brief conclusion. In that sense, it is the antithesis of an occasional piece, 56

57

Wen xuan 16.744; Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 16.31b–35a; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 1.1a–2a; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 7–10; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 161–62. See also the previous translations in Marney, 133–35, and Knechtges, Wen xuan, 3: 193–99. For more on this fu’s debt to Bao Zhao, see Fujiwara Hisashi, “‘Urami no fu’ no kiban.” The “Hen fu” is generally paired with the “Bie fu” 別賦, which is similar in structure. See Wen xuan 16.750–56. “Trees an armspan wide” is an allusion to Zuo zhuan, Xi 12. The trees planted at the time of a tomb’s construction have grown up to a large size. For “catch men’s souls,” cf. the yuefu poem “Haoli” 蒿里: “Whose home is Haoli? / It gathers in the souls, whether foolish or wise” 蒿里誰家地，聚斂魂魄無賢愚. See Lu Qinli 257.

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without any concrete details or information on composition. Again, modern scholars date this fu to his time in Wuxing, based on a vague similarity to other fu from the period, along with the argument that he could only have written such a gloomy piece while in exile. However, there is really no evidence for accurate dating.58 The fu describes the regrets of six historical figures: the First Emperor of Qin, King Qian 遷 of Zhao 趙 (245 bce–?), Li Ling 李陵 (?–74 bce), Wang Zhaojun 王昭君 (fl. 48–32 bce), Feng Yan 馮衍 (ca. 20 bce–ca. 60 ce), and Xi Kang 嵇康 (223–262). The first two, the First Emperor of Qin and one of the rivals he vanquished, both represent aspects of the founding of the Qin. The First Emperor is the only character who seems out of place, since all the others are in some sense victims of Qin-Han imperial oppression; the First Emperor’s only regret is that he could not extend his empire further. The inclusion of this triumphant conqueror helps to create an impression of comprehensiveness. This fu aims to depict all aspects of regret, not just the frustrated scholar-official’s. The stanzas vary in length from eight to twelve lines, and are mostly in tetrasyllabic meter with an occasional sao-type line. One striking aspect of the fu is its subtle employment of textual sources. Several of the characters were themselves writers: Li Ling (at least according to the traditional attributions), Feng Yan, and Xi Kang. In each case, Jiang Yan alludes to one or more famous works by these writers. It is as if he is borrowing their words to describe their sufferings, creating a compact prosopopoeia that identifies partially with each figure. Another historical figure, Wang Zhaojun, has no extant writings, but was, at the time, a popular figure for impersonation. The stanzas on these individual figures from the past could be translated either in the first person or third person, but it is translated here in the first person to emphasize the way the fu depicts each as an individual voice. The Chinese is of course ambiguous, but the frequent use of allusion to the historical figures’ own writings supports the use of quotation marks. First is Li Ling, the Western Han general taken prisoner by the Xiongnu, whose family was executed by Emperor Wu:

至如李君降北 名辱身冤 58

As when Sir Li was defeated, His reputation defiled and life destroyed:

This kind of speculation may be a modern innovation. Note that premodern editions of Jiang Yan’s works arrange many poems chronologically, but within the fu category place the “Hen fu” first. I doubt this is a suggestion that it was Jiang’s first fu composition. Instead it indicates a recognition that, unlike his shi poems, Jiang’s fu pieces cannot be dated reliably.

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拔劍擊柱 弔影慚魂 情往上郡 心存鴈門 裂帛繫書 誓還漢恩 朝露溘至 握手何言

“I drew my sword and struck at a pillar,59 Mourned for my shadow and felt shame of soul. My feelings fled for the Shangjun,60 But my heart remained at Goose Gate.61 With trimmed silk I attached a message, Swearing to requite the favor of Han. But morning dew is gone in an instant: Clutching hands, what more can we say?”

The language here refers not just to Li Ling but also to his friend Su Wu, the Han official sent to parley with the Xiongnu. The phrase “trimmed silk” comes from the biography of Su Wu in the Han shu.62 The Han asked the Xiongnu to return Su Wu and its other hostages, and the Xiongnu replied that Su Wu had died. A goose then arrived at the imperial park at Shanglin bearing a message tied to its foot, stating that Su Wu and his companions were still alive (the exact phrase was “On his foot a silk letter was attached” 足有係帛書). The final couplet here involves two allusions to the poetry of Li Ling and Su Wu. The biography of Su Wu quotes Li Ling as saying to Su Wu: “Human life is like the morning dew; why have we endured such sufferings for so long!” 人生如朝 露，何久自苦如此.63 Another poem attributed to the friends includes the line: “Clutching hands I heave a long sigh” 握手一長歎.64 Thus, while one account might describe Li Ling as a general defeated and then betrayed by his own sovereign, Jiang Yan’s account stresses his identity as a poet as well. Li Ling is important to Jiang Yan in large part for his expression of frustration in writing and poetry, and the allusions in the fu reflect that identity.65 The final impersonation treats the famously strong-willed and eccentric Xi Kang, who was executed on the basis of idle slander: 59

60 61

62 63 64 65

This four-character idiom originates in the biography of Shusun Tong 叔孫通, advisor to Han Emperor Gaozu (see Shi ji 99.2722). But there it describes the wild behavior of Emperor Gaozu’s retainers. Jiang’s usage here is similar to that of Bao Zhao in the sixth of his “Ni ‘Xing lu nan’” 擬行路難 poems. See Bao canjun jizhu 4.231. Shangjun 上郡was located in the area of modern Yan’an 延安 and Yulin 榆林, Shaanxi. Yanmen 鴈門 was located in northern Shanxi. Together these two place names (which I have translated to English) identify locations on the border of the Han territory, to which Li Ling longs to return. Han shu 54.2466. Han shu 54.2464. See Lu Qinli 338; Wen xuan 29.1365 (where it is attributed to Su Wu). Later scholars, of course, have often questioned the attributions to Li Ling and Su Wu, but Jiang Yan was not apparently concerned with this question. See chapter 3 above.

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及夫中散下獄 神氣激揚 濁醪夕引 素琴晨張 秋日蕭索 浮雲無光 鬱青霞之奇意 入脩夜之不暘

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And when the Courtier descended into prison, His spirit and demeanor were bold and impassioned:66 “Pouring the unstrained wine at evening, I set out my plain zither at dawn. The autumn days were desolate, As clouds passed there was no light. My ambition rare as the cerulean cloudwisps was thwarted, When I entered the long night without a dawn.”

Xi Kang was the author of the “Fu on the Zither” 琴賦, and in his letter breaking off friendship with Shan Tao 山濤 (205–283), he wrote, “A cup of unstrained wine, with a song on the zither: this is the limit of all my ambitions” 濁酒一 杯，彈琴一曲，志願畢矣.67 Even while Jiang states explicitly that Xi Kang was frustrated in his ambition, and suffered a lonely death, he alludes to the writings that have kept Xi Kang alive in memory, and even seems to revive him in poetry. Reading each section in the voice of the personage described, we have a kind of theater of individual performances, alluding frequently to their own historical writings. This element of the fu distinguishes it from Zuo Si’s famous “Historical Poems,” which describe famous figures of the past precisely as historical examples, without trying to resuscitate them in literary form. What is most powerful about the fu, though, is how it includes Jiang’s voice amid the dead and silenced. The prologue says it clearly: “So was I ever a man of bitter regret.” Jiang makes no explicit attempt to speak for himself here, but implicitly he seems to ask the reader to think of him in the same way that he has shown sympathy for these others. The topic of regret does not in itself imply that these characters had to silence their cries; you can express regret either loudly or quietly. Either way, the results are the same: “Clutching hands what can we say?” “I entered the long night without a dawn.” Yet these figures from the past speak again through Jiang Yan’s reconstruction, contradicting explicit pessimism with an implicit assertion of hope. The final stanzas of the poem sum up the experience of frustration and disappointment, citing four more examples of frustrated men. All these men fail to express their grief but instead “taste the sour and swallow their laments.” Finally, as traditional in the fu, there is a brief coda in the Chu song style. This 66 67

Zhongsan 中散 “Courtier” was the highest title Xi Kang achieved. “Yu Shan Juyuan juejiao shu” 與山巨源絕交書, Wen xuan 43.1929.

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section in particular has parallels to the “Fu on Green Moss,” but is transformed by the structure of the whole poem that preceded it:

已矣哉

Alas!

春草暮兮秋風驚 The spring grasses are in sunset—the autumn winds startled, 秋風罷兮春草生 The autumn winds pass—the spring grasses grow. 綺羅畢兮池館盡 Satin and gauze perished—ponds and lodges destroyed, 琴瑟滅兮丘壟平 Zither strings are obliterated—grave mounds leveled. 自古皆有死 From ancient times all have had to die, 莫不飲恨而吞聲 No one has failed to taste regret or suppress his cries. Thus the experiences of the individual, isolated figures are all joined and collected in the universal experience of regret. The conclusion seems to contradict the citation of those figures famous for their poems—surely these writers did manage at least to give voice to their sufferings? Of course, time destroys the strings of zithers and silences human voices, but then they may be recalled in literature. Indeed, as depressing as the content of the fu appears, the overall effect is consoling, since the reader may share in the grief that these silenced voices can no longer express. The “Fu on Parting” has a very similar structure, and after describing famous separations of the past, concludes with a rhetorical peroration asking who can speak for the sorrow of parting.68 The “Fu on Bitter Regret” is different because the problem posed is not just one of description, but of expression. The figures from the past for whom Jiang is speaking will never speak again. Implicitly Jiang Yan seems even to be asking us to think of himself, the author, who has silenced his personal voice in imitations and impersonations. In other words, Jiang is not just imitating past writers and impersonating the dead, but also asking that we read, and imitate, and speak for him. As Wang Xizhi says in the preface to the “Lanting Collection” 蘭亭集, “Later people will look on us of the present just as we of the present look upon those in the past” 後之視今， 亦猶今之視昔.69 Jiang Yan’s reenactment of the unjust abuses and cruel disappointments of the past is not ultimately a reflection on history, but a recursive interrogation of human sorrow. 68 69

Wen xuan 16.756; cf. translation in Knechtges, Wen xuan, 3: 201–9. Jin shu 80.2099.

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This conception of imitation as a reciprocal and continuous process was vindicated when later writers imitated Jiang Yan. The “Fu on Bitter Regret” itself served as the model of an imitation by Li Bai. In the Ming dynasty, improbably, Xue Hui 薛蕙 (1489–1541) composed a new set of twenty “Poems in Diverse Forms” modeled on Jiang Yan’s.70 Moreover, Wang Shizhen 王世貞 (1526–1590), of the Seven Later Masters, wrote a series of seventy “AncientStyle Poems” 擬古 modeled on Jiang’s “Diverse Forms.”71 Jiang Yan’s poetic style was conservative, and though he lived into the sixth century, his extant writings show little trace of the transformations of the Yongming era or the Liang court. In the conception and design of his literary works, he was more innovative, particularly in his unprecedented “Diverse Forms” and “Fu on Bitter Regret” (and to some extent in less famous works like the “Odes to Plants and Trees”). It is appropriate that these works attracted attention and homage in precisely the forms Jiang Yan had devised. Writing the End of Writing There is a curious break in Jiang Yan’s life history around the year 482 or 483. At this time, Jiang wrote an autobiography summing up his career and ambitions as if his life were already over.72 Almost none of the works which we have any basis for dating can be dated after this time.73 The curiously carefree quality of the autobiography seems like a preparation for Jiang’s rejection of writing, or writer’s block, at the end of his life. In it, he rejects the traditional defense of literature as a way to perpetuate fame and virtue, and claims instead that it is simply a pleasant way to pass the time. There is also a suggestion of writing as pure play in the introduction to the “Fu on the Sea Anemone” as well as in the preface to the “Diverse Forms.” Indeed one traditional view of the “Diverse 70

71

72

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See Kaogong ji, 2.1a–7a and 7a–15a. For a study of these poems that emphasizes the ideological and personal influences on Xue Hui, see Suzuki Toshio, “Setsu E no gisaku shi ni tsuite.” Wang Shizhen, Yanzhou sibu gao, 9.1a–30b. Wang imitates the same thirty poets as in Jiang Yan’s diverse forms, then continues on with later poets, ending with Wei Yingwu 韋 應物 (737–ca. 793). Actually the preface to a collection of his writings, “Zi xu” 自序, Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 10.378–81. Cf. Paul Kroll’s discussion of Jiang Yan’s mid-life crisis in “Huilin on Black and White, Jiang Yan on Wuwei: Two Buddhist Dialogues from the Liu-Song Dynasty.” One traditional hypothesis has been that Jiang Yan had a separate, second literary collection that was lost, but this theory has been criticized convincingly by Mu Meichun. See Mu, “Jiang Yan houji wangyi nan Song xianyi.”

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Forms,” and other literary imitations, is as a mere exercice de style, but this is hard to accord with the pathos that dominates the subject matter of these and other works. At least, if literature is mere diversion for Jiang Yan, then its humor bears the Freudian weight of an unconscious significance as well. In the case of his autobiography the identification of literature with play seems implicitly to provide a justification for his later abandonment of writing altogether: “I used to say: in our lives we should follow our natures and make pleasure, why bother with dedicated ambitions or strenuous effort, seeking fame after death? … All that I have learned is no more than this” 淹嘗云：人生當適性 為樂，安能精意苦力，求身後之名哉！… 淹之所學，盡此而已矣. Jiang Yan did not succeed in his ambition of idle retirement, but instead ascended to a series of increasingly high official positions for the remainder of his life. Despite the savvy sense of political vicissitudes that allowed him to survive his service to the rebellious Liu Jingsu and the transitions to the Qi and Liang dynasties, his writings suggest persistent discomfort with his official successes. For these reasons he has been described as a representative example of the internal contradictions of the Chinese scholar-official who represses his own desires in order to maintain his position and subservience.74 This selfabnegation is also a literary device, not invented by Jiang Yan but frequently employed by him. Jiang’s poetry calls attention constantly to its impersonal qualities (its artificial imagery or derivative style), yet in such an obvious manner that it reflects the author’s own personality, his will to impersonality and self-abnegation. Jiang Yan’s poetry succeeds, not because he represses his own personality, but because he dramatizes the act of repression. According to the autobiography, it would seem that Jiang found consolation in Buddhist and Daoist philosophy, and no longer felt the same urgent desire to write towards the end of his life, as if he ultimately resolved the psychological tensions behind his earlier work. Whether this is the proper explanation or not, it does seem that Jiang Yan’s triumph as a poet of imitation was succeeded by a severe case of writer’s block, one still proverbial today in the phrase “talent exhausted like Master Jiang’s” (Jiang lang cai jin 江郎才盡).75 The historical evidence for this writer’s block is twofold: an apocryphal anecdote, and the dating of works in his collection. The anecdote is recorded in Jiang Yan’s Nan

74 75

E.g. Cao Daoheng, “Jiang Yan ji qi zuopin.” Hanyu da cidian cites a colloquial usage in Lao She’s (1899–1966) novel Si shi tong tang 四 世同堂, published 1944–1950.

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shi and Liang shu biographies and also in Zhong Rong’s Shi pin. It is worth translating the Nan shi text in full:76 Jiang Yan was famous for his writing while young, but in later years his talent and creativity gradually began to disappear. It was said that while he was returning after he had been relieved of the post of governor of Xuancheng,77 he stayed on the islet of Chanling Temple. During the night he dreamed of a man who called himself Zhang Xie78 and said: “Before I sent you a bolt of brocade, now you should return it.” Yan searched in his pocket and found several feet of brocade, which he gave to the man. But Zhang became very angry and said, “Why did you cut it all up like this?” Looking behind he saw Qiu Chi,79 and said, “These left-over feet of brocade aren’t any use, so I’ll give them to you.” Since then, writing became more difficult for Yan. And once when he stayed at Yeting,80 he dreamed that a man who called himself Guo Pu came, and said to Yan: “My brush has been with you for many years, but you may return it now.” Yan then looked in his pocket, found a brush of five colors, and gave it up to him. From that moment he could make no more beautiful verses, and people of the time said that his talent had been exhausted.

淹少以文章顯，晚節才思微退，云為宣城太守時罷歸，始泊 禪靈寺渚，夜夢一人自稱張景陽，謂曰：「前以一匹錦相 寄，今可見還。」淹探懷中得數尺與之，此人大恚曰：「那 得割截都盡。」顧見丘遲謂曰：「餘此數尺既無所用，以遺 君。」自爾淹文章躓矣。又嘗宿於冶亭，夢一丈夫自稱郭 璞，謂淹曰：「吾有筆在卿處多年，可以見還。」淹乃探懷 中得五色筆一以授之。爾後為詩絕無美句，時人謂之才盡。 The Shipin version is nearly equivalent to the conclusion of the Nan shi version, with Guo Pu returning to demand his brush back.81 The full Nan shi version has a memorable symmetry, with one poet first supplying Jiang Yan with 76 77 78 79 80 81

Nan shi 49.1451. Xuancheng 宣城 is a commandery in modern Anhui. Zhang Xie is one of the poets imitated in the “Diverse Forms.” Qiu Chi 丘遲 (464–508) was awarded the middle rank in Zhong Rong’s Shi pin. Yeting 冶亭 is perhaps an alternative name for Yecheng 冶城 (in modern Jiangning 江 寧 county, Jiangsu). Zhong Rong Shipin jianzheng gao 298.

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poetic talent, and another taking it away. Both Zhang Xie and Guo Pu are prominent poetic forerunners of Jiang Yan, with their picturesque landscapes and melancholy moods, although Zhong Rong’s Shi pin entry for Jiang Yan instead identifies Wang Wei 王微 as a primary source for Jiang Yan’s style. The relationship between Guo Pu and Jiang Yan is especially interesting. Jiang certainly shared Guo’s interest in Daoism and wrote numerous poems echoing Guo’s “Roaming with the Immortals” poems. Guo was also famous for his scholarship and his knowledge of the magical and extraordinary, including his commentary to the Shanhai jing (Classic of Mountains and Seas), the great compendium of geographical lore and mythology. Jiang Yan’s Nan shi biography mentions that “Once he wanted to write a Chixian jing 赤縣經 [Classic of the Red Province] to fill in the omissions of the Shanhai jing, but was unable to finish it” 嘗欲為赤縣經以補山海之闕，竟不成.82 Though we do not have this incomplete Chixian jing, Jiang’s “Suigu pian” 遂古篇, an imitation of the “Tian wen” 天問, deals with the same mythological material that his Chixian jing might have.83 Guo Pu’s appearance in the anecdote about Jiang Yan might involve not just poetic style, but also Jiang Yan’s incomplete treatise. The two versions of the anecdote together suggest how later readers understood Jiang Yan’s relationship with the literary tradition. The anecdote is dated to Jiang’s return from his post as governor of Xuancheng. Jiang Yan is commonly said to have held this position from 494 to 497.84 The Liang shu biography mentions that he held the post for four years, but the exact date is unclear. Jiang Yan cannot have taken up this position until 497, since until that year it had belonged to Xie Tiao 謝朓 (464–499).85 So Jiang would not have returned from his post until the year 500. Even then, he would only have suffered from losing his inspiration, the magic pen, for four years before his death—four years which also saw the founding of the Liang, during which he surely would have been occupied by pressing affairs of state. This suggests that the story was invented to supply a retrospective explanation for Jiang Yan’s literary malaise, and probably arose only very late in his life, if not after his death. In other words, it implies a literary-historical judgment on Jiang Yan’s work. He received the many-colored brush that allowed him to imitate, and the brocade of earlier poetry that he rearranged in his own way, but

82 83 84 85

Chixian shenzhou 赤縣神州 was the name for the area of China in the larger universe according to Zou Yan’s 騶衍 (305–240 bce) cosmology (Shiji 74.2344). See Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 5.183–90. E.g., Cao Daoheng, “Jiang Yan,” 522. See Liu Yuejin, Yongming wenxue yanjiu, 264.

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they were never more than a temporary loan to him, not a gift, and when he lost them he had nothing to write with on his own. The allegory of literary transmission suggests that there was something improper in Jiang’s persistent reworking of earlier poets. He cut up the brocade given to him by Zhang Xie, and when he returned Guo Pu’s brush he had nothing more to say. This is an incisive analysis of the evanescence of his literary talent. Jiang Yan’s contemporaries recognized the special nature of his work, that it was as if he had recaptured the spirit of earlier writers, but ultimately the price of that achievement was silence. This plain verdict on Jiang Yan’s lost talent, however, overlooks the way that he had already represented his silencing in his poems.

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Chapter 6

Jiang Yan’s Allusive and Illusive Journeys How small the world appears in reminiscence! Charles Baudelaire 1

⸪ After the Jian’an era, partly through the contribution of imitation poems, pentasyllabic verse became a truly flexible medium suited to a wide variety of topics. Jiang Yan is the only writer of imitation poems who reflects this full diversity in his work. This chapter focuses on Jiang Yan’s imitations and later development of pentasyllabic verse, particularly in relation to travel poetry, a genre that frequently relies on allusions to earlier poems, summoning up landscapes from the pages of the classics as much as from direct observation. As a result of this practice, discussions of imitation poetry, and indeed of Chinese poetry generally, must sometimes skirt the historical background of particular poems. After all, it is not always clear whether historical context from the period of the source poem, or that of the later poem, or yet another period in between, is the most relevant. Though Jiang Yan and other Six Dynasties poets do of course reveal something of their personal lives, they reveal it only as refracted through the opaque material of their allusion-laden writings, which makes it very frequently unsuitable as a historical source, especially for chronology. Nonetheless, a reconstruction of how Jiang Yan’s poetry worked may contribute more to a proper historical understanding of his life as a whole than speculation on the particular dates when he composed those poems. Jiang Yan’s own work offers us alternate ways to understand the relation between poetry and life. The previous chapter developed the theme of concealment and impersonation, the disguise of the author’s life in poetry. This chapter offers an alternative that is more revealing of the author’s personal experience: the journey in poetry, and the poem as a journey. Rather than seeing a poem as the product of a single occasion, an alternate conception would see it as the cumulative product of a passage of time, and often of a physical passage from one place to another as well. In the same way that medieval poetry is profoundly influenced by the Chuci, particularly the “Li sao,” “Far 1

From “Le Voyage”: “Aux yeux du souvenir que le monde est petit!”

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004282452_008

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Roaming,” and similar works that recapitulate a mystical or even cosmological journey. This kind of journey will certainly reflect elements of the author’s life—the author is generally the subject of the travel poem—but it will incorporate all kinds of other elements from the journey, including the experiences of other poets and visions of distant or imaginary places. A journey is not just a single point in time, a single scene, or a single moment, but a whole range of visions and experiences. When woven into a single poem the referents of the poet’s experience are still indicated in the poem, but now joined by all kinds of other referents from the literary past. Though imitation poems themselves are an exceptional, somewhat marginal form of writing, they represent an aspect of discourse that is universal. The concept of genre, so fundamental to literary criticism, depends on the practice of imitation for its existence. For any work which is not the first of its kind must be, to greater or lesser degree, an imitation of generic predecessors. This is not to say that all literary works not the first of their kind are imitations, merely that they are imitative. There is a natural relationship between imitation and genre. On one hand, thinking about a “genre poem” as a kind of imitation is a reminder that genres are not fixed categories. Rather, the decision to write within a genre is also a decision to preserve and extend that genre by adding a new member to it. At the same time, imitations are also a reflection on genres, a self-conscious attempt to borrow certain characteristics of earlier work and to identify those which are distinctive. What separates the concepts of genre and imitation poems so-titled, though, is the explicitness of imitation poetry. Their self-conscious attitude to their intertextual lineage marks imitation poems as a different order of writing. When Jiang writes of his journey to Fujian, then, he has in mind also the experiences of the Chuci poets, and these are often dominant in his compositions. Rather than using these Chuci references to date these poems to a particular moment, we should follow Jiang Yan’s allusive journeys, reflecting as they do both his own experience and others retained in the literary tradition. In this regard Jiang Yan is similar to many writers of medieval China. Where he stands out, though, is in the existence of numerous imitations of travel poems, included in his “Diverse Forms.” By following these illusive journeys—not claiming to represent any actual historical journey by any human being—we can see even more clearly how, for Jiang Yan, writing a poem is a fictive journey of the imagination, frequently passing through familiar places, but then moving beyond them into territory so strange and new that it can only be represented by poetic allusion.

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Why Systematic Dating of Jiang Yan’s Works Is Untenable When poets travel, their thoughts turn frequently to other poems, either describing the same itineraries or related ones, and so the same words and images seem themselves to travel through the poetic tradition. The southern lands, especially those once ruled by the state of Chu 楚, had a special place in the imagination of early and medieval poets. Though they conjured up the dangers of disease and isolation, the very hardships of the South could be used to affirm the virtue and resolve of the poet; recapitulating, for example, some of the travails of Qu Yuan, the great hero to whom numerous poems in the Chuci anthology were attributed. The “Li sao” and “Far Roaming” 遠遊, in particular, are long poems of mystical journey through which the speaker also achieves a kind of moral victory. These inspired countless imitations, particular in the form of fu, and shaped critical correspondences between place, feeling, and poetic expression in the Chinese tradition.2 Though the fu, which has its origins in the Chuci, was originally the primary vehicle of travel poetry, beginning at the end of the Han dynasty the topic of travel was often depicted in the pentasyllabic shi poem as well.3 Travel poems are often associated with particular sites the author has visited en route to another place, as in many of Xie Lingyun’s poems. No matter how closely a travel poem is tied to the physical description of a particular place, its imagery and form tend to remain within the conventional limits of earlier literature, and Chuci poems in particular. The question of how far a poet has traveled only begins with the poem’s title and the locations he visited, but continues as interpretation along the paths of allusion. Travel poetry bears a formal similarity to the poetic sequence, which is Jiang Yan’s favored literary structure.4 Both kinds of poetry are not built around a single lyric epiphany, since they represent more than one moment in time, depicting a transition from one state of being to another. Besides Jiang Yan’s many shi sequences, many of his fu, including this one and his most famous “Fu on Bitter Regret” and “Fu on Parting” also have a sequential structure. One effect of the sequential form is to counterbalance the specificity and momentariness of an individual lyric poem. Rather than a single, unified poem we 2 3 4

For one especially notable imitation in the fu form, see Knechtges, “A Journey to Morality: Chang Heng’s The Rhapsody on Pondering the Mystery.” On the theme of refugees and travel in Han and Wei poetry, see Suzuki, Kan Gi shi no kenkyū, 438–51. Cf. Joseph Allen’s article on poetic sequences in Chinese literature, “Macropoetic Structures: The Chinese Solution.” Jiang Yan anticipates the achievements of Tang poets in this area.

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have a series of related ones that cannot be reduced to a single moment or even point of view. An imitation poem, likewise, always forms a sequence together with the poem imitated, often including other poems in their intertextual lineage as well. Jiang Yan’s travel poems tend to be built on allusions to the Chuci, which itself contains a number of poem sequences.5 For modern scholars and readers, Chuci tends to mean the core group of poems historically associated with the person of Qu Yuan himself. The use of Chuci allusions in Six Dynasties poetry, though, suggests that readers of this period were also attentive to the later pieces in the Chuci, including the “Seven Remonstrations” 七諫, “Nine Longings” 九懷, and “Nine Lamentations” 九歎, never attributed to Qu Yuan himself. Though these pieces were never as popular as the “Li sao” or “Summons to the Soul” 招魂, Six Dynasties writers do frequently allude to them. These later pieces, which generally date to the Western Han or even Eastern Han, are not as interesting to modern readers because they are imitating the earlier pieces of the Chuci without expanding their range. David Hawkes criticizes the later pieces for borrowing the symbolism of the earlier poems to express their own frustrations, which can no longer interest modern readers “whose withers are unwrung by the political grievances of 2,000 years ago.”6 Though it is certainly much harder for us to appreciate the later works in the anthology, this is not so much because we cannot sympathize with the travails of the authors as because we fail to respond to the literary challenge of their own accounts. The later poets were reworking Chuci imagery as new literature, and so seem derivative, but given that any medieval Chinese poet would have known most of the Chuci collection by heart, how much more derivative would they have seemed to contemporary readers than to us, who are so much less familiar with the sources? In fact, it ought to be easier for us to appreciate these works as poetry, given that few modern readers have the same profound familiarity with the source texts as earlier poets who had them memorized. Thus the fact of their derivative quality does not conclude a proper interpretation of these pieces, but only begins it. That there can be no simple division between the original and the derivative is evident particularly from the vexing question of assignment of authorship for the Chuci poems. Modern scholars have questioned the attribution of some or all the poems traditionally assigned to Qu Yuan, but even in the traditional account, many Chuci poems are not written by Qu Yuan, but rather composed 5 John Marney points out the importance of Chuci to Jiang Yan (Chiang Yen, 147). 6 Hawkes, Ch’u Tz’u: The Songs of the South, 121. Hawkes makes these remarks in reference specifically to Dongfang Shuo’s 東方朔 “Qi jian” 七諫.

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to him or in homage of him. For instance, “Summons to the Soul” (“Zhao hun”) is alternately assigned either to Qu Yuan or to Song Yu. If attributed to Song Yu, Qu Yuan’s younger follower, it seems to be a symbolic summons to the soul of Qu Yuan himself. The relationship of Jiang Yan’s works to their Chuci sources likewise needs to be seen in an appropriate light, in which the recollection of Qu Yuan is no simple allusion but a feature of immense symbolic importance. This chapter will examine first Jiang Yan’s works that are nominally personal (but in fact closely imitating Chuci poetry), then at poems from the “Diverse Forms” in which Jiang Yan responds to various later travel poems. This examination shows some of the various forms that travel poetry could take, but also how certain forms of repetition provide a reliable frame for new poems— above all for frequent return to the figure of Qu Yuan himself. Jiang Yan’s Chuciinflected poems generally combine Chuci imagery with other elements, to create compositions more complex than the late Chuci poems. His exile to the South seems to have been the source of many of his poems of travel and also the occasion of his poems most inspired by the Chuci. Jiang Yan’s travel poems are associated primarily with his exile in Wuxing 吳 興 county in Jian’an 建安 commandery (modern Pucheng 浦城, Fujian) from 474 to 476.7 As Jiang wrote memorably in his autobiography:8 The location was beyond the southeastern mountains, on the former border of Min and Yue. There were emerald waters and crimson hills, precious trees and divine plants, all that I loved most in life, so I did not even feel the distance of the journey. In these hills there was nothing to do, so I made Daoist texts my companions, and roamed idly by myself, sometimes forgetting to return for a whole day and night. In that period of freedom, I often wrote compositions to entertain myself.

地在東南嶠外，閩越之舊境也，爰有碧水丹山，珍木靈草， 皆淹平生所至愛，不覺行路之遠矣。山中無事，與道書為 偶，乃悠然獨往，或日夕忘歸。放浪之際，頗著文章自娛。 7 8

His criticisms were expressed in the form of imitations of an earlier poet; see chapter 7. Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 10.379. The major sources for Jiang Yan’s biography are in Nan shi 49.1447–51 and Liang shu 14.247–51. Jiang Yan also wrote an autobiography, the preface to an early collection of his works, dating to early in the Yongming 永明 period (483–494). The preface mentions a number of Jiang’s official titles, but stops at attendant gentleman of the secretariat; Jiang’s biography records that he was promoted to general of the imperial guard early in the Yongming period (Liang shu 14.250). See Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 10.16b– 19a; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 289–91; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 378–81.

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This text is a preface to an early compilation of Jiang’s writings, and this paragraph in particular is explaining the context of the poems from his stay in Wuxing. Modern commentators on Jiang Yan’s poetry have often dated all of his important works that are otherwise difficult to date precisely (such as the “Fu on Bitter Regret” 恨賦) to this same period, because it is the one period when he seems to have proper justification for the melancholy mood that permeates his poems. Though this exile certainly seems to have been a critical period in his life, there is no evidence to show that most of his writings were actually composed there. Instead, they recall the landscapes of the South in the imagination, just as they rework the poetic images of the Chuci. Even though we have this description of the context of the Wuxing writings in Jiang Yan’s own words, it can still be hard to distinguish his literary representations of Wuxing and the South from Chuci imitation. The poems dated with confidence to the Wuxing period paint the landscape in images that derive as much from the Chuci as from his immediate surroundings. An additional complication is the tendency of modern scholars to date many of Jiang’s poems to his time in Wuxing without dispositive evidence. For instance, Yu Shaochu 俞紹初 and Zhang Yaxin 張亞新 hypothesize a date for Jiang Yan’s poem “Sao-style Poem Responding to Recorder Xie” 應謝主簿騷體 of 474, since one couplet is similar to a couplet in Jiang’s “Fu on Departing My Homeland” 去故鄉賦.9 Yet both lines are allusions to the Chuci, a text Jiang Yan surely knew by heart and alludes to throughout his writings. It is not obvious why the shared allusion tells us anything about the date of the poem. This kind of argument, based on an unquestioned assumption that every poem is literally biographical, is applied frequently to Jiang Yan in blatant disregard of the imitative practice that governs so many of his poems. Similarly, Ding Fulin 丁福林 dates the “Chuci in the Mountains” 山中楚辭 poems based on the fifth of the series of five, an imitation of the “Summons to the Soul” 招魂 poem of the Chuci.10 This hypothesis raises as many questions as it resolves. The protagonist of “Summons to the Soul” is a diseased ruler; by placing himself in that role, does Jiang mean to complain of a physical malady on top of exile? Ding continues, in the same passage, to note that many of Jiang’s other poems written in Wuxing use the word “mountain,” as if this were supporting evidence that these poems were written in Wuxing, and a Chinese poet could only write about mountains while physically atop one. In fact, throughout Jiang’s work we observe the simultaneous presence of multiple lay-

9 10

Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 52, n. 1. Ding Fulin, Jiang Yan nianpu, 101–2.

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ers of biography, experience, imagination, and allusion. Though we cannot always distinguish them, neither is it wise to equate them all indiscriminately. Cao Daoheng 曹道衡 proposes a general evaluation of Jiang Yan’s oeuvre, according to which Jiang Yan’s most successful writings all come from his period of exile, when personal suffering led him to creative triumph, while arguing that his later works grew sterile because of his professional success.11 This interpretation centers on Jiang’s period in exile in Wuxing, where he understands most of Jiang’s works to have been written. He theorizes that these were specifically intended to bemoan Jiang’s sufferings and protest his mistreatment. While this view certainly accounts well for some of Jiang’s writings, there is an obvious conflict with Jiang Yan’s explicit statements on the matter, as in the quotation from his autobiography above. His lyrical description of the natural beauty and freedom to read in solitude seem utterly different from Cao’s portrait of the frustrated, homesick official. Of course, one might argue that in his autobiography he is glossing over his frustration for political reasons. However, some of his Wuxing writings also demonstrate the enjoyment he mentions in his autobiography. For instance, while in exile Jiang wrote a series of fifteen “Odes to Plants and Trees” 草木頌, which again reflect his enjoyment of the local scenery and his personal freedom. In the preface to that series he wrote:12 In this sole insubstantial life of mine, I have met with the happiness of myriad ages. I cannot sculpt my heart or polish my body enough to requite the one I serve. Like a dragon, he beat his wings and raised his head,13 bringing me to the crimson stair.14 Thus I humbly received his fair favor, holding my position in Minzhong.15 For a long time I have been able to enjoy no pleasure in present companions, and what I love consists solely of two trees and ten plants. Now I have dug a place for myself, with towering hills in front to hide the sun, obscure shade behind with every11 12 13

14 15

Cao Daoheng, “Jiang Yan ji qi zuopin” 江淹及其作品, in Zhonggu wenxue shi lunwen ji, 357–62. Jiang Wentong ji 3.21a–23a; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 56–57; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 5.190–95. Cf. Zou Yang, “Shangshu Wu wang” 上書吳王 (Han shu 51.2340.): “I have heard that when the flood dragon raises its head and beats its wings, then the floating clouds appear from the current, and the fog and rain gather. When my sagely king polishes his integrity and refines his virtue, then the traveling persuaders all submit to his righteousness, thinking of his fame” 臣聞蛟龍驤首奮翼，則浮雲出流，霧雨成集。聖王砥節修德， 則遊談之士歸義思名. The path of official success. Minzhong is another name for Wuxing, which belonged to Min 閩 province in the Qin.

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thing blocked. Ravenous gibbons come searching, stony rapids whistle by. In the courtyard there is an old pond, its water often leaking away. Though there is no fish-weir nor fishing stand, one can sit anywhere around it. The leaves are lush and flourish in winter, while the flowers are colored brightly in summer. Can this place truly belong in the southeast of the Crimson Precinct?16 How rare and precious it is! Forming their stalks and putting out blossoms, there are several thousand varieties. Of all these there are fifteen kinds that I adore in my heart. For each I have composed an ode, to release the strife of my soul.

僕一命之微，遭萬代之幸。不能鐫心礪骨，以報所事。擢翼 驤首，自致丹梯。爰乃恭承嘉惠，守職閩中。且僕生人之 樂，久已盡矣。所愛，兩株樹、十莖草之間耳。今所鑿處， 前峻山以蔽日，後幽晦以多阻。飢猿搜索，石瀨戔戔。庭中 有故池，水常決，雖無魚梁釣臺，處處可坐，而葉饒冬榮， 花有夏色，茲赤縣之東南乎？何其奇異也！結莖吐秀，數千 餘類。心所憐者，十有五族焉。各為一頌，以寫勞魂。 This preface does evince some personal distress on Jiang Yan’s part, as he laments the loss of his former companions, and concludes that he written these poems as a kind of consolation for his suffering. But this distress is mixed with delight in his physical surroundings, including trees and plants. Rather than writing in response to a particular period of sadness, let alone happiness, instead Jiang Yan, much like anybody else, attempts in his writings to make sense of the contradictions of the world and his own heart. Moreover, however real the privations and frustrations of Wuxing, we should also contrast Jiang Yan’s writing there with that of other periods of his life. Consider the poem that scholars agree to be Jiang Yan’s first dateable poem, “Serving the Prince of Shi’an at Shitou” 侍始安王石頭.17 The Prince of Shi’an was Liu Zizhen 劉子真, eleventh son of Emperor Xiaowu 孝武 of the Liu-Song. As we know from his autobiography, Jiang Yan instructed Liu Zizhen in the Five Classics in his youth. From 463 to 465, Liu Zizhen held the office of Governor of Southern Pengcheng 彭城 and Concurrent Controller of Defen-

16

17

Chixian shenzhou 赤縣神州 (“Crimson Precinct of the Sacred Continent”) was the name for the area of China in the larger universe according to Zou Yan’s 騶衍 (305–240 bce) cosmology. See Shiji 74.2344. Jiang Wentong ji 4.7b; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 1; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.99; Marney, Chiang Yen,15.

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sive Affairs of Shitou 領石頭戍事. Yu and Zhang, along with Ding Fulin, date the poem specifically to the fall of 464 based on its content. Serving the Prince of Shi’an at Shitou

5

10

緒官承盛世 逢恩侍英王 結劍從深景 撫袖逐曾光 暮情鬱無已 流望在川陽 平原忽超遠 參差見南湘 何如塞北陰 雲鴻盡來翔 攬鏡照愁色 徒坐引憂方 山中如未夕 無使桂葉傷

This petty official has enjoyed a glorious age, Meeting with the favor of serving an excellent king. Tying on my sword, I follow the profound brilliance, Pressing my sleeve, I chase the layered lights. The mood of evening is endlessly gloomy, I float my gaze off to river’s north. The flat plain dimly seen is incomparably vast,18 But I seem to see the Southern Xiang river. How then to block the Northern cold? The geese amid the clouds come soaring by. Grasping the mirror I see reflected the hue of Autumn. Sitting idly brings on the occasion of grief. In the hills it seems if dusk has not yet come, And not yet caused the cinnamon leaves to fade.

John Marney provides two explanations for this poem: if written in 463–464, Jiang is expressing melancholy over the troubled state of the empire and the sovereign’s eccentricities. If written in 464–465, after the succession of Liu Ziye, then Jiang is worried for the safety of Liu Zizhen, since the rivalries among the Liu clan could easily result in his death (as indeed they did in 466).19 Ding and Yu/Zhang date it to the eighth month of 464 and the succession to the throne of Liu Ziye.20 Cao Daoheng, however, dates it to 463 based on Jiang Yan’s career, since he finds that Jiang Yan began to serve Liu Ziluan, Prince of Xin’an, in 463 or 464.21 This kind of detailed historical analysis may be reasonable when we read someone like Su Shi 蘇軾 (1036–1101) or Yang Wanli 楊萬里 (1127–1206), prolific poets whose collected works, like diaries in verse, record all kinds of intimate details, often dated precisely. For Jiang Yan or his contemporaries, however, we only have approximate information, extending to the years when 18 19 20 21

This line is an exact quotation of a line in the “Guo shang” 國殇 of the “Nine Songs,” with two characters removed (Chuci buzhu 2.83). Chiang Yen 16–17. Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 1; Ding, Jian Yan nianpu, 27. “Jiang Yan zuopin xiezuo niandai kao,” 208.

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he took up various official positions and the dates when the princes or emperors he served met untimely deaths. The attempt to relate minor occasional poems like this one to the key political events of the era (even relying on Jiang Yan’s prescience, those that occurred after the poem was written) can only yield wildly varying guesses like those enumerated above. Instead we need to read these works in light of imitation and intertextuality, as multilayered poetic structures whose cross-references to the textual tradition link them to multiple times and places at once. In this case, we know from the title that Jiang was serving with the young Prince of Shi’an. The final couplet of the poem alludes to the poem “Summoning the Recluse” 招隱士 by Xiaoshan of Huainan, included in the Chuci:22

攀援桂枝兮聊淹留 Seizing branches of cinnamon—linger a while. 虎豹鬥兮熊羆咆 Tiger and panther do battle— black and brown bears howl. 禽獸駭兮亡其曹 Fowl and beast are startled— and flee their holes. 王孫兮歸來 Prince, oh! return! 山中兮不可以久留 You must not tarry long—in these mountains. Commentators naturally interpret the advice here as advice to the Prince of Shi’an to avoid the political dangers confronting him. Yet they ignore the geographical contradictions of the allusion: why would Jiang Yan allude to a poem warning of the dangers of the South while he was located very near the capital? The poem actually is not alluding directly to “Summoning the Recluse” at all. Instead it adapts Chuci imagery to convey a generic sense of melancholy. In fact, it makes more sense historically to understand the political significance of the poem (and others by Jiang Yan) as semiotically muted. After all, if his poems had generally been read as conveying direct advice to his patrons, Jiang would not have survived as long as he did. Instead, the poem expresses a melancholy that could have been shared by both poet and his audience, and the principal implication of the Chuci imagery may be merely to reinforce the praise of the prince with a vague comparison to Qu Yuan.23 Fortunately, there is no need to adopt a mechanical theory to date Jiang Yan’s works systematically. Many poems are dated explicitly in their titles, and others offer suggestive clues. Even the “Diverse Forms,” though inherently difficult to date, seem to have been finished after 479, since the final poet in the 22 23

Chuci buzhu 12.234. For more on the literary resonance of the cinnamon tree, see Kern, Zum Topos “Zimtbaum” in der chinesischen Literatur.

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series, Tang Huixiu, lived into the Qi dynasty (479–502), and it seems likely that Jiang would not have included a living contemporary. There is a great deal of evidence for the events of Jiang Yan’s life, carefully compiled in the nianpu, and no need to exaggerate it further by attempting to date every single composition in his collected works. Ultimately, this approach buries literary interpretation itself. Moreover, it does an injustice to Jiang Yan, who lavished such care on imitations of other poets’ styles, to read his works as if he were not capable of imagining himself in the position of Qu Yuan or some other great poet of the past. If there is anything that we can know with certainty of Jiang Yan, it is that he was in fact capable of such an imaginative leap, and strived for it in his finest works. His poetry enacts journeys through the enduring monuments of the literary tradition, and that is where we must follow him first, not through the scant years of his own evanescent lifetime. Allusive Journeys of a Chu Traveler “Serving the Prince of Shi’an at Shitou” itself demonstrates that Jiang Yan’s Chuci allusions and imagery are not necessarily indications of the location or date of authorship, any more than allusions to the Shijing demonstrate that their authors were situated in Northern China. How we decide to treat Chuci allusions in Jiang Yan’s work is a particularly important issue when we consider his imitations or pastiches of Chuci. These includes some of his fu poems, and also the fascinating series “Chuci in the Mountains” 山中楚辭. These poems particularly demand to be read outside the context of Jiang’s exile, as creative imitations:24 Chuci in the Mountains #1

5

青春素景兮 白日出之藹藹 吾將弭節於江夏 見杜若之始大 結琱鱗以成車 24

25

In the bare scene of early spring— The sun appears dimly in the distance. I will halt my journey at Jiangxia,25 Seeing the pollia’s first growth, And there join carved scales to form my chariot,

Jiang Wentong ji 4.5b–6a; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 5.174–76; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 53–56. Wang Fuzhi 王夫之 (1619–1692) included this set in his own edition/commentary of the Chuci (Chuci tongshi 楚辭通釋, in Chuanshan quanshu 14.442–46). Jiangxia is modern Hankou 漢口, Hubei, northeast of modern Wuhan. It is mentioned in two poems of the “Nine Declarations” (“Jiu zhang” 九章), “Lamenting Ying” 哀郢 (Chuci buzhu 4.132) and “Yearning for the Beautiful One” 思美人 (Chuci buzhu 4.138).

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懸雜羽而為蓋 Hang varied feathers to form my canopy. 草色綠而馬聲悲 The plants’ hue is verdant, the horse’s whinny sorrowful; 欷沿袖以流帶 Sobbing, tears pour down along my sleeve to my sash. Jiang Yan in this poem adopts the classical poetic persona of Qu Yuan, so sad that his tears pour down as far as his waist, his melancholy even infecting the neighing of his horse. The physical world depicted in this brief poem likewise consists primarily of Chuci allusion. The single place name, Jiangxia, is mentioned twice in the “Jiu zhang” 九章 poems. There is a close similarity between Jiang Yan’s poem and this passage of “Yearning for the Beautiful One” 思美 人:26

開春發歲兮 At the beginning of spring, the start of the year— 白日出之悠悠 The bright sun appears in the distance. 吾將蕩志而愉樂兮 I will stir up my ambition and enjoy myself— 遵江夏以娛憂 Passing through Jiangxia to charm my worries away. In both this passage and the occurrence of Jiangxia in “Lamenting Ying,” the place is preceded by the verb zun 遵 “to pass through (follow),” suggesting that the speaker is on a journey following the Yangzi River eastward, out of Chu, perhaps. In its Chuci context, the place name is already chosen somewhat arbitrarily. Though Jiang Yan’s imitation here does not make any dramatic alteration to the Chuci, it does have the pleasant conciseness and coherence of its source poetry. Although the actual “Nine Declarations” poems are much more loosely structured and verbose, Jiang manages to compress their key themes into a mere eight lines. In that sense, this is an imitation that concentrates and refines its sources into a more potent form, in the manner of Fu Xuan’s imitations. The third poem in his series, and the longest, is more complex: Chuci in the Mountains #3

入橘浦兮容與 Entering the Tangerine Shore—dallying there,27 心惝惘兮迷所識 Disappointed at heart—I’m bewildered by my perceptions. 26 27

Chuci buzhu 4.138. Jupu 橘浦 also appears in another poem by Jiang Yan, the “Fu on the Goddess over the Water” 水上女神賦 (Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 178). It is another name for Juzhou 橘州, the Tangerine Province, on the river Xiang 湘 in modern Hunan.

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視煙霞而一色

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10

深秋窈以虧天 上列星之所極 桂之生兮山之巒 紛可愛兮柯團團 谿崎嶬兮石架阻 颼兮木道寒 煙色閉兮喬木撓 嵐氣闇兮幽篁難 忌蟪蛄之蚤吟 惜王孫之晚還 信於邑兮白露

15

方天病兮秋蘭

I watch the rosy clouds of sunset, as they turn all one color. Deep autumns extends so far it hides the sky, So high it reaches to the serried stars. Cinnamon grows up—on the mountain ridges, What lovable vigor it shows—branches clustered full. The valleys are steep and treacherous— the rock shelves impassable: Yow! Liaw! Sow!—how cold the floating bridge!28 The misty colors are sealed in— and the tall trees crooked, The mountain fog is dark— and the bamboo groves dense. I fear the mole cricket’s early call,29 Lament that the prince must be late to return.30 I am mournful and melancholy indeed— in this white dew,31 Just now Heaven has sickened— the autumn thoroughwort.

This poem uses a typical poetic analogy linking the difficulty of the journey, the poet’s interior sorrows, and the autumnal scene. Jiang depicts the landscape with the colorful imagery typical of Southern Dynasties poetry more than the Chuci itself. However, it is in all respects a landscape woven together from textual images, quite hard to imagine as a physical scene. Many of the images are atmospheric conventions, as in the mole cricket whose cry is well known from earlier poetry, or the white dew from the Book of Rites.

28

29 30 31

The onomatopoeia for the sound of the wind in the first half of this line is very similar to a line from Zuo Si’s “Fu on the Wu Capital” (Wen xuan 5.210, translation in Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1: 387, l. 210): “Sough and sigh, moan and murmur” 䬀瀏颼飀. For the second half of the line, see Yijing, Yi 益 hexagram #42: “Beneficial for crossing a great river, traveling over a wooden path” 利涉大川，木道乃行. Cf. “Old Poem” #16: “A chill of cold as the year comes to its close, / The mole cricket at evening cries its sorrow” 凜凜歲云暮，螻蛄夕鳴悲. Cf. “Zhao yinshi” 招隱士 in Chuci buzhu 12.233–34. White dew is associated with the first month of autumn in the Li ji (Book of Rites), “Yue ling” 月令 chapter: “The white dew descends, and the cicadas chirp” 白露降，寒蟬鳴. See Li ji zhushu 16.18a.

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A liminal case between decorative allusion and direct self-reference is the occurrence of the phrase “Chu traveler” 楚客in various poems by Jiang Yan. It occurs in the fourth piece in Jiang Yan’s series of ten poems mourning his wife. Understanding the phrase to refer to Qu Yuan, modern scholars date the series to his time in Wuxing:32 Mourning My Wife #4

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駕言出游衍 冀以滌心胸 復值煙雨散 清陰帶山濃 素沙匝廣岸 雄虹冠尖峯 出風舞森桂 落日曖圓松 還結生一念 楚客獨無容

Driving out I roam idly along, Hoping to purify my inner heart. Then the mist and rain clear up again, And a clean shade falls thick upon the hills. White sand covers the broad shores, And mighty rainbows crown the jagged peaks. The wind departing dances through the forest of cassia; The setting sun is dim on the swelling pines. In a single recollection of her incarnation,33 The Chu traveler alone loses his composure.34

An automatic identification with Qu Yuan in exile undervalues this complex poem. The final couplet, in which “Chu traveler” occurs, is extremely difficult, marked by what seems to be a Buddhist allusion, as well as a baffling textual variant where the reader is forced to choose between “no-thought” and “one -thought.” In any case, the poem itself establishes the context of travel. The speaker, Jiang Yan, sets off on an idle jaunt, not a sentence of exile. The body of the poem consists of a loving description of the change in scenery, through the rain, the appearance of a rainbow, and ending with the sunset. Something about the aspect of the sunset hues upon the pine trees stirs in the poet a memory of his deceased wife, and his sense of alienation from the world perhaps evokes Qu Yuan. It is also possible, though, that the Chu traveler in “Mourning My Wife” #4 might be another Chu traveler. In another poem reliably attributed to Jiang’s

32 33 34

“Dao shiren” 悼室人, #4. Jiang Wentong ji 4.26b; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 66; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 4.166; Ding Fulin, Jiang Yan nianpu, 104. Jiang Wentong ji and Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu have 不 for 一. Wurong 無容 can mean without makeup, an expression of mourning, but this couplet is difficult to parse.

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period in Wuxing, Jiang Yan refers to himself as “Chu traveler” without intending to evoke Qu Yuan:35 Qianyang Station 遷陽亭

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攬淚訪亭候 茲地乃閩城 萬古通漢使 千載連吳兵 瑤澗敻嶄崒 銅山鬱縱橫 方水埋金雘 圓岸伏丹瓊 下視雄虹照 俯看綵霞明 桂枝空命折 煙氣坐自驚 劍逕羞前檢 岷山慚舊名 伊我從霜露 僕御復孤征 楚客心命絕 一願聞越聲

Holding in my tears, I visit the lookout station, This place belongs to the Min fortress. For a myriad ages it has let pass Han messengers, For a millennium connected ranks of Wu soldiers. Carnelian ravines rise high and far, Copper hills cross back and forth. Beneath the angular currents metal and ochre are buried,36 On curved shores cinnabar and jade are concealed. Below I see the brilliant rainbow reflected, Beneath I scan the rosy clouds of sunset bright. Cinnamon branches in vain are ordered to be broken, In the misty air I find myself surprised. The paths of Sword Tower are ashamed of their former seal, Mount Min embarrassed by its historic reputation.37 Ah! I will follow the frost and dew, My carriage resumes the lonely journey. The Chu traveler feels his heart devastated, Wanting only to hear again the music of Yue.

The final couplet refers to a story in the Shi ji biography of Zhang Yi 張儀.38 Zhuang Xi 莊舄 was a man of Yue who came to Chu. The King of Chu wondered whether Zhuang felt homesick, and someone suggested that the music he sang would show if he were or not. When they heard that Zhuang was singing Yue songs, not Chu songs, they knew he missed his native country. In using this allusion, Jiang Yan may have in mind also a couplet of Xie Lingyun’s: “The man of Chu felt his heart break long ago, / The traveler from Yue feels his guts 35

36 37

38

Jiang Wentong ji 4.9b–10a; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.116; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 50. Qianyang station was located in the northwest of modern Puyu 浦域 county, Fujian. Jiang Yan must have visited this site during his stay in Wuxing. There was a tradition that jade and precious gems were hidden beneath water with angular currents (as opposed to circular currents). See Yiwen leiju 8.148. Sword Tower (Jiange 劍閣) and Mount Min were well-known Shu landmarks. The comparison indicates how much more terrifying and difficult are the roads of Wuxing. Cf. Kroll, “The Road to Shu, from Zhang Zai to Li Bo.” See Shi ji 70.2301.

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rent today” 楚人心昔絕，越客腸今斷.39 What is especially striking about this allusion is that here “Chu traveler” means a visitor to Chu, not a traveler from Chu. Zhuang is exiled to Chu, while Qu Yuan was exiled away from Chu. This example does not eliminate the possibility that other occurrences of “Chu traveler” refer to Qu Yuan himself; but the ambiguity poses challenges to any literal reading of the phrase. In either interpretation the reference is to exile, but the direction of exile could be either to or away from Chu. The exile Jiang has in mind may be a more metaphysical one, a sense of alienation from the present moment. Even Jiang’s poems dealing directly with his journeys to or around Wuxing need to be read with care. “Crossing Over the Quan Ridge, Coming out at the Peak of All the Mountains” 渡泉嶠出諸山之頂 describes Jiang Yan’s journey to Wuxing in 474.40 Quan Ridge may be Mount Quan in the south of Jiangshan county, Zhejiang, a place Jiang Yan would have passed on his way to Wuxing. Again the poem describes the difficult journey: Crossing Over the Quan Ridge, Coming out at the Peak of All the Mountains

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岑崟蔽日月 左右信艱哉 萬壑共馳騖 百谷爭往來 鷹隼既厲翼 蛟魚亦曝鰓 崩壁迭枕臥 嶄石屢盤迴 伏波未能鑿 樓船不敢開 百年積流水 千歲生青苔 行行詎半景 余馬以長懷 南方天炎火 39 40 41 42

Crooked crags block out the sun and moon, Whether right or left, the road is hard indeed! A myriad ravines race past, A hundred valleys press coming and going. Eagles and hawks prime their wings, While sharks bare their gills. The collapsing cliffs one by one lie flat as pillows, The protruding rocks whirl around in turns. The Wave-Calmer would not be able to penetrate, The Towered-Vessel would not dare enter.41 For a hundred years the flowing waters have risen, For a millennium the green moss has spread. We go on and on, for far more than half an instant, While my horses grieve for the distance.42 The Southern Sky is fiery-hot;

“Dao lu yi shan zhong” 道路憶山中, Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu, 277–78. Jiang Wentong ji 4.9b; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 49–50; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.115. These are epithets for two Eastern Han generals, Ma Yuan 馬援 and Duan Zhi 段志, respectively, who made expeditions far into Southern China. See Hou Han shu 24.838. Cf. “Li sao”: “My driver is sad, my horse grieving, / Hesitating it looks back and will not advance” 仆夫悲余馬懷兮，蜷局顧而不行 (Chuci buzhu 1.47).

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魂兮可歸來

Soul, soul!— it is time to return.43

The conclusion here borrows from the Chuci poem “Summons to the Soul,” warning of the dangers of the south and evoking Jiang Yan’s homesickness. The poem paints the terrifying scenery of the South vividly and directly. The images are original, though deftly employing various allusions, while the entire composition is set within the frame of “Summons to the Soul.” Here, Wuxing is a frighteningly exotic place, and Jiang Yan wishes he could return to the capital. At the same time, “Summons to the Soul” is not just a geographical treatise, but also an allegory of the soul’s trials and salvation, and this poetic fantasy might easily have a personal, emotional significance for Jiang Yan as well. Another poem depicts a scene from Jiang Yan’s journey to Wuxing even more vividly:44 Chiting Islet 赤亭渚

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吳江泛丘墟 饒桂復多楓 水夕潮波黑 日暮精氣紅 路長寒光盡 鳥鳴秋草窮 瑤水雖未合 珠霜竊過中 坐識物序晏 臥視歲陰空 一傷千里極 獨望淮海風 遠心何所類 雲邊有征鴻

43 44 45 46 47

The Wu river drifts through hills and hummocks,45 Rich with cinnamon and numerous maples. At water’s evening the tide waves are dark, At set of sun the atmosphere is crimson. The road is long, the chilling light expires, As birds sing the autumn weeds die out. Though the carnelian waters have not yet frozen solid, Pearls of frost steal over more than half. I sit observing the season of things grow late, I lie and watch the end of the year turn empty. Lamenting now these thousand leagues past,46 I watch alone the breeze on the Huai sea. To what compare my distanced heart? At clouds’ edge there is a journeying goose.47

Cf. Chuci buzhu 9.199–200, “Summons to the Soul”: “Soul! Return, / In the South you may not stay” 魂兮歸來，南方不可以止些. Jiang Wentong ji 4.9a–b; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 49; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.115. Wu River refers to Qiantang 錢塘 river. This line echoes “Summons to the Soul”: “Looking out past one thousand leagues—my spring heart is wounded” 目極千里兮傷春心 (Chuci buzhu 9.214). Was this couplet an inspiration for Du Fu’s famous “Floating free what am I like? / Between heaven and earth, one gull over the sands” 飄飄何所似，天地一沙鷗 (Hung, Tu Fu: China’s Greatest Poet, 256)?

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As in the previous poem, here we see Jiang Yan’s self-presentation as a traveler to Chu, not an exile from Chu. We start with the setting by a southern river, surrounded by trees that exemplify southern geography. Immediately a moody atmosphere dominates the poem: dark, gloomy autumn encroaching and silencing everything. In the ninth line, the poem turns introspective and nostalgic, and finally sums up by placing the protagonist back within a larger cosmos, in the familiar metaphor of a wild goose for the traveler. This is the typical form of the travel poem. Instead of a journey between two places, we see a journey from place to self, ending with a rapprochement between the two set in a larger cosmos. Jiang emphasizes that it is not himself, but his heart, that feels profoundly displaced. The poem describes a form of experience and a pattern of insight that go beyond Jiang’s immediate experience. The model of the Chuci provides a frame for understanding present experience, especially the experience of exile so reminiscent of Qu Yuan’s. However, Chuci readers were also Chuci writers, as Jiang Yan is in many of his fu and other poems. One striking example is his “Fu on Departing My Homeland” 去 故鄉賦.48 Like the “Chuci in the Mountains,” it is naturally divided into five parts, forming another Chuci-inflected suite. The effect is to simulate not just some of the imagery or feelings of the earlier poems, but also their wide geographical scope, moving steadily from one scene to another: Fu on Departing My Homeland I 日色暮兮 隱吳山之丘墟 北風析兮絳花落

愛桂枝而不見 悵浮雲而離居

The day’s aspect goes to dusk— hiding the hills and hollows of Mount Wu. The north wind slices through— and crimson blossoms fall. The flowing water spreads—the halcyon sweet flag grows sparse. I love the cinnamon branches but cannot see them, I grieve for floating clouds and abide in exile.

II 乃 凌大壑 越滄淵 沄沄積崚 水橫斷山

And so I crossed the great gully, Passed over the green abyss. Splashing and crashing it fills the crags, Water crossing the jagged peaks.

流水散兮翠茿疏

48

Jiang Wentong ji 1.10b–11b; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 1.10–13; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 172–74.

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窮陰匝海 平蕪帶天 III 於是 泣故關之已盡 傷故國之無際 出汀州而解冠 入漵浦而捐袂 聽蒹葭之蕭瑟 知霜露之流滯 對江皋而自憂 弔海濱而傷歲 撫尺書而無悅 倚樽酒而不持 去室宇而遠客

遵蘆葦以為期 情嬋娟而未罷 愁爛漫而方滋 切趙瑟以橫涕 吟燕笳而坐悲 IV 少歌曰 芳洲之草行欲暮 桂水之波不可渡

絕世獨立兮 報君子之一顧 是時 霜翦蕙兮風摧芷

49 50

At darkest winter it is ocean all around, Weeds growing even to the sky. Thus I weep that the old pass is already gone, Lament there is no passage to my old homeland. I leave the sandbar and remove my cap, Climb the river bank and toss away my sleeve. Listening to the mournful sighing of the reeds, I know the frost has come to stay. Facing the riverbank I feel worry, I mourn by the sea’s edge and for the passing year. Grasping my footlong letters, I have no joy, I rely on a goblet of wine, but cannot hold onto it.49 I left my house and became a traveler to distant places, Following these reeds until the appointed time. I am entangled in feeling that does not cease, A unending sadness that continues to grow. I play a Zhao zither and weep on and on, Blow Yan whistles and sit in grief. The Lesser Song: The plants of the fragrant shore are soon to fade, The waves of the cinnamon waters cannot be crossed. Standing alone peerless in the world— I would requite a single glance from my lord.50 At this time Frost slices away the patchouli—the gale slashes at angelica,

Chishu 尺書 was originally a term that refers to non-official documents, but comes to mean writings in general. This couplet employs phrases from Li Yannian’s 李延年 song about Madame Li, consort of Emperor Wu of the Han: “In the North is a fair lady, / Who stands alone peerless in the world. One glance overthrows a city, / Another glance overthrows a whole state” 北方有 佳人，絕世而獨立，一顧傾人城，再顧傾人國. See Han shu 97A.3951.

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平原晚兮黃雲起 寧歸骨於松柏 不買名於城市 若濟河無梁兮 沉此心於千里

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It grows late on the plain—as yellow dust-clouds rise. I would rather rest my bones with pine and cypress, Than buy my fame in the marketplace. If I have no bridge with which to cross the river— I will let my heart sink for a thousand leagues.

V 重曰 The Refrain: 江南之杜蘅兮色以陳 The wild ginger of the Southland— has colors to display, 願使黃鵠兮報佳人 I only wish the yellow swans— would requite the Fair One. 橫羽觴而淹望 I place a winged goblet down, and gaze at it a while; 撫玉琴兮何親 Strum a jade-embossed zither— but have whom to hold dear? 瞻層山而蔽日 I peer at the layered peaks that block the sun, 流餘涕以沾巾 Pour my ever flowing tears to drench my cap. 恐高臺之易晏 I fear the day grows late on the lofty terrace: 與螻蟻而為塵 It will join the ants and turn to dust. Formally this fu is close to Jiang’s various poem suites, since it contains five separate segments only tangentially linked by topic, each one an effective lyric in its own right, each with its own distinct meter. In the first segment, Chucitype scenery is employed to depict Jiang’s sadness and exile. The second segment briefly but effectively paints a frightening southern landscape in three- and four-syllable lines. The third segment depicts the exile in a regular “Chu song” line. The fourth segment, titled “The Lesser Song,” is an assertion of the scholar-official’s traditional willingness to die rather than compromise himself. The final segment, titled “The Refrain,” returns to a Chuci mode, contrasting the beauty of the Southland, and Jiang’s enjoyment of wine and music, with the inevitable transience of life, concluding in the startling line, “That it will join the ants and turn to dust,” which is more brutal than typical Chuci language, and reminiscent of the “Fu on Bitter Regret” 恨賦. The multiply-segmented structure of this fu is striking. Though based on the similar poem-plus-epilogue(s) structure in the Chuci, it also reminds the reader of Jiang Yan’s use of the sequence structure throughout his work.51 The “Fu on Departing My Homeland” has a superficial unity of theme that masks 51

Relevant here, again, is Joseph R. Allen, “Macropoetic Structures: The Chinese Solution.”

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the fissures in its narrative. The first and last segments, for instance, both describe a southern landscape and Jiang Yan’s emotional response, but the introduction is focused on the scene, while in the conclusion Jiang’s emotions take precedence. Their form is basically similar, as both begin with a long line of irregular prosody, which creates a sense of spontaneity in composition, then develop into a regular, shorter line. Both are fundamentally static, in contrast to the dynamic physical and emotional journey of the body of the poem. Although this fu has a tripartite structure, it is not a unified structure in which a problem is presented then resolved, or in which various strands achieve a synthesis. Instead a cry of pain is repeated and amplified throughout a landscape that modulates itself gradually, returning over and over to the geography of an exile defined by artificial Chuci imagery. These poems are historically specific depictions of Jiang Yan’s journey, but they are also textual journeys back into the Chuci. In the former sense they are a journey forwards, away from the capital into an unfamiliar country; in the latter they are a return deep into poetic tradition, into a linguistic setting that is familiar and solidly recognizable. The Chuci imagery of the Southland remained exotic despite its canonical status. Jiang Yan’s journey is real and imaginary, constituted of explicit descriptions and allusion to earlier texts—even when the dating of a poem is known with certainty—because the poet is capable, even at a particular moment known to the historian, of imagining something entirely other. Illusive Journeys of Chu Travelers The coherence of literary tradition is obscured by artificial divisions of genre. Rather than understanding a genre as an exclusive classifier of literary works, we can think of genre as part of the substructure of literature, a pattern that connects literary works rather than dividing them. From this point of view, “imitation” is the archetypal genre: the genre that is defined solely by relations among literary works. With reference to the imagined journeys of Jiang Yan’s life, his imitated journeys in the “Diverse Forms,” which deal with travel, the South, and related themes, grow in significance. What seems like subject matter here is also a formal constraint. In his imitations Jiang Yan does not copy the earlier itineraries, but instead repeats the poetic journeys of his predecessors. This allusive doubling can be seen as a generalized case of the classical trope of metalepsis, the squaring of a trope, as in the metonymical substitution of metonymy. It is a heightened version of the allusive technique of Jiang’s own

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travel poems.52 The topics of these imitations are more varied than Jiang’s travel poems, which focus so much on Wuxing and the imagery of the Chuci, but this formal property is similar. Travel is not just a topic of poetry but also a structuring device: a state of mind, a way of apprehending a locality, or a mode of self-presentation. Xie Lingyun surveys fu of travel in his preface to “Fu on Returning to the Road” 歸 塗賦:53 Long ago the refined scholars frequently composed fu of travel. They would either delight in observing the realm, or lament their journeys of exile, or report to the capital on the situation in the provinces, or exert themselves in a military campaign. The matter came from outside, the inspiration not from the self. Though a lofty talent may have pursued the topic, if you seek out their inner feelings you are not entirely satisfied. Now I have taken account of my position and announced my retirement, returning myself to the grasses and swamps. Following the road through its various turns, my heart was deeply moved.

昔文章之士，多作行旅賦。或欣在觀國，或怵在斥徙，或述 職邦邑，或羈役戎陣。事由於外，興不自己。雖高才可推， 求懷未愜。今量分告退，反身草澤，經塗履運，用感其心。 The distinction Xie makes here is revealing. Even though, he concedes, many of the earlier travel fu are highly personal and emotional, they were all written to suit a particular occasion, a journey required for political duties. “The matter came from outside [external circumstances], the inspiration not from the self [of the poet].” Xie’s fu by contrast is written to describe an entirely voluntary retirement. As literary history Xie is not on solid ground here: there was already a long tradition of fu on reclusion, such as Zhang Heng’s “Fu on Returning to the Fields” 歸田賦 and Pan Yue’s “Fu on Living in Retirement” 閑居賦. In his literary analysis, though, Xie emphasizes the expression of personal feeling as the principal aim of literature, even for fu on the set topic of travel. In Xie’s

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Cf. Cook, “The Italian Journey: From James to Eliot to Browning”: “Henry James’s journey takes the shape of the figure known as metalepsis, for he takes a metaleptic leap backward, over Eliot to the poems she has echoed, and thereby finds a new way of moving forward. In our typologies of the journey, we should include a writer’s own journey back through the literary country where earlier writers live” (50). Yiwen leiju 27.494; Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu 431; Xie Lingyun ji 222.

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view a travel fu that is just about a journey is not a proper fu at all. A proper literary work in the travel genre must present a journey of the self. Liu Xie, in Wenxin diaolong, presents a theory of literature that is even more visionary, transcending the immediate description of reality. He relates motion through space to the leaps of the imagination:54 For when the spirit’s imagining proceeds, it burgeons at once on ten thousand paths. With compass and square it marks out nonexistent positions, carving and engraving the formless. When you climb a mountain, the emotions expand to fill a mountain; when you gaze out over the ocean, its meaning overflows the ocean. According to the scale of my own talent, I may charge forth alongside the wind and the clouds.

夫神思方運，萬塗競萌，規矩虛位，刻鏤無形。登山則情滿 于山，觀海則意溢于海，我才之多少，將與風雲而并驅矣。 Here again we see a parallel relationship between the experience of a landscape and the writer’s imagination. This discrepancy between the physical facts and the poet’s imaginative journey help to explain how the imitation of a travel poem makes sense. The imitating poet does not repeat the original poet’s journey, or write about a journey of his own; instead he imitates the imaginative arc of the original poem: the “nonexistent positions” and “formlessness” of the original poet’s imaginative exploration. Perhaps half of the poems in the “Diverse Forms” could be considered travel poems of some kind. The Wen xuan would later include subcategories of shi poetry such as youlan 遊覽 “roaming and inspecting” and xinglü 行旅 “travel,” but even some other categories like youxian 遊仙 “roaming with immortals” could be considered complementary to these as representations of travel, since they also frequently celebrate some scenic spot. Moreover, most zengda 贈答 “presentation and response” poems were composed either to a friend who was off traveling, or on the occasion of sending off a friend. Physical separation or dislocation was commonly recognized, in the Six Dynasties, as a predictable cause of poetic inspiration. The obvious reason for this association is the social context of poetry in the period, as a substitute for letter-writing. In light of Jiang Yan’s imitations of travel poems, perhaps an equally important cause is the understanding of poetic inspiration itself as a kind of a spiritual roaming that “charges alongside the wind and clouds.” 54

“Shen si” 神思, Wenxin diaolong zhu 26.493–94.

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The remainder of this chapter will introduce five of Jiang Yan’s “Diverse Forms” that have to do with travel, reclusion, and separation. Though Jiang’s subtitles for the imitations assign each to a specific generic category, the divisions between these seem somewhat arbitrary, so all five of these imitations in practice share a number of common themes. The poets imitated are Lu Ji, Zhang Xie 張協 (?–307), Wang Wei 王微 (415–443), Xie Zhuang 謝荘 (421– 466), and Superior Xiu 休上人 (?–ca. 480s). Others could be classified with these as well, such as the imitation of Bao Zhao’s poems on military campaigns, but a full accounting would constitute a history of a large swathe of Six Dynasties poetry. These five are merely one suggestive path through Jiang Yan’s imitations. One common form of travel poetry, though not particularly favored by Jiang Yan, uses a journey as the occasion for reflection on one’s official career, the physical journey between capital and province as a figure for the advances and setbacks of official service. This kind of poem tends to be easily dateable, since we are most well-informed regarding the dates when scholar-officials took up particular offices. Yet even that kind of solid biographical information may be distracting. Our first example will show how Jiang Yan invests an imitation of this kind of poem with references from his own literary experience. Lu Ji, author of the incandescent “Essay on Literature” and the “Imitations of Old Poems,” originally belonged to a prominent family of Wu, but came to serve in the Western Jin capital of Luoyang in 289. Starting in 291, he served as attendant of the Crown Prince Minhuai 愍懷, Sima Yu 司馬遹 (278–300). In 294, Lu Ji joined the service of Sima Yan 司馬晏 (281–311), Prince of Wu, as Prefect of Palace Gentlemen (langzhong ling 郎中令). At some point before he returned to the capital in 296, he must have joined Sima Yan in a journey through Liang and Chen (eastern Henan), in the course of which he wrote this poem:55 Written upon Traveling through Liang and Chen, While Serving as Palace Gentleman under the Prince of Wu 吳王郎中時從梁陳作

在昔蒙嘉運 矯迹入崇賢 假翼鳴鳳條 55

Long ago I received propitious fortune, With lofty paces I entered the Gate of Uplifting Worthies. Borrowing wings, I sang on phoenixes’ branches,

Wen xuan 26.1232; Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 26.26b–27b; Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu 5.324. There is a translation in J.D. Frodsham and Cheng Xi, An Anthology of Chinese Verse: Han, Wei, Chin, and the Northern and Southern Dynasties, 90–91.

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濯足升龍淵 玄冕無醜士 冶服使我妍 輕劍拂鞶厲 長纓麗且鮮 誰謂伏事淺 契闊踰三年 薄言肅後命 改服就藩臣 夙駕尋清軌 遠遊越梁陳 感物多遠念 慷慨懷古人

Washing my feet, I climbed the dragons’ pool. Among the black caps there are no ugly scholars; Fine raiment renders handsome even such as me. My light sword brushed against my leather sash and tassels, My long capstrings are lovely and new. Who says that official service is brief? In this separation already three years have passed.56 Swiftly comes a successive order, I change garb to serve as an enfeoffed vassal. Readying the carriage, we follow pure tracks, Roaming far we cross over Liang and Chen. Moved by these things, I am full of nostalgia; Impassioned and mournful, I long for men of old.

The greater portion of the poem actually recapitulates Lu Ji’s service with the Crown Prince, without even mentioning the journey that forms the occasion of the poem. The last three couplets describe his journey in a new capacity, with the final couplet introducing personal emotion for the first time. Visiting Liang and Chen, Lu Ji thinks of “men of old,” here perhaps referring to prominent officials from the Liang area such as Mei Sheng 枚乘 or Sima Xiangru 司 馬相如 (according to Wuchen commentator Liu Liang 劉良). Chen might refer to Cao Zhi, who was enfeoffed as prince of Chen. This couplet frames the journey as one of nostalgia, “longing for a return” both in space and in time. If we compare other travel poems surrounding Lu Ji’s in the Wen xuan, they follow the same general pattern, focusing their attention on the author’s official post and relation with his patrons. Other writers were writing about landscape in the Western Jin, but it is only with Xie Lingyun that the travel poem starts to shift its attention to the landscape itself (although the same political issues remain a latent presence throughout Xie’s poetry as well). Lu’s poem takes place at a high level of abstraction: a journey drawn among entire regions, not specific locations. The final couplet borders on excessive vagueness with the phrases “moved by these things” and “longing for men of old.” Although the poem is far removed from the physical journey, in another sense it is full of journeys: Lu Ji’s transfer to a new position; his journey through time, spending three years at his post with the Crown prince; visiting Liang and Chen and thinking of their histories. Its overall theme is an abstraction from

56

Refers to Lu Ji’s three years in the service of the Crown Prince. Qiekuo契闊 occurs in Mao shi 31/4.

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the specific journey to various transitions, and the feelings of loss and nostalgia they induce. Jiang Yan’s imitation of Lu Ji takes up the same theme of travel. Based on Li Shan’s identifications of the sources of the poem, as well as direct comparisons, there is no single model for this imitation, though Lu Ji’s various travel poems may all be relevant: “Traveling to the Luo Capital” 赴洛詩, “Composed on the Road to the Luo Capital” 赴洛道中作, “Written Upon Traveling Through Liang and Chen, While Serving as Palace Gentleman Under the Prince of Wu” 吳王郎中時從梁陳作, and “Replying to Zhang Shiran” 答張士然.57 “Written upon Traveling through Liang and Chen, While Serving as Palace Gentleman under the Prince of Wu” is probably most relevant, as suggested by the explicit mention of Liang and Chen in the eighth line of Jiang’s imitation. Diverse Forms #12 Lu Ji of Pingyuan: Traveling on Official Duty 陸平原機：羈宦

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儲后降嘉命 恩紀被微身 明發眷桑梓 詠嘆懷密親 流念辭南澨 銜怨別西津 馳馬遵淮泗 旦夕見梁陳 服義追上列 矯迹廁宮臣 朱黻咸髦士 長纓皆俊人 契闊承華內 57

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The Crown Prince has sent down the fair command, His favor shelters my insignificant self. At dawn’s light I miss the “mulberry and catalpa” of home,58 And with a long sigh think of all my friends and kin. Awash in memories I left the southern shore; Swallowing resentment I departed the western ford. Spurring on my horse I followed the Huai and Si, Between morn and evening I saw Liang and Chen. Following my duty I chase the upper ranks, Rectify my tracks to attend the palace ministers. Those who wear vermilion greaves are all elites; All who trail the long tassel are heroes. I labored long in the staff of Chenghua, the Crown Prince,

Wen xuan 26.1229–30, 26.1231, 26.1232, and 24.1148 respectively. See also translation and discussion of the first two in Lai Chiu-Mi, “River and Ocean: The Third-Century Verse of Pan Yue and Lu Ji,” 212–32. The trope of “mulberry and catalpa” as metonymy for one’s homeland derives from Mao shi 197/3: “The mulberry and the catalpa, / One must respect and revere. / No one to revere but father, / No one to depend on but mother” 維桑與梓、必恭敬止。靡瞻匪父、 靡依匪母. But as Li Shan notes, this line in particular imitates Lu Ji’s pair of poems “Presented to Secretarial Court Gentleman Gu Yanxian” 贈尚書郎顧彥先 (text in Wen xuan 24.1144–46). The final couplet of the second poem is “Looking back with longing to the mulberry and catalpa, / Nothing to do but become a fish!” 眷言懷桑梓，無乃將為魚.

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綢繆踰歲年 日幕聊揔馬 逍遙觀洛川 徂沒多拱木 宿草凌寒煙 遊子易感愾 躑躅還自憐 願言寄三鳥 離思非突然

Felt a lingering bond through the passing years. As the sun goes down I tether my horses a while, Roaming free I face the Luo River. Where the dead have gone, trees an armspan round have grown, And perennial grasses pierce the chilly mist. A traveler naturally comes to feel sorrow, And as he lingers there pities himself all the more. I would like to send a message with the Three Birds,59 So these thoughts in separation will not be in vain.

The striking image of the “trees an armspan round” comes from the Zuo zhuan, but Jiang Yan adopted it for himself, using it again in the preface to his “Fu on Bitter Regret” 恨賦.60 Li Shan identifies the original source, but misses another use of the phrase in Lu Ji’s own “Fu on Longing for My Homeland” 懷土賦: “I am moved by the passing hours and the surviving things, / Lament the loss of years by the trees grown an armspan round” 感亡景於存物，惋隤年於 拱木.61 Whereas Lu Ji uses the image merely to indicate the passage of time, Jiang Yan emphasizes its association with death, already present in the Zuo zhuan. In general, the emotion of the imitation poem extends further than in Lu Ji’s original works, and is not as focused on his individual situation. However, Jiang Yan follows Lu Ji in relating various kinds of journeys: physical ones through the Henan region; temporal ones that force his thoughts to mortality; and the journey through the ranks of officialdom. Jiang Yan concludes with a formulaic wish to send a message, which is curious, since he has not suggested who the recipient of the message might be. As we saw in Lu Ji’s poem, a certain nostalgia and longing is intrinsically associated with travel, and does not necessarily need any particular elaboration. The content of the message is suggested only by its allusion to the Chuci: it is perhaps a message inherent in the poetic tradition, communicated from one poet to another.

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This line alludes to Liu Xiang’s “Nine Lamentations” (Chuci buzhu 16.300): “Three birds come flying from the south—/ Seeing their intent I want to go north too. / I would like to send a message with those three birds—/ But they dart off so speedily I cannot “ 三鳥飛 以自南兮，覽其志而慾北。愿寄言於三鳥兮，去飄疾而不可得. Cf. Shanhai jing 16.2b–3a. For the image of trees an armspan round, see chapter 5 above. Lu Shiheng wenji jiaozhu 2.134.

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In contrast to Lu Ji’s statement of ambition and service, Jiang’s imitation of Zhang Xie 張協 (?–307) is a poem of reclusion and escape.62 Jiang imitates the tenth poem from Zhang Xie’s “Miscellaneous Poems” 雜詩, and Li Shan cites this source several times.63 The original poem is a vivid depiction of a rainstorm, followed by a statement of Zhang Xie’s principled reclusion.64 Jiang Yan’s imitation is more compact and far less vivid in its description of the rain. The experience of nature turns his thoughts to the melancholy of the changing seasons, and ultimately a sense of loneliness and isolation. Jiang assimilates the fresher feelings of the earlier poet to his own melancholy. Diverse Forms #14 Zhang Xie, Imperial Gatekeeper: Suffering the Rain 張黃門協：苦雨

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丹霞蔽陽景 綠泉涌陰渚 水鸛巢層甍 山雲潤柱礎 有弇興春節 愁霖貫秋序 燮燮涼葉奪 戾戾颸風舉 高談玩四時 索居慕儔侶 62

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Cinnabar cloudwisps occlude the sun’s light,65 Green springs gurgle past damp shores. Storks nest on the high ridgepole, Mountain clouds moisten the plinth.66 Densely clustered they rise in the springtime,67 Sorrow-like rain continues through autumn. Gradually the chilled leaves fall, Rustling and rasping the tempest rises. With lofty conversation I make light of the seasons, But living apart I long for my friends of old.

For his extant poems see Lu Qinli 744–48. Some modern studies include Ikkai Tomoyoshi, “Sei Shin no shijin Chō Kyō ni tsuite,” and Huang Zhaoxian, “Zhang Jingyang zashi” 張景 陽雜詩, in Zhongguo gudian wenyi luncong, 1–24. Lu Qinli 747. His older brother Zhang Zai 張載 also has a poem (Lu Qinli 741) entitled “Lin yu shi” 霖雨詩 which explicitly treats the same theme as this one, but the diction does not seem closely related to this poem. That poem is attributed to Zhang Xie by the Chu xue ji, and to Zhang Zai by the Yiwen leiju. Perhaps they wrote their poems together on the shared topic. The second, third, fourth, and ninth poems in Zhang’s set also deal with rain. Li Shan’s note to Zhang Xie’s “Miscellaneous Poem” #3 (Wen xuan 29.1379) quotes the He tu 河圖, which explains that “On Mount Kunlun there are five colors of water. The vapor from the crimson water rises to form clouds, which glow in the rain.” Cf. Huainanzi 17.12b: “Clouds rise from the hills, the stone plinth is moist”山雲蒸，柱礎 潤. Zhang Xie’s “Za shi” #9 includes the line: “Densely clustered they rise on the southern slope” 有渰興南岑. The Yiwen leiju variant uses 弇 instead of 渰.

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青苕日夜黃 芳蕤成宿楚 歲暮百慮交 無以慰延佇

Green twigs night and day turn to yellow, Blooming flowers become long-lived shrubs. At year’s end a hundred cares confront me: Without anything to comfort me I stand alone.

This poem exemplifies the transformation of the Chuci tradition as it is adapted into the new form of pentasyllabic verse. The “autumnal lament” theme derives from the “Jiu bian” 九辯, and Zhang Xie’s original poem elaborates colorfully on the theme in the specific context of the rainstorm. It also anticipates some xuanyan development, as in Sun Chuo’s “Autumn Day” or Jiang’s imitation of Xie Hun, in which the death of living things in autumn is depicted in direct correspondence with grand metaphysical themes. Jiang Yan draws out the melancholy of the original poem in his imitation. Although Zhang’s poem contains a moralizing passage about the virtues of the recluse, Jiang gives no suggestion of that, making the poem seem more narrowly focused. As so often he again brings out the features of the original style that are most unusual, while modifying them in the direction of his own style and personal melancholy. His imitation of Wang Wei 王微 (415–443) addresses similar themes with an addition of mystical imagery from the Chuci. Wang Wei (not to be confused with the High Tang poet), style name Jingxuan 景玄, was from Linyi 臨沂in Langya 琅邪 commandery (modern Shandong).68 Of Wang Wei’s five extant poems, none is closely related in content to Jiang Yan’s imitation. Jiang is again employing Chuci allusions more of his own choice than in imitation of Wang Wei. Wang Wei’s biography mentions that he excelled at “medical techniques” 醫方, which suits the title “Nursing the Illness,” though here Wang is the patient rather than the healer. Jiang Yan may have chosen the title based on Wang’s biography as much as his verse. Wang was appointed as Adviser to the Army of the Right, but claimed illness.69 The biography suggests that he was only pretending, however, and had never had any inclination to serve in office. Jiang seems to have adopted a more generous interpretation of Wang’s actions.

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See Lu Qinli 1199–200 for Wang Wei’s extant poems and Song shu 62.1664–72 for his biography. Jin shu 62.1665.

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Diverse Forms #26 Wang Wei, Gentleman Summoned to Office: Nursing an Illness 王徵君微：養疾

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窈藹瀟湘空 翠澗澹無滋 寂歷百草晦 欻吸鵾雞悲 清陰往來遠 月華散前墀 鍊藥矚虛幌 汎瑟臥遙帷 水碧驗未黷 金膏靈詎緇 北渚有帝子 蕩瀁不可期 悵然山中暮 懷痾屬此詩

How remote the desolate expanse of the Xiang River, Whose emerald streams are still and savorless. In this barren land the hundred plants wither , And all at once the egret starts to grieve.70 The pure shadow comes and goes far away,71 The moon’s florescence scatters on the front steps. Refining an elixir, I look at the empty curtains, Plucking my zither, I lie by the far canopy. The water-jade is effective, and cannot be polluted, The golden paste is magic, how can it turn black? On the northern islet is the Divine Daughter,72 Rising and falling in the waves, one cannot find a time for meeting.73 Feeling sad at sunset in the mountains, Still suffering my sickness I wrote this poem.

Despite the amalgam of Chuci allusions, Jiang makes something of his own here, with a vague sorrow that comprises mortality, disease, loneliness, and political frustration. There are significant references to Ruan Ji that seem to indicate that Wang Wei was heavily influenced by the great third-century poet. The original Wang Wei poem added an additional layer to the imitation, but without knowledge of that poem, the consistency of Jiang’s imitation with his other fu and shi asserts the dominant influence of his own style. The formal features of the travel poem are extremely attenuated here and consist primarily of references to the Chuci. They are placed in a framework of alchemy and other forms of refuge from worldly cares. 70 71 72

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Cf. Song Yu’s “Jiu bian” (Chuci buzhu 8.184): “The egret squawks and shrieks in sorrow” 鵾 鷄啁哳而悲鳴. The “pure shadow” is the sun, according to Wuchen commentator Zhang Xian. This is a reference to the song “Lady of the Xiang River” in the “Nine Songs” of the Chuci, “The Divine Daughter descends—onto the northern islet” 帝子降兮北渚. There the goddess referred to is one of the daughters of Yao. See Chuci buzhu 2.64. Li Shan quotes Ruan Ji’s “Singing of My Cares” #37: “Tossed and tumbled in the waves, how to achieve it?” 蕩瀁焉可能. Ruan Ji’s collected works has “Tossed and tumbled in the waves, how to escape?” 蕩瀁焉能排, but Li Shan’s version may be correct. See Lu Qinli 503.

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This type of poetry is in fact quite close to Jiang Yan’s concerns in his nonimitation poetry: melancholy, Daoist reclusion and longevity techniques, and Chuci allusion. Wang Wei is placed in Zhong Rong’s middle rank, and grouped together with Xie Hun, Yuan Shu, and Wang Sengda 王僧達. Zhong Rong identifies the origin of their shared style in Zhang Hua74 and describes them all as “regrettably weak in talent and force” 才力苦弱, which certainly seems a fair description based on Jiang’s imitations.75 Jiang Yan was highly attracted to this gentle, melancholy verse, which is not always easy to appreciate in large doses; his greater achievements came in imitating more forceful poets who posed a challenge to his own taste. Xie Zhuang 謝荘 (421–466) was a prolific writer, although most of his works have been lost. His most famous extant piece is the “Fu on the Moon,” preserved in the Wen xuan. The imitation of Xie Zhuang suggests that in his poetry he was one of many followers of the Xie Lingyun style, and the description of the landscape is accordingly more enthusiastic and memorable than his other travel imitations. Jiang Yan’s idealization of reclusion is wholehearted and lacks the ambivalence of Xie Lingyun. Diverse Forms #28 Xie Zhuang: Visiting the Suburbs 謝光祿莊：郊遊

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肅舲出郊際 徙樂逗江陰 翠山方藹藹 青浦正沉沉 涼葉照沙嶼 秋榮冒水潯 風散松架險 雲鬱石道深 靜默鏡綿野 四睇亂曾岑 氣清知鴈引 露華識猿音 雲裝信解黻 煙駕可辭金 始整丹泉術 74 75

My swift skiff leaves for the suburbs, Roaming happily I pause north of the river. There azure hills are lushly overgrown, Green banks are dim and solitary. Chill leaves shine over sandbars, Autumn blooms poke from water’s edge. A wind disperses the lattice of pines precariously, Clouds shroud the stone path to its depths. My silence is mirrored by the endless wilds, My gaze in all directions deranged by the tall peaks. In the fresh vapors I sense the geese draw long formations, Amid dewy flowers recognize gibbons’ cries. With garment of cloud, I will discard my tassels, In a carriage of mist, I can reject a gold seal. At first I prepared the arts of cinnabar streams;

See chapter 1 for Jiang Yan’s imitation of Zhang Hua. See Zhong Rong Shipin jianzheng gao 272.

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Finally I perceive the mind of the purple mushroom. In a reflected glimmer I feel calm detachment, And do not let fragile longings corrode it!

The combination of natural imagery and Daoist reflections is familiar from xuanyan poetry; the balance of physical and metaphysical journeys is schematically clear in this imitation. The pleasant trip out into the suburbs of the capital, with their tranquil rivers and serene groves, provides the poet a moment of contemplation and repose. The verbs of lines 9–10 are striking, using “mirror” and “derange” to indicate the relation of the poet’s mental state to the natural world around him. In this instant of special insight he recognizes the superiority of the “garment of cloud” worn by a recluse to any of the trappings of an official, and declares his resolve to live in seclusion and calm. The physical journey provides the setting for an interior journey, and the poet’s sudden insight represents the superiority of the recluse’s mentality. Travel poetry relies on a fundamental analogy between the physical journey and the psychological state of the poet. Despite the wide variety in the purpose and nature of the journey, some structural features of these poems are fixed, reflecting the underlying analogy. Imitation thus works a strange effect on these poems. A hypothetical journey can play the analogical role as well as a real one, and in some ways helps to clarify and intensify the psychological role of the geographical and natural imagery. This interior orientation of travel poetry is vividly displayed in the final poem of the “Diverse Forms,” which is not technically a travel poem, but rather a poem of parting, which still involves Chuci imagery and the theme of melancholy. As a poem of parting, it is in a sense the inverse of a travel poem. The moment of interior reflection inspires the imagined journey of a friend. Setting this poem in the world of the Chuci makes it implicitly one of displacement, not unlike Lu Ji’s travel poems. We know little about the monk whose work Jiang imitates in his final imitation. Li Shan quotes from Shen Yue’s Song shu: “The Buddhist monk Hui Xiu惠 休 excelled at writing, and was very close to Xu Chenzhi 徐湛之. Emperor Wu of Qi made him become a layman again. His original surname was Tang湯, and he achieved the position of Retainer of Yangzhou” 時有沙門釋惠休，善屬 文，辭采綺豔，湛之與之甚厚。世祖命使還俗，本姓湯，位至揚 州從事史.76 Li Shan does not cite any of Tang Huixiu’s works in his commentary to the poem. Tang’s extant works are all brief and melancholy poems of parting, although no exact borrowings can be identified from our extant sources. Tang’s “Presented to Attendant Gentleman Bao” 贈鮑侍朗詩 does contain 76

Song shu 71.1847. His poems are included in Lu Qinli 1243–45.

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one couplet that seems relevant to Jiang’s poem: “I think of you but cannot see your beauty, / And watch dust appear on the wine” 想君不相豔，酒上視塵 生.77 Diverse Forms #30 Superior Xiu: Resentment of Parting 休上人：怨別

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西北秋風至 楚客心悠哉 日暮碧云合 佳人殊未來 露彩方泛艷 月華始徘徊 寶書為君掩 瑤琴詎能開 相思巫山渚 悵望陽雲臺 膏爐絕沈燎 綺席生浮埃 桂水日千里 因之平生懷

The autumn wind arrives in the northwest, The traveler of Chu is heartsick indeed! At twilight the green clouds gather, Though the Fair One still has not come. The colors of the dew now have a floating gleam, The brilliance of the moon begins to linger. My precious books are sealed for you, Why bother to open up the carnelian zither? I long for you on the islet by Wu Mountain, Stricken by yearning on the Terrace of Sunlit Clouds. The dampened flame expires in the oiled censer, Dust covers the surface of my silken mat. The Cinnamon River flows a thousand miles in a day: I’ll follow it with the cares of my whole life.

Here we find ourselves back in the conventional world of the Chuci. When we read of the “Chu traveler,” we have no way to tell if it is meant to be a reference to Qu Yuan; if it means that Jiang Yan is located in the South; if it indicates that he is imagining Huixiu in the South; or if it merely specifies the general setting of the poem. The “Fair One” is likewise an ambiguous, stereotyped phrase that tells us little about the friend. It seems these are best read as generic identifications of genre and setting. Lines nine and ten specify the literary context of the Chuci with a number of specific references, as in Jiang’s “Chuci in the Mountains” poems, as if literally inhabiting that world. In a sense the poem up to this point is recapitulating an imagined journey through a literary genre, through a world of the imagination. Finally, the smoking fire and the dusty mats mark the poet’s specific loneliness and longing. In the final couplet he longs to invest all his cares in the Cinnamon River—the scented plant name signifying all that is beautiful and virtuous in the Chuci. There is a certain added poignancy for 77

Lu Qinli 1245.

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the modern reader, given that so few of Tang’s original poems have survived— this poem is one of the few relics of his life. Jiang’s recurring fascination with the melancholy of Qu Yuan is one variation on the theme of travel. The thousand leagues of the Cinnamon River represent a vast space where a mind can wander, a space both literal and figurative. The journey may be tedious and sad, but knowing that he is yet another “wanderer of Chu,” the poet can never be entirely alone. So long as we are touched by melancholy we may find ourselves “wanderers of Chu,” whether our exile has taken us from Chu or returned us there.

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Pathways in Obscurity: Jiang Yan and Ruan Ji Hope does not demand a belief in progress. It demands a belief in justice: a conviction that the wicked will suffer, that wrongs will be made right, that the underlying order of things is not flouted with impunity. Hope implies a deep-seated trust in life that appears absurd to those who lack it. It rests on confidence not so much in the future as in the past. Christopher Lasch1

⸪ A close study of Jiang Yan’s poems may seem to confirm the stereotype that Six Dynasties poetry was decadent and solipsistic, exemplifying the “selfish lyrical mode” that the late C.T. Hsia denounced in classical Chinese literature generally.2 But the hermetic appearance of Jiang Yan’s poetry is misleading; it was imitation poetry, in fact, this most consummately self-regarding of literary genres, that also effected Jiang’s most daring political act. Imitation poems were the cause of Jiang Yan’s exile: his patron rusticated him to the far south for writing imitations of the third-century poet Ruan Ji 阮籍 (210–263). The problem was not so much the explicit content of these imitations, but the connection with Ruan Ji, regarded as a loyalist of the Wei and staunch opponent of political rebellion. Jiang Yan’s patron, who had been plotting his own usurpation of the throne, read these imitations correctly as an implicit criticism of himself. In this chapter, we see how imitation poetry was used to face contemporary politics, and employed as a vehicle of protest. This is not an exception to the patterns discussed earlier in this book, for imitation poetry’s role in political protest, as elsewhere, is founded in its way of simultaneously concealing and revealing the self, as well as establishing the autonomy of the poet in a world in which he was otherwise powerless. Ruan Ji’s poems, in a sense, were designed for imitation; he has a well-defined style that relies in part on vagueness and omission for its effects. The imitator can take advantage of this to adopt similar phrasing that reflects on a 1 2

Lasch, The True and Only Heaven: Progress and Its Critics, 80–81. Hsia, “Classical Chinese Literature: Its Reception Today as a Product of Traditional Culture,” 142.

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new situation. Moreover, the historical position of Ruan Ji as a faithful adherent to a dynasty in peril was one that countless later literati would experience again themselves, so his subject matter was continually fresh. One of his great imitators is Yu Xin 庾信 (513–581), who at the end of the Northern and Southern Dynasties would draw on Ruan Ji’s example for his own poems. Where Ruan Ji wrote “Yonghuai” 詠懷 (Singing of My Cares) poems, Yu Xin wrote “Ni ‘yonghuai’” 擬詠懷 poems in imitation, yet with reference to his own very real cares. Taking a figure from Ruan’s own verse, imitation poetry could be compared to a “pathway in obscurity,” a well-defined model for communication within circumscribed boundaries that gestured at an uncertain and threatening world beyond. Six Dynasties poets already recognized that some of the traditional justifications for literature were problematic: poetry was rarely convincing when used to persuade a sovereign, and as a vehicle of self-expression tended to conceal as much as it revealed. For Ruan Ji poetry retained some value as a form of expression that provided some consolation, as it depicted the chaos and incomprehensibility of the world. It was a pathway that led some distance through the darkness, even if reached a dead end before taking one into the light. Imitation poetry was one pathway in obscurity, a way of following earlier poets, and one of its pleasures precisely that the imitating poet knew he was not alone on that particular path. A lively debate has continued among readers and scholars of Ruan Ji; they attempt to find in his poems specific critique of the Sima clan, which gradually took control of China and usurped the Wei, ultimately founding the Jin dynasty. As discussed below, there is evidence that Ruan Ji wrote some of the poems before this dynastic transition had taken place—his political concern had no doubt begun to build earlier. While appreciating the ingenuity and seriousness of the critics who have hoped to identify his specific political critiques, we should also recognize the essential quality of obscurity that pervades Ruan Ji’s work. While certainly intending political messages in many of his poems, he also labored to conceal any specific target or concrete implications. Critics are not wrong to hunt for political messages in his work, only to assert the accuracy of their own speculation with confidence. This obscurity was not just a political defense mechanism he employed to avoid offending the Sima clan, but also had a philosophical and literary basis. As one of the literati who developed the theories of xuanxue, Ruan Ji’s philosophical ideas were a kind of syncretist interweaving of Confucian and Daoist traditions, centering on a metaphysical understanding of wu 無 “nothingness” as the underpinning of existence. In his poetry he frequently refers to various transcendent ideals that underlie the appearances and troubles of life. The

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literary dimension of this obscurity was a particularly reticent and allusive mode of writing that forces the reader to guess at Ruan’s secret sorrow. Though in part determined by his political context, perhaps, this style was also a new form of poetry Ruan invented to express the complex emotions of his situation. In its lack of reference to immediate surroundings or autobiographical narrative, though, it was a form of poetry particularly well-suited to imitation. Their intimate correlation is suggested by the odd confluence that developed in the Tang dynasty: yonghuai “singing of my cares” would become essentially synonymous with nigu “imitations of ancient poems.” Ruan’s verse style was considered a variation on the “Old Poems” style, and the two become partially conflated, so that Li Bai in his “Classical Airs” could develop both traditions at once. Though originating in the unstable period of the Six Dynasties, imitation poetry retained enough interest that it was revived by later poets. In the Ming dynasty, in particular, Wang Shizhen and other poets studied Jiang Yan closely. Ming archaicism has its own sources in the consciousness of the literati class, but in context of this study of Six Dynasties poetry, we can see this revival of imitation poetry after a millennium as a testament to the possibility that it could have enduring significance. In an even more notable turn of events, the Ming loyalist Wang Fuzhi 王夫 之 (1619–1692) would take Ruan as one of his heroes and write poems matching the rhymes of Ruan’s corpus. For Wang Fuzhi, a Confucian scholar, thinker, and poet devastated by the Manchu conquest, Ruan’s concealed expression of disappointment was one of the most exquisite literary models in the tradition, and Wang developed it as far as he could. As Christopher Lasch wrote, a true sense of hope for a better future, to be distinguished from facile assumptions of inevitable progress, relies on confidence in the past itself. This is something that Ruan Ji, Jiang Yan, and Wang Fuzhi would all have understood well, as they found means to speak of their anguish in poetry without making explicit criticisms of the contemporary regime. It surely seems improbable that imitation poetry, of all things, would have taken on such political significance. Even though imitation poetry includes all kinds of other strata of meaning, as shown heretofore, it is nonetheless a recherché literary form. But it is precisely the obscurity, difficulty, doubleness, and ambiguity of imitation poetry that made it suitable for such a function. Its structures of overlapping allusion and reference have the very practical function of obscuring the responsibility of the author. After all, the structure of imitation poems is an affirmation of the lasting significance of poetry, a reminder that the brocade of literary patterning will outlast even a tyrant’s “sneer of cold command.”

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Ruan Ji’s Poetics of Obscurity A curious anecdote of Ruan Ji’s life suggests the unique character of his achievement as man and poet:3 Often Ruan Ji would ride off alone on a whim with no particular route in mind. When his carriage could go no farther, he would weep profusely and return.

阮籍常率意獨駕，不由徑路，車跡所窮，輒慟哭而反。 The anecdote is an allegory of Ruan Ji’s political situation: though placed by birth and connections close to the ruling house of Wei, Ruan kept at a distance from court politics and lamented his lot in enigmatic poems. Facing the absence of any clear path in the world, he grieved for his lot and looked backwards. This anecdote also characterizes Ruan’s poems, which, rather than describing any concrete events of his life or the contemporary situation, are variations on the existing verse tradition subtly alluding to personal disappointments, inviting the reader to identify these with his historical situation. His poems retread a familiar poetic ground while adding a note of profound melancholy. In this way they form the basis for an entire tradition of Chinese verse, combining allusion to earlier poems with intimations of personal angst, so that the two modes complement each other dynamically. Ruan Ji’s poems played a dominant role in Jiang Yan’s imitation verse, and may have been a special motivation for him. They also continued to serve as a model for imitation in later centuries, and as such form a fitting conclusion to this book, in that the tradition they inspired shows how the spirit of Six Dynasties poetry continued to thrive in later dynasties. Ruan Ji was imitated by later writers more than any Six Dynasties writer, with the exception of Tao Yuanming 陶淵明 (365–427).4 Ruan was imitated 3 4

Weishi chunqiu 魏氏春秋, quoted in Yu Jiaxi, Shishuo xinyu jianshu, 18/1.648, and also in the biography of Ruan Ji (Jin shu 49.1361). Cf. Mather, Shih-shuo Hsin-yü, 354–55. The most convenient edition of Ruan Ji’s works is Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu, edited by Chen Bojun. The first seventeen poems are included in the Wen xuan, so the commentaries of Li Shan and the Wuchen are helpful for these. Another important commentary is that of Huang Jie, Ruan Bubing yonghua shizhu, also quoted frequently in Chen Bojun’s edition. Important studies of Ruan Ji’s poetry include: Yoshikawa Kōjirō, “Gen Seki no ‘Eikai shi’ ni tsuite” 阮籍の詠懐詩 について, in Yoshikawa Kōjirō zenshū 7: 192–247; Donald Holzman, Poetry and Politics: The Life and Works of Juan Chi, ad 210–263; and Cai Zong-qi, “The Symbolic Mode of Presentation in the Poetry of Juan Chi.” Tao Yuanming and his afterlife in the Chinese tradition deserve

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in part out of sheer admiration for the concise power of his short poems under the title “Singing of My Cares,” but also due to sympathy with his personal integrity. He was a poet of particular importance to Jiang Yan, and the way that his poetry continued to evolve through the centuries is a particularly revealing model of how imitation works in the Chinese poetic tradition. “Ruan Ji poems” represent a particular model of returning to familiar phrases and poems as a way to confront a new situation. The model continues to be useful for other poets because it is an expressive pathway that remains open even in hopeless situations. Although its primary direction is a return to the past, that movement can take on different kinds of significance and encompass various emotions for later poets. Ruan Ji’s poetry itself seems close to Han poetry, to the style and themes of the “Old Poems.” Though he also inserts allusions, symbols, and other poetic devices that mark out an individuality in his voice, he continues to reapply numerous motifs from the “Old Poems.” At the same time, though, Ruan achieves a new kind of generality and philosophical significance.5 Later critics struggled to read his biography and political criticisms into the poetry, but the texts of the “Singing of My Cares” themselves mostly lack such specific references. Instead they tend toward unspecific symbolism, and have long been noted for their obscurity and difficulty. At the same time, few of Ruan Ji’s poems could be mistaken for “Old Poems,” since he reshapes the familiar verse language with greater profundity. Perhaps the most important influence distinguishing Ruan’s poetry from predecessors is that of xuanxue. Ruan was influenced by the xuanxue movement that began to excite Chinese thinkers and writers of the Zhengshi era (240–249).6 During this period, Wang Bi 王弼 (226–249) and He Yan 何晏 (ca. 190–249) were producing their classical commentaries, trying to create rapprochement between Confucian and Daoist texts. Roughly speaking, they book-length treatment, such as that of Wendy Swartz, Reading Tao Yuanming: Shifting Paradigms of Historical Reception (427–1900). Cf. also the discussion of Jiang Yan’s imitation of Tao in Williams, “The Metaphysical Lyric of the Six Dynasties,” 105–8. 5 Yoshikawa observes that the emotions of the “Old Poems” seem limited in scope, while Ruan’s seem universal. See “Gen Seki no ‘Eikai shi’ ni tsuite,” 198. Of course, this interpretation conflicts to some extent with traditional readings of Ruan’s poetry. 6 Xuanxue has been the subject of numerous studies in Chinese in recent years. There are some important works on Wang Bi in English: Chan, Two Visions of the Way: A Study of the Wang Pi and the Ho-Shang Kung Commentaries on the Lao-Tzu; Wagner, The Craft of a Chinese Commentator: Wang Bi on the Laozi, and id., Language, Ontology, and Political Philosophy in China: Wang Bi’s Scholarly Exploration of the Dark (xuanxue); and Ziporyn, The Penumbra Unbound.

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attempted to preserve the fundamental ethical and political commitments of the mainstream Confucian tradition, but informed by metaphysical constructs elaborated from Daoist texts. In particular, they emphasized that the creative source of the universe was located in wu 無, “nothingness,” in some contexts even an absolute “nonbeing.” Xuanxue scholarship was focused in particular on the Laozi, Zhuangzi, and Book of Changes, sometimes called the “Three Xuan” texts. Ruan Ji also freely employs allusions to Zhuangzi and cosmological language to evoke the larger significance of an experience or anecdote. Like the xuanxue thinkers, he seems to believe in a fundamental creative power that must remain immutably distant, incomprehensible, and obscure (xuan). At the same time, xuanxue thinkers were not mystics who rejected literature and scholarship, and Ruan Ji does implicitly indicate an approach to understanding the world and life, even if he believes it is impossible for any mortal to attain true mastery of the processes of change. For Ruan Ji, this positive dimension of xuanxue takes the form of a wellwrought poetry that delves into the undertones and hidden implications of words. Rather than describing his personal and philosophical concerns in detail, he gestures suggestively at them. Ruan Ji devised a new kind of poetic diction, whose obscurity paradoxically made it less private and more accessible to a variety of interpretations. Its hermeneutic multiplicity helped to make Ruan Ji’s poems vastly influential on later writers, through the Six Dynasties and continuing into the Tang, feeding imitation after imitation. Obscurity of content and imitation poems share an indeterminacy of meaning. Making statements with minimal context or unspecified referents leaves open multiple avenues for interpretation; in the same way, an imitation creates an ambiguity as to whether the speaker’s words refer to the speaker, or to the speaker of the poem being imitated, or both. Both are artificial modes that distance speaker from author and reinforce awareness of the poem as text and not speech.7 Thus Ruan Ji’s “obscurity” takes several forms: 1) philosophically, the “obscurity” of the Way itself in relation to transient phenomena; 2) rhetorically, the use of symbolic and allusive language that does not always have an obvious referent; and 3) politically, his reticence within his poetry about the issues in 7 Cai Zong-qi in “The Symbolic Mode of Presentation in the Poetry of Juan Chi” has analyzed Ruan Ji’s poetry from a structural perspective, with valuable insights that complement my analysis here in demonstrating the formal ambiguities of Ruan’s style. I would distance myself, however, from Cai’s reading of Ruan Ji’s poetry as fundamentally about the “conflicts over the Confucian and Taoist ways of life” (p. 56). This kind of direct mapping between literary tensions to philosophical debates belies the complexity of the “symbolic mode.” Similarly, Cai’s emphasis on “indeterminacy” does not do justice to the very explicit feelings and coherent messages that are also contained in Ruan’s verse.

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contemporary politics that obviously provided some of the emotional weight of his lyrics. At the same time, the obscurity of Ruan’s writing is balanced on the same three levels by well-defined “pathways” to understanding: 1) philosophically, through the systematic argumentation of the xuanxue thinkers, navigating logically through the various classics; 2) rhetorically, through the concise and evocative language of earlier pentasyllabic verse; and 3) politically, by certain explicit and well-defined touchstones, such as a general sense of the corruptness of the age, or his admiration for certain virtuous men of the past. For Ruan Ji, this use of obscure symbolism may in part have been a ploy to avoid becoming implicated in the political squabbles that were often fatal in this period. Like that of his friend Xi Kang 嵇康 (223–262), Ruan Ji’s poetry refers frequently to an imaginary life of immortals and mystic beings. But Xi Kang, who was similar to Ruan in many ways, but far less guarded in his speech and writings, was executed at the age of 39 by Sima Zhao 司馬昭 (211–265) in a particularly brutal and senseless fashion.8 The rise of the Sima clan who would found the Jin dynasty was the major political trend of Ruan Ji’s era, and even though he was personally close to the Simas, it was a tense political environment when wrong words could easily be fatal. Ruan Ji dealt with this situation in several different ways. According to his biography, one of these was drinking to the point of obliviousness, although wine only appears in one of the “Singing of My Cares” poems (#34). Another was reticence: though he flouted ritual propriety more than Xi Kang, Ruan Ji was careful not to provoke any personal grudges, and so managed to die a natural death (though only two years later than Xi Kang).9 Ruan Ji’s reticence and famous drinking had their own political significance, reflecting a critique of the political machinations of the Simas from the transcendent perspective of xuanxue thought.10 Yet Ruan’s most enduring form of response to his situation was a body of poetry that presents his feelings in a curiously vague form, leaving the precise causes of complaint undefined. Ruan’s oeuvre includes a large body of pentasyllabic verse (and also a few tetrasyllabic poems) collectively known as “Sing8

9

10

Xi’s surname may also be read Ji. The story I summarize here is told in his biography, Jin shu 49.1369–74. For an overview of Ruan Ji, Xi Kang, and their relationship, see Xu Gongchi, Ruan Ji yu Xi Kang. On Xi Kang’s death and its historical significance see also Niu Guihu, Guangling yuxiang. It should also be noted that Xi Kang was related by marriage to the Cao royal family, which would have made it harder for him to adjust to Sima rule under any circumstances. For a discussion of his family ties and their significance see Xu Gongchi, Ruan Ji yu Xi Kang, 17. See Williams, “The Morality of Drunkenness in Chinese Literature of the Third Century ce”

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ing of My Cares” 詠懷.11 The poems may have been collected only after Ruan Ji’s death. Many of the poems have been read by later critics as protests against the overthrow of the Wei, but this is certainly not clear from the poems themselves. This assumption is fundamental to Ruan Ji’s reception throughout the Chinese literary tradition, and cannot be ignored, but we should also note that the thesis depends for its plausibility on the difficulty of ever verifying it. If the claim is true, Ruan Ji has succeeded so well in concealing himself that his poems remain, even today, open to other interpretations. Their effectiveness, and their obscurity, transcend Ruan’s own political situation. The first to offer the familiar interpretation was Yan Yanzhi 顏延之 (384– 456), who is quoted by Li Shan as commenting, “it is said that under the Jin, Ruan Ji frequently worried about calamities, and so produced these songs” 說 者阮籍在晉代常慮禍患，故發此詠耳.12 This is the political interpretation of Ruan Ji’s poems that has held sway among most traditional and some modern critics. However, it is not the only plausible interpretation of the historical facts. Gu Nong 顧農has argued that the “Singing of My Cares” poems were actually written before 249 and have nothing to do with the fall of the Wei.13 In particular, the Wuchen edition of the Wen xuan comments: “Early on Ji did not ponder his writing carefully, but wrote spontaneously, and so completed more than eighty Chenliu pieces” 籍屬文初不苦思，率而便作， 成陳留八十餘篇.14 Here the “Singing of My Cares” poems are identified by the unusual title of “Chenliu,” the commandery where Ruan Ji’s ancestral home was located. The variant is especially interesting because Ruan Ji lived in reclusion in Chenliu only until the “disturbance of Gaoping tumulus” 高平陵之變 in the first month of 249, when Sima Yi 司馬懿 (179–251) killed the regent Cao Shuang 曹爽 and established himself as the main power behind the throne. If this is correct, then Ruan Ji wrote “Singing of My Cares” before the ascendancy of the Simas, and could not have intended them as satire or protest in that regard. It is also possible that the poems could have been associated with Chenliu even if Ruan did not write them all there, but Gu is still right to draw 11

12 13 14

Some tetrasyllabic poems are also attributed to him under the same title. Three are of reliable authenticity, while ten were not transmitted with the rest of Ruan Ji works are may be spurious. See Donald Holzman, “On the Authenticity of the Tetrameter Poetry Attributed to Ruan Ji.” Holzman finds these tetrasyllabic poems markedly inferior in quality to the pentasyllabic ones and doubts their authenticity. Wen xuan 23.1067. Gu Nong, “Shuo Ruan Ji ‘Yonghuai shi’ zhong de ‘xian xin.’” Liuchen zhu Wen xuan, 23.1a. This seems to be the addition of Liu Liang 劉良 himself, and the source is unclear. See Liang Zhangju, Wen xuan pangzheng, 21.558.

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attention to this note. The previous phrase asserting that Ruan wrote these poems “spontaneously” also contradicts the hypothesis that Ruan has buried subtle political messages in all the poems. This confirms the impression from internal evidence that the poems are not a homogeneous mass, and that many of them could have been written before 249. Wang Fuzhi, who as we see below was a great admirer of Ruan, noted the poems’ richness and variety: “the wonder of how [Ruan] put them into form is that sometimes he comforts himself, sometimes laments his state, sometimes expresses thoughts of transcendence, and sometimes conveys his hatred of wickedness” 且其托體之妙，或以自 安，或以自悼，或摽物外之旨，或寄疾邪之思.15 Wang states clearly that although some poems might be intended as a direct critique of contemporary “wickedness,” others could have quite different implications. As with Jiang Yan’s poems, the lesson is not that we should reject dating, but rather that an attempt at the systematic dating of Ruan’s poems would be futile; instead we should read them as intertextual collages with significance for both past and present. Although the harsh political and intellectual climate of the time certainly played an instrumental role in developing Ruan Ji’s poetic style, it is not necessarily of equal importance in interpreting the poems. Given the circumstances, Ruan Ji could not have written rousing protest poems, but this does not mean that the poems he did write are all protest poems in disguise. In fact, some of their difficulty is created by a deft interweaving of various themes, of which politics is just one. Philosophical and mystical imagery, personal sorrows, and historical reflections all play large parts as well. These are unified by a consistent, world-weary tone and indirect manner of expression that complement one another. The sense of obscurity in Ruan Ji’s poems should not be confused with vagueness or disorder: to the contrary, the obscure material is balanced by pristine order and forceful expression. They could not otherwise have remained so famous. One symbolic system in which we observe vivid tension between order and disorder is in Ruan’s concrete images of spatial order, those of cardinal directions, roads, and pathways. Ruan Ji’s lyricism of the road has its precedents in the “Nineteen Old Poems,” as in the beginning of the first in the series: “Traveling traveling, again traveling traveling” 行行重行行, though they more commonly lament the lack of a route (#14): “I long to return to my old town, / I want to go home but cannot find the road” 思還故里閭，欲歸道無因. Roads symbolize both separation and reunion, or the distance between them that is the matter of poetry. In other “Old Poems” roads describe the crowded 15

Wang Fuzhi, “Gu shi pingxuan” 古詩評選, in Chuanshan quanshu 14: 677.

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avenues of the city, or the paths leading away from them: both the centers of civilization and the escape from them. For Ruan Ji too, roads occur frequently in laments of separation. At the beginning of “Singing of My Cares” #49 he writes: “I roam by foot by the Three Avenues, / With melancholy I think of my beloved” 步遊三衢旁，惆悵念 所思. The Three Avenues of the capital provide the setting and the outline of Ruan’s psychological journey, and themselves become figures for separation. The meeting and parting of the roads themselves is a cause for grief, as in the famous anecdote of Yang Zhu 楊朱, the Warring States thinker who wept when he came to a parting in the roads (cited in “Singing of My Cares” #20). Despite the poignancy of roads, though, it is even worse to fall off roads and be forgotten; the side of the road, in particular, seems to represent death and despair. In another poem, Ruan criticizes the spoiled rich of the capital (#59): “Do not imitate those swarming young men, / Who drive their light chariots and fine steed. / In the morning they are born beside the avenues and roads, / In the evening buried off of crossing streets” 豈效繽紛子，良馬騁輕輿。朝生 衢路旁，夕瘞橫術隅. The teeming streets here seem to represent the shallow and superficial, motion without meaning. The side of the road is always a place of peril and darkness for Ruan Ji (#71): “The bright sun declines over the forest, / Swiftly passing to fall beside the road” 白日頹林中，翩翩零路側. The fifth poem of the series employs an anecdote of roads to suggest a fundamental confusion in the world: “My hundred taels of gold are used up, / I always regret the expense and effort are too much. / Going north on the Taihang thoroughfare, / I have lost the way now: what else can I do?” 黃金百鎰 盡，資用常苦多。北臨太行道，失路將如何. Here Ruan alludes to a story in the Stratagems of the Warring States. Ji Liang 季梁 convinced the King of Wei not to attack Handan by explaining it was not the right means to his end. He tells a story of a man traveling north on the Taihang road (towards the Taihang mountains of Shanxi and Hebei), the opposite direction of his ultimate goal southward towards Chu.16 This story could refer to Ruan’s own confusion and distress, a sense of being as out of touch as someone traveling northward to Chu, or it might refer to the confusion of his contemporaries, an ambiguity quite typical of Ruan’s poetry. The negative associations of roads in many of Ruan Ji’s poems derive from his critical point of view, based in his philosophical objections to the pointless striving of ordinary society. Road symbolism also suggests the dual meaning of the dao itself, the way that is also the Way. One poem opens by contrasting order and transience (#53): “Nature has its patterns of growth, / The way of life 16

Zhanguo ce jiaozhu 7.61a.

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and death is not permanent” 自然有成理，生死道無常. The realities of transience and human frailty mean that roads often possess a symbolism that is pessimistic; but in aspiration, roads remain positive—the routes to knowledge and understanding, a glimpse towards meaning behind the transformations of life and death. The brilliance of Ruan Ji’s poetry is how he suggests that there is some way or sense of order, in spite of the despair and confusion of the world. In another poem he suggests this with the striking phrase “dark paths”:17 Singing of My Cares #69

5

人知結交易 交友誠獨難 陰路多疑惑 明珠未可干 彼求饗太牢 我欲并一餐 損益生怨毒 咄咄復何言

We know that making acquaintances is easy, But forming friendships singularly hard. Dark paths rife with doubt and confusion, Bright pearls cannot be sought out.18 Others seek to enjoy the supreme offering, I only want to share a single meal.19 Losses and gains create resentment and envy: After all this chatter, what more is there to say?

Ruan Ji’s “I” here is not really the historical Ruan Ji, or any historical individual, but rather a universal speaker, the individual subject resisting the crowd represented by bi 彼 “they.” Ruan Ji’s poems are a sort of minimal foray into darkness and obscurity, with the poetic devices of rhyme, allusion, and parallelism all providing a scaffolding of knowledge and clarity. In a world of doubt, we have no choice but to follow these pathways, and yet they still frequently leave us somewhere in the midst of the darkness. Dao is also a word for “speech,” and Ruan’s roads also serve as a metaphor for communication in general. Their opposite is the obscurity which is one of the major subjects of Ruan’s poems. The poems hide their meanings with vague language, while addressing the difficulty of expressing meaning fully. As we shall see below, Jiang Yan concludes his imitation of Ruan Ji in “Diverse Forms” 17 18

19

Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu 381; Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 113. I adopt the rare variant 陰 for 險 (see Ruan Ji yonghuai shizhu 336). This variant is preferable because of the contrast between the darkness in the first line with the bright pearls in the second line of the couplet. Based on Laozi #20, contrasting the hedonism of the masses with the purity of the superior individual. Wang Bi’s commentary emphasizes that the mindset of the individual has the indescribable (wu xing zhi ke ming 無形之可名) quality idealized by the xuan thinkers. See Wang Bi ji jiaoshi 1: 47.

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with the memorable line “Who can measure what is hidden and minute?” 誰 能測幽微. Though it does not seem to have a direct antecedent in Ruan’s poems, this line succinctly sums up of one of his key concerns. This problem of obscurity is only addressed tangentially or briefly in “Singing of My Cares,” but is treated at greater length in works such as the “Fu on Purifying Thoughts” 清 思賦. Although this piece belongs to the tradition of fu on restraining one’s passions when meeting a beautiful woman, the introduction supplies a new philosophical context for the commonplace theme:20 In my opinion, visible forms cannot have beauty of appearance;  audible sounds do not have excellence of tone. Long ago the Yellow Emperor rose up to immortality on Mount Jing,21  and played the Xianchi music  on the slopes of the Southern Marchmount,22 but ghostly and spiritlike was its hiddenness,  and Kui and Bo Ya could not hear those pieces.23 Nü Wa shone resplendently on the shore of the Eastern Ocean,  and fluttered beside Hongxi.24 The forests and rocks plummeted down together,  and the carnelian terrace did not reflect its light.25 20

21 22 23

24 25

Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu 29; Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 139. Cf. also “Singing of My Cares” #19 on a similar theme. Cheng Yu-yu discusses this piece in Xingbie yu jiaguo: Han Jin cifu de Chu Sao lunshu 52. The Shi ji describes how the Yellow Emperor rode up to heaven from Mount Shouyang 首 陽山, along with his retainers, on the back of a long-bearded dragon (Shi ji 107A.2657). The Han shu “Treatise on Rites and Music” mentions that the Yellow Emperor invented the tune “Xianchi” 咸池. Kui 夔 was the music-master of Shun (Shang shu zhengyi, 3.26a). Ya is Bo Ya 伯牙, the great musician who played the zither for his friend Zhong Ziqi 鐘子期 (Lü shi chunqiu 14.4a). There is a variant reading 西山 “Western hills” for Hongxi, quoted by Li Shan at Wen xuan31.1459. See Shanhai jing 3.13a: “And two hundred leagues north is a mountain called Fajiu. On it are many mulberry trees. There is a crow-shaped bird there with a patterned head, white beak and red feet, known as the Jingwei. It is named after the sound of its cry. Emperor Yan’s (Shen Nong 神農) youngest daughter was named Nü Wa. She was visiting the Eastern Ocean when she drowned and could not return. Then she was transformed into the Jingwei. Constantly it draws the wood and stones of the Western Mountains in its mouth, and uses them to fill up the Eastern Ocean.” Cf. Birrell, Chinese Mythology: An Introduction, 214–15. For the “carnelian terrace,” see Chuci buzhu 1.32, “Li sao”: “Gazing at the

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For this reason the minute and subtle has no form,  and the quiet and solitary is not heard;  only then can one perceive its singular beauty and delicate purity. Thus the bright sun displays its light,  but the young lady [Empress Li] did not make her figure walk;26 bells and drums resound and boom,  but Master Yan could not make his music heard.27

余以為形之可見，非色之美；音之可聞，非聲之善。昔黃帝 登仙于荊山之上，振咸池于南嶽之岡，鬼神其幽，而夔牙不 聞其章。女娃耀榮于東海之濱，而翩翻于洪西之旁，林石之 隕從，而瑤臺不照其光。是以微妙無形，寂寞無聽，然後乃 可以覩窈窕而淑清。故白日麗光，則季后不步其容；鍾鼓閶 鉿，則延子不揚其聲。 Ruan Ji weaves together an intricate series of allusions to show that beautiful things often go unseen, and beautiful sounds unheard. The extraordinary “Xianchi” melody played by the Yellow Emperor himself was “hidden,” you 幽. You is the principle of reclusion or removing oneself from contemporary society. It is extended in this fu to an aesthetic principle: beauty itself, at the highest level, is hidden and not easily accessible. This is a melancholy proposition, which relates this sense of you to that of “dejection,” as in Xi Kang’s “Indignant in Imprisonment” (“You fen” 幽憤). This idea is closely related also to xuanxue’s doctrine of something inaccessible and indescribable—nonbeing itself—as the ultimate reality. For instance, Wang Bi in his Summary of Laozi (Laozi zhilüe 老子指略) wrote: “That without form or name is the origin of the myriad things. It is neither warm nor cool, neither a gong note nor a shang note. Though you listen you cannot hear it; though you look at it you cannot reveal it; though you examine it you cannot recognize it; though you taste it you cannot know the flavor” 無形無名者， 萬物之宗也。不溫不涼，不宮不商。聽之不可得而聞，視之不可

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carnelian terrace towering above, / I see the fair lady of Yousong” 望瑤臺之偃蹇兮， 見有娀之佚女. I follow Chen Bojun’s emendation of Ji 季 to Li 李 (two characters very similar in appearance), fitting the allusion to Han shu 97A.3952, in which a magician helped the emperor to see the figure of his deceased Lady Li moving behind a curtain. See Shi ji 24.1235. Music-master Yan 師延 served Zhou 紂, wicked final ruler of the Shang, and played decadent “soft and slow music” 靡靡之樂. As the armies of the triumphant new Zhou dynasty aproached, he threw himself into the Pu 濮 River.

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得而彰，體之不可得而知，味之不可得而嘗.28 The source of all things is too obscure to be understood directly. It remained for Ruan Ji to deploy this concept within a new poetics of obscurity. He did this by using the pathways of symbolism to represent more abstract concerns—by using recognizable sounds and flavors to indicate the unattainable. As he writes in “Singing of My Cares” #35: “Temporal roads are hardly worth contesting, / When we can roam upwards with the Ultimate” 時路無足爭，太極可翱翔.29 Ruan Ji’s poems remain remarkable for how they exemplify the poetics of the “Fu on Purifying My Thoughts,” repeatedly suggesting a trajectory beyond the temporal and towards the transcendent. Ruan Ji’s singular style consistently guides the workings of his poems in spite of their varied themes. Though any number of poems could serve as examples, the following poems are some of those particularly relevant for reading Jiang Yan’s imitations. Examining their literary devices, and particularly the intersection of obscurity and anxiety throughout the poems, will suggest how they could serve as such a potent model for Jiang Yan and other later poets. Part of Ruan Ji’s method, which would become common practice for later poets, was to use historical allusions in such a way that they could easily be interpreted with contemporary relevance. In his historical allusions, the contemporary referent is never explicit, instead suggesting only a vaguely characterized discontent and unmotivated kind of grief: Singing of My Cares #1130

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湛湛長江水 上有楓樹林 皋蘭被徑路 青驪逝駸駸 遠望令人悲 春氣感我心 三楚多秀士 28 29 30 31 32 33

Limpid are the waters of the Jiang, And there are maple forests over them.31 Thoroughwort of the marsh cover the paths, My dark green horse gallops fleetingly along.32 Gazing far makes a man miserable, The spring air stirs my heart. In tripartite Chu worthy gentlemen are many;33

Wang Bi ji jiaoshi 1: 195. Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu 315. Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu 251; Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 32–33. See Chuci buzhu 9.215, “Summons to the Soul”: “Limpid are the waters of the Jiang—and there are maple trees above” 湛湛江水兮上有楓. Again, see Chuci buzhu 9.215, “Summons to the Soul”: “Thoroughwort of the marsh cover the paths—the road disappears” 皋蘭被徑兮斯路漸. The pre-Qin Chu state extended over a broad area that was divided into southern, eastern, and western Chu: Jiangling 江陵 (in modern Hubei) , Wu 吳 (modern Suzhou, Jiangsu),

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朝雲進荒淫 朱華振芬芳 高蔡相追尋 一為黃雀哀 淚下誰能禁

But morning clouds encourage waste and dissipation.34 Vermilion blossoms raise their sweet fragrance, Pursuing one another in Gaocai.35 A moment’s pity for the yellow sparrow nestlings:36 Who can restrain himself from shedding tears?

The first lines of this poem are quoted directly from Chuci, adapted to the pentasyllabic line with the addition of filler words (such as calling the Yangzi River by its full name “Long Jiang,” rather than merely Jiang). This borrowed language creates a sense of historical distance that is sustained throughout the poem, nearly all of which deals with specific historical allusions to Chu during the Warring States period. The poem is a historical pastiche without any specific reference to Ruan Ji’s life or age, and is normally read by commentators as a direct comment on the corruption of the late Wei rulers. Nearly all the work in that reading is done by the title and an overall conception of Ruan Ji’s poetry, not by any feature of this particular poem. The poem appears to be a personal reflection, as in the third couplet, which states a personal sorrow, even using the first-person pronoun, which is somewhat unusual: “Gazing far makes a man miserable, / The spring air stirs my heart.” But the plain language and generalizations here also recall the unnamed singers of the “Old Poems.” Ruan Ji’s portrayal of the Chu scene is couched in old voices and the words of old poems, which require the reader to make some effort to interpret the poem in a contemporary sense. Here, allusion and obscurity are mutually reinforcing.

34

35

36

and Pengcheng 彭城 (modern Tongshan 銅山 county, Hubei), respectively. Referring to the famous passage of Song Yu’s “Gaotang Fu” in which King Xiang of Chu meets the goddess of Mount Wu, who says “I am the dawning clouds of day, and the driving rain of night” 旦偽朝雲，暮為行雨 (Wen xuan 19.876). The expression came to be a euphemism for lovemaking, and here for sexual license generally. In a speech in the Stratagems of the Warring States, Zhuang Xin 莊辛 cautioned the King of Chu with the story of Marquis Sheng of Cai 蔡聖侯, who idled his days away with women and revelry, but neglected affairs of state. One of the sins for which he is lambasted is that “holding a child concubine on his left, embracing a mistress on his right, he gallivanted with them in Gaocai” 左抱幼妾，右擁嬖女，與之馳騁乎高蔡之中. See Zhanguo ce jiaozhu 5.36b. In the speech alluded to in the previous couplet, Zhuang Xin also compares the king’s situation to that of an oriole flying carefree, not knowing that hunters prepare their bows and arrows below.

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These vague references are framed within a very lucid poetic structure, however, which provides a dramatic contrast of motion and stillness. The first two couplets survey a vast landscape, the speaker racing forward on horseback across it. In the third couplet he is at rest, “gazing” while his emotions race. The references to Chu history in the next two couplets again involve distance and busy activity, climaxing in the libidinous journey to Gaocai. The final couplet opposes the innocent oriole, who is flying but must be stopped in order to be saved, with the tears of the speaker, which must continue to fall. The speaker of the poem reacts to its images and visions from the stationary position of an observer, who longs to tell the king to stop his revelries but cannot, while the entropy of the universe affects him as well, as his tears flow without end. Thus the poet artfully imposes order on preexisting materials. Ruan’s referential obscurity here is balanced by the poem’s elegant organization. Another poem by Ruan Ji exemplifies a more comprehensive kind of obscurity. It lacks historical allusions and proper names, or other contextual markers to indicate Ruan Ji’s intentions or circumstances at the time of composition:37 Singing of My Cares #36

5

誰言萬事艱 逍遙可終生 臨堂翳華樹 悠悠念無形 彷徨思親友 倏忽復至冥 寄言東飛鳥 可用慰我情

Who says the myriad matters are trying? I can live out my life in idle roaming. Near the hall I am shaded by blossoming boughs, While far off I ponder all that is formless. Dallying I think of my dear friend, And in an instant it is darkest night again. I send a message with a bird flying east,38 In order to relieve my sadness.

The fourth line is a concise statement of Ruan Ji’s sense of the obscurity of the world: “While far off I ponder all that is formless.” It is precisely because they are formless that abstractions can extend far beyond Ruan Ji’s own circumstances. Here, Ruan Ji is using an obscure mode to depict an emotional state, rather than a political or mystical idea. At the same time, the poem itself enacts the process of shaping inchoate experience into form. Though the political 37 38

Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu 317; Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 129. Cf. “Jiu zhang” 九章, “Si meiren” 思美人: “I use the returning birds to present my words” 因歸鳥而致辭兮 (Chuci buzhu 4.147); or “Jiu tan” 九歎, “You ku” 憂苦: “I’d like to send word with the Three Birds [messengers of the Queen of the West]” 愿寄言於三鳥兮 (Chuci buzhu 16.300). This topos of the avian messenger is common in early poetry.

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message may be vague, in literary-historical terms the poem is exceedingly clear. The motif of sending a message via birds occurs frequently in earlier poetry. Yet the trope has a new poignancy here. The content of the message is never revealed, perhaps not even known by Ruan Ji himself. Whatever the source of Ruan’s emotions, there is no question about the mood of his poems, that of sustained melancholy. Yet the reader may detect some glimmers of hope as well:39 Singing of My Cares #37

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嘉時在今辰 零雨灑塵埃 臨路望所思 日夕復不來 人情有感慨 蕩漾焉能排 揮涕懷哀傷 辛酸誰語哉

The propitious hour is now, this morning, But falling rain splashes the dust and dirt. Facing the road I gaze towards the one I long for, But even at dusk of day she does not come. Human feelings have their times of anguish, Tossed and tumbled, how can I push clear? Wiping my tears I harbor grief and sadness— Who can tell of such sharp bitterness!

The first couplet gives another example of contradiction, symbolic of the upside-down temper of the times. This should be an auspicious moment, but in fact the rain has muddied everything. As in the previous poem, the speaker is gazing far off into the distance. The one he longs for—not even mentioned explicitly, but presumably the Fair Lady, who can also allegorically represent the just sovereign never comes, yet the poet gazes hopefully along the road. The conclusion recalls “Singing of My Cares” #13: “Feeling sorrow I bear this sharp bitterness” 感慨懷辛酸, complaining in the same language that the poet’s feelings are impossible to describe.40 This issue is one great theme of Wei and Jin poetry, the limitations of language, restated over and over in different forms, frequently making use of Zhuangzi’s fables. Though “Singing of My Cares” #37 does not address this issue explicitly, it invokes the xuanxue-colored context of the familiar carpe diem theme, placing a single moment of experience in a more contemplative perspective. Through this conclusion, then, the poem addresses a xuanyan theme, even though it is not a philosophical poem. Donald Holzman writes that Ruan Ji in his poetry was “incoherently groping towards some kind of metaphysical 39 40

Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu 318; Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 130. One might ask whether it is the imprecise and stereotyped style of the poem that makes the poet’s internal state particularly difficult to communicate.

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salvation,” but to some extent the incoherence or obscurity of Ruan Ji’s poetry is precisely its intended effect.41 Whether it was actually written in careless haste or not, these poems offer no comprehensive worldview, but rather impressionistic lyricism that conceals or only suggests the passions behind it. If the poems were more coherent, they might be less emotionally persuasive and thematically rich (and later xuanyan poems display exactly these faults). After all, no philosophy allows us to transcend the mundane world entirely, no matter how forcefully the author claims to have joined the immortals or to have discarded his material self. Ruan Ji’s poetry depicts an epistemological and moral struggle that is never quite resolved. His terse and incomplete statements help to communicate his sense of doubt and uncertainty. Yet Ruan Ji’s poetic form is tightly controlled, and crafted from the “Old Poems.” Because we are accustomed to the straightforward admission of personal facts from the “Old Poems,” Ruan Ji’s variation becomes even more convincing. Only in rare cases is his poetry merely vague; far more often it is significantly inconclusive. If it is right to see Xi Kang’s untimely death as a cautionary example for Ruan Ji and other literary successors, one lesson they seem to have drawn is the danger of confessional poetry.42 Though Xi Kang’s literary works do not seem themselves to have been the cause of his death, their confessional quality was the literary counterpart to his moral forthrightness in life. In a world where politics is frequently fatal, it is necessary to keep one’s inner self concealed in the public countenance of poetry. The title “Singing of My Cares” must thus be understood ironically. The burden of “Singing of My Cares” is to inscribe some fragment of the poet’s feelings in poems without making any statement that might be read as literally true. Ruan Ji’s “Singing of My Cares” were the model for a new genre of similar poems that blended metaphysical concepts, historical allusion, and obscure autobiographical reference. These later poems were either explicitly modeled on Ruan Ji’s poems, or loosely associated with them through the shared title. There developed a curious tension in the “Singing of My Cares” poems, as they were established as a genre with its own conventions; it was a genre of autobiographical verse in which shared forms were assumed to have unique and personal referents. This tension is inherent in Ruan Ji’s poetic oeuvre as well, since his “Singing of My Cares” poems establish their own conventions with autobiographical implications bounded by the obscurity of their own articulation. Even though the efforts of later commentators to relate particular lines in these poems to particular events surrounding the Wei-Jin dynastic transition 41 42

Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 246. Although we should also remember that Ruan Ji outlived Xi by only two years.

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seem futile at best, their motivation is not misguided. There is no doubt that Ruan Ji felt a profound unease with the state of government in his time, and that some of his poems are intended critically. As long as we recognize that our interpretations of these poems are bounded both by the limits of our knowledge, and by the inherent obscurity of Ruan’s poetics, we should not reject this approach. When political interpretation become tied to attempts at systematic dating, internal contradictions reveal themselves and hinder appreciation for the poems, but it should certainly not be rejected altogether. The challenge is to appreciate how Ruan Ji’s form of political criticism is grounded, not in policy proposals translated allegorically into birds and zithers, but rather in poetic expression itself. In the Chinese lyrical tradition, escapism is itself a political statement, and likewise for imitation. Though imitation might seem to be inherently apolitical, many imitations are actually read as political protest or criticism. Borrowing the words of an earlier poet who complained about corruption and evil implicitly indicts the present sovereign of the same. At the same time, the stated topic of imitation acts as a defense for the author, since it serves as an apparent claim of irrelevance to contemporary politics. It is one property of the “Old Poems” style that it feels straightforward and sincere even when it is borrowed by a sophisticated poet. The dense allusions and diverse subject matter of “Singing of My Cares” can hardly be categorized by this formula. Instead Ruan Ji’s poems provide a model, distanced from his life and contemporary circumstances by all kinds of literary tropes, yet still invested with suggestions and symbols adequate to sincere and profound emotions. By Jiang Yan’s time, such a poetic method would come to seem political by its very nature, no matter how indirectly it alluded to contemporary issues. Jiang Yan’s Imitations of Ruan Ji Ruan Ji’s verse played a concrete role in Jiang Yan’s life. Jiang was serving Liu Jingsu 劉景素, Prince of Jianping 建平. He was accused of bribery by jealous rivals and sent to prison. From prison he wrote a moving letter to the Prince, and was pardoned, but the Prince remained unsympathetic to Jiang Yan’s advice.43 According to Jiang Yan:44

43 44

Included in Wen xuan 39.1786–91. See “Zi xu,” Jiang Wentong ji huizhu, 10.379.

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When the Prince’s garrison was moved to Zhufang, he also became garrison administrator, and governor of Donghai commandery. Then the Prince joined rebellious elements, and plotted with them day and night. I knew that disaster would soon occur, so I composed fifteen poems, to give some indication of the principles of life, and to admonish the Prince. But he did not come to his senses, and instead became enraged and exiled me, making me governor of Wuxing in Jian’an.

及王移鎮朱方也，又為鎮軍參事，領東海郡丞。於是王與不 逞之徒，日夜搆議。淹知禍機之將發，又賦詩十五首，略明 性命之理，因以為諷。王遂不悟，乃憑怒而黜之，為建安吳 興令。 It is worth noting that Jiang’s official biographies offer another explanation of events.45 At this time Jiang was serving as vice prefect of South Donghai 南東 海 commandery. When the prefect of Donghai, Lu Cheng 陸澄, entered mourning for his parents, Jiang Yan wanted to take charge of the affairs of the commandery, but Jingsu instead promoted another man. According to this account, it was only out of annoyance at Jiang’s persistent pleading for the position that Liu Jingsu rusticated him to Fujian. In reality, the two stories are consistent. Liu Jingsu could have used Jiang’s intransigence on the lesser matter as an excuse for retaliating against him on the more pressing issue.46 Jiang Yan’s extant works include a series of fifteen imitations of Ruan Ji, which seems to be the series referred to here.47 These poems have the same wistful and obscure mood as Ruan Ji’s. It is not obvious at first how they could have enraged anybody. This pivotal event in Jiang Yan’s life must be understood, though, within the context of Ruan Ji’s poems and the tradition they inaugurated. Jiang Yan seems to imply that the poems were partly responsible for his exile, but it is also possible that he was exiled simply because of his opinions, and not the poems themselves. Still, the prominent mention of the poems at the climax of this episode certainly suggests that they influenced the outcome. The imitations evince a distaste for contemporary society and a longing for reclusion, but this had been a popular theme continuously since the time of Ruan Ji. Jiang Yan’s imitations rarely even suggest the same bitterness 45 46 47

Nan shi 49.1449; Liang shu 14.249. This is the conclusion of Cao Daoheng and Shen Yucheng in Zhonggu wenxue shiliao congkao, 456–57. “Xiao Ruan gong” 效阮公, in Jiang Wentong ji 4.22b–24a; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.121–27; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 21–30.

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or indignation that is sometimes felt in Ruan Ji’s poetry (e.g. in the historical allusions of “Singing of My Cares” #11 above). In fact, what they have most clearly in common with Ruan Ji’s work is the same sense of melancholy whose motivations and context are obscure. The twelfth poem in Jiang’s series has the simplicity and elegance of the first “Singing of My Cares:48 Imitating Lord Ruan #12

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華樹曜北林 芬芳空自宣 秋至白雲起 蟪蛄號庭前 中心有所思 虛堂獨浩然 安坐詠琴瑟 逍遙可永年

The flowering trees lend luster to northern forests, Their fragrance displaying itself in vain. At the height of autumn white clouds rise, Cicadas whistle before the courtyard. In my heart I have a longing for someone, The empty hall is singularly inspiring. Sitting quietly I play the zither, In contented leisure I extend my years.

There is the same inchoate longing and fluent reworking of the “Old Poems” here as in Ruan Ji’s poems. It is striking how different this style is from that of any of Jiang Yan’s “Poems in Diverse Forms”: it has a casual simplicity lacking in those poems, even the imitation of Ruan Ji, and reminds us of Jiang’s considerable range. This innocuous style makes it even harder to comprehend how these poems could have upset anybody, apart from the allusion to Ruan Ji’s political stance. Perhaps Jiang Yan could have written anything at all in the poems and still have been punished. But there is something paradoxically fitting about his having been punished for such a gentle poem asserting one’s own tranquility and desire for self-cultivation. It was the fact that Jiang was not writing about himself or his friends, but instead choosing to imitate another poet who had lived more than two centuries earlier, that offended his patron. For a person in a position of substantial, albeit subordinate, authority to write of an inchoate longing and unappreciated fragrance could be understood as almost treacherous. The political nature of imitation poetry is in part the assertion of values alien to and surpassing contemporary authority. In general Jiang’s imitations are more straightforward than Ruan’s. This is true for the larger part of the following poem, although allusions in the final couplet are challenging: 48

Cf. translation of this poem in Knechtges, “Review of Marney,” 102.

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Imitating Lord Ruan #15

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至人貴無為 裁魂守寂寥 唯有馳騖士 風塵在一朝 輿馬相跨躍 賓從共矜驕 天道好盈缺 春華故秋凋 不知北山民 商歌美場苗

The perfected man esteems nonaction,49 Trimming his soul to maintain stillness.50 Only the gentleman who charges ahead Passes through worldly tumult in a day. Carriages and horses boasting over each other, Guests and attendants bragged over. The way of heaven tends to fullness and then depletion, Flowering in spring and then in autumn withering. They do not know of the “Northern Hills” men, The Shang tune praises the shoots in the fields.

The last couplet here combines several allusions. “Northern Hills” 北山 is a poem about a man who must travel away from his parents for official service.51 Ning Qi 甯戚 sang the Shang tune from beneath the chariot of Duke Huan of Qi 齊桓公, who made him an advisor.52 “The shoots in the fields” refers to the Book of Songs: “That dazzling white pony / Feeds on the shoots in my fields” 皎 皎白駒，食我場苗.53 Originally a metaphor for hospitality, it came to represent the lures and emoluments with which a sovereign attracted talented servants. “Imitating Lord Ruan” #15 ought to be read in light of the first six lines of Ruan Ji’s “Singing of My Cares” #74:54

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猗歟上世士 恬淡志安貧 季葉道陵遲 馳騖紛垢塵 甯子豈不類 楊歌誰肯殉 … 49

50

51 52 53 54

O, how fine those gentlemen of old, Who in equanimity aimed to rest in poverty. In this age the Way has gradually declined, As men race madly after dust and dirt. Master Ning is hardly atypical, Who now would die for Yang Zhu’s song?

For “perfected man” see Zhuangzi jishi 2.96, with Guo Xiang’s commentary to the first sentence: “Because [the perfected man] has no mind [heart] he follows everything with equanimity” 無心而無不順. The image of the perfected man “trimming his soul” of unnecessary entanglements seems effective to me. Alternatively, Yu Shaochu and Zhang Yaxin propose that cai 裁 be emended to zai 載, as in Laozi, ch. 10: “Hold onto your soul and keep close the One, and you can avoid being separated” 載營魄抱一，能無離. Mao shi 205. Huainanzi 9.3b. Mao shi 186/1. Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu 389; Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 66–67.

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In this poem, Ruan Ji advocates a fastidious avoidance of politics, criticizing Ning Qi for aspiring solely for political success. Yang Zhu was famous for his solipsistic independence, believing that all action was futile and unwarranted, even—or especially—in a matter of life and death.55 The first couplet of Jiang’s imitation cites the Zhuangzi and possibly Laozi: “The perfected man esteems nonaction, / Trimming his soul to maintain stillness.” But this is not like a typical xuanyan poem, since it is only incidentally philosophical. Jiang Yan’s imitations of Ruan Ji do resemble xuanyan poetry in their confident assertion of philosophical truths without the doubt and hesitation of Ruan Ji. Jiang Yan himself wrote poems in a metaphysical vein, principally his five poems on “Purifying My Thoughts” 清思詩.56 Yu Shaochu and Zhang Yaxin suggest that these were inspired by Ruan Ji’s fu of the same name, discussed above.57 Though the content of these poems is different from that of Jiang’s imitations of Ruan Ji, the style is similar: a plain pentasyllabic line with straightforward diction and much historical allusion. Purifying My Thoughts #1

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10

趙后未至麗 陰妃非美極 情理儻可論 形有焉足識 帝女在河洲 晦映西海側 陰陽無定光 雜錯千萬色 終歲如瓊草 紅華長翕赩

Consort Zhao was not the most beautiful, Nor was Concubine Yin was the fairest. Although it is possible to speak of facts and principles, How can one judge of material beings? The Divine Daughters are on an islet in the river,58 Vanishing and reappearing beside the western ocean. Dark or bright, they have no fixed light, But mingle in thousands, ten thousands of hues. Throughout the year they are like numinous plants, Their red blossoms ever brightly showing.

The first couplet alludes to two famous beauties.59 With the next couplet, Jiang is restating the argument of Ruan’s “Fu on Purifying My Thoughts,” that the es55

56 57 58 59

Yang Zhu once who counseled the son of a sick friend, eager to consult a doctor, by singing the song: “If Heaven does not understand, / How can men be aware? … Doctors! Shamans! / Do they know about it?” 天其弗識，人胡能覺….醫乎！巫乎！其知之乎? See Liezi jishi 6.204. Jiang Wentong ji 4.25a–26a; Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 31–34; Jiang Wentong ji huizhu 3.127–29. Jiang Yan ji jiaozhu 31. One good example is the musical allusion in the second poem. Cf. “Diverse Forms” #11, line 15. Consort Zhao 趙后 is Zhao Feiyan 趙飛燕, consort of Emperor Cheng 成 of the Western Han. Concubine Yin 陰妃 is Yin Lihua 陰麗華, consort of Emperor Guangwu 光武 of the Eastern Han.

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sential beauty surpasses the limits of our senses. The remainder describes a kind of mystical experience, a vision of the daughters of Yao, drawn from the Chuci mythology. Their beauty is vivid but indescribable, a changing pattern of light blended from countless hues. The third couplet especially draws on Chuci imagery such as “Who is pausing there, on the islet?” 蹇誰留兮中洲, from “Princess of the Xiang River,” on one of the daughters of Yao; and the Western Ocean belongs to Qu Yuan’s itinerary during his cosmic journey in the “Li sao”: “Pointing to the Western Ocean as the rendezvous” 指西海以為期.60 The final poem in the series also describes the ineffable power of the Way: Purifying My Thoughts #5

5

至德不可傳 靈龜不可侶 草木還根蒂 精靈歸妙理 我學杳冥道 誰能測窮已 須待九轉成 終會長沙市

The ultimate power cannot be transmitted, The numinous tortoise cannot be partnered. Plants and trees return to their roots and stems, So the spirit returns to wondrous patterns. I study the obscure Way, But who can penetrate it fully? Soon as the nine transformations are done, I’ll finally visit the Changsha market.

The first couplet of this poem again describes the transcendence of the mystical Way: its ultimate power cannot be transmitted, just as the numinous tortoise of Zhuangzi is matchless. The third couplet again states the impossibility of comprehending the Mystery; here the mystery and inaccessibility of the proper Way is indicated by the word ming 冥 “darkness.” Curiously, however, the final couplet seems to suggest that Jiang Yan can find the Way through alchemy. As in his imitation poems, the Daoist mysteries are more approachable for Jiang Yan than for Ruan Ji or Xi Kang. In spite of the ineffable and incomprehensible nature of such goals, a devoted practitioner of alchemy and self-cultivation can still reach them. In the final couplet, the “ nine transformations” are alchemical processes turning cinnabar into quicksilver, and vice versa. The Changsha market refers to a story about a man of the Eastern Han named Lord Completely Immortal (cheng xian gong 成仙公), originally Wu Ding 武丁, who learned the path to immortality from two white cranes, who reappeared to him in the guise of mortals in the Changsha market.61 We have seen how Jiang imitated Ruan Ji in two different series of poems. In one he imitated Ruan Ji’s reflective poems, writing of how he aspired to emu60 61

Chuci buzhu 2.59 and 1.46 respectively. See Taiping yulan 664.10a–b.

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late that free spirit. In the other he imitates the xuanyan side of Ruan Ji, writing more about the ineffable Way and the attempts of mortals to approach it. These are both aspects of Ruan Ji’s poetry, and Jiang’s success at writing independent poems in the same vein shows his real affinity for Ruan Ji. Though Jiang himself was always dependent on his career to maintain his livelihood, and could not put into practice the same indifference to worldly pleasures that Ruan frequently displayed, he appreciated Ruan’s independence. He strove also to reach that higher Mystery that he describes in his imitations of xuanyan poets in the “Diverse Forms.” In the ninth of the “Poems in Diverse Forms,” Jiang Yan imitates Ruan Ji in one of Jiang’s finest poems. The contrast between this poem and the set of fifteen imitations of Ruan Ji is an excellent guide to the methods of the “Diverse Forms.” Rather than merely suggesting Ruan’s style, or alluding to one of Ruan’s individual poems, Jiang writes a composite “Singing of My Cares” poem that refers to several of Ruan’s key themes. The poem aims to capture the essence of Ruan’s varied poetry in just ten lines:62 Diverse Forms #9 Infantry Commandant Ruan Ji: Singing My Cares 阮步兵籍：詠懷

5

青鳥海上遊 鸒斯蒿下飛 沉浮不相宜 羽翼各有歸 飄颻可終年 沆瀁安是非 朝雲乘變化 光耀世所希 精衛銜木石 62 63 64

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The Oriole roams on the oceans,63 While the Crow flies under the artemisia. Their diving and flying are not commensurate, Their wings each have a place to return to. One may live out life soaring in the air, But how would that differ from being tossed on the rolling waves?64 The clouds of dawn ride upon the processes of Change, And radiant glory is rare in this world.65 The Jingwei Bird carries wood and rocks in its mouth;

This poem is also translated and discussed in Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 238–39. Cf. Ruan Ji’s “Singing of My Cares” #22: “Though some say it cannot be understood, / The Oriole illuminates my heart” 雖云不可知，青鳥明我心. Li Shan cites Zhuangzi’s “Disquisition on Seeing Things as Equivalent”: “That is one kind of truth, this is another kind of truth” (Zhuangzi jishi 2.66). The point is that Zhuangzi’s relativistic philosophy collapses the distinctions between small and great, free and imprisoned, soaring gracefully through the heavens or rocking helplessly on ocean waves. The “clouds of dawn” come from Song Yu’s “Gaotang fu” 高唐賦 on the goddess of Gaotang, who compares herself to the dawn clouds (Wen xuan 19.875).

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誰能測幽微

235

Who can measure what is hidden and minute?

Nüwa 女娃, the daughter of Emperor Yan 炎帝, drowned in the Eastern Ocean and was transformed into the Jingwei 精衛 bird, which spent its time carrying rocks and wood from the Western Mountains to drop into the ocean in order to fill it up.66 The Jingwei is thus a fine example of the strangeness of the world and the constant processes of change. This poem is one of Jiang Yan’s most successful imitations. It matches many of Ruan Ji’s works in its evocative symbolism, and surpasses nearly all of them in elegance of structure. Yet it also has a fine balance of images and parallelism alternating with variation; a vivid introduction, reflective turn, and succinct conclusion, for a perfectly crafted tripartite structure. The imitation is also a demonstration of Ruan Ji’s poetics of obscurity. The imitation does not refer at all to Ruan Ji’s historical and political commentary. Instead, it seems to present his poetry within the tradition of xuanyan verse.67 The first six lines extrapolate some Zhuangzian themes: it is impossible to distinguish between the grand and the petty, the divine oriole and the humble crow. The elision of these distinctions does not prove the extent of our knowledge, however—only its limitations. The Jingwei bird, which itself represents the transformed corpse of Nüwa, is an example of the extraordinary and bizarre events of the world, which represent the hidden wonders beyond human understanding. Jiang gives us a new crystallization of the theme of obscurity that runs through all of Ruan Ji’s “Singing of My Cares” and the “Fu on Purifying My Thoughts.” Ruan Ji’s poetry frequently makes use of apophasis, suggesting that the author’s intent is obscure or difficult to describe. He uses the limitations of early pentasyllabic verse to his advantage, as his terse diction gives indirect suggestions of his meaning. This mode of composition is one easily adapted by later imitators. It is an independent symbolic language for verse that requires only slight adjustments to be suitable for all kinds of different personal circumstances. Thus “Singing of My Cares” becomes a poetic convention that can be expanded and developed by later poets. Its essential purpose is to explore the space between obscurity and expression, to expound a melancholy that is almost motiveless, but has just enough suggestion of motive not to be empty. Ruan Ji’s poems themselves construct an independent poetic world, and their imitations are rich and proper successors in the same tradition. The timeless generalizations and frequent ambiguity of his poems constitute a frame that

66 67

Shanhai jing 3.13a–b. Jiang’s imitation of Xi Kang, likewise, emphasizes the xuanyan dimension of his source.

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allows later imitations to be so successful; they allow Jiang Yan to write a poem that reads even more like Ruan Ji than many of Ruan Ji’s poems. Jiang Yan’s rich body of speculative poetry does not necessarily help to explain his temporary exile at the hands of Liu Jingsu, but does help us to appreciate its intellectual context. By imitating Ruan Ji, Jiang Yan was affirming their shared interest in a speculative exploration of the mysteries of the universe, a quest for the obscure principles underlying both Confucian and Daoist thought. The perspective of Ruan Ji placed Jiang’s overambitious patron in an unsympathetic light. It was particularly the role of imitation and the shared expression of poets in different times, connected not just by lyric form but equally by philosophical detachment, that added weight to Jiang’s poetic expression. Writing imitations of Ruan Ji was a political act precisely because it was a fulfillment of Jiang’s literary and intellectual ideals. The Legacy of Imitation Poetry In the only case where we know the precise motive for Jiang Yan’s imitation poems, that motive was political criticism; one must wonder if he had something similar in mind for the “Diverse Forms” as well. There is nothing in the content to prove it, but perhaps even the “Diverse Forms” played a role, in Jiang Yan’s mind, something like those imitations of Ruan Ji. They create a fictional space of poetry, loss, and beauty that implicitly creates a sort of indictment against the abuses and crimes of the political realm. They show a confidence in the elite traditions of poetry from which perspective material concerns appear trivial. There was something in imitation that could make it particularly relevant at some of the most trying times in Chinese history. Past the period of Jiang Yan and imitation poetry’s apex of popularity, there appeared another remarkable series of imitations of Ruan in the sixth century. Yu Xin was a high official of the Liang who went on a diplomatic mission to the Northern Dynasties; while he was in the northern capital of Chang’an, the Western Wei swept south and conquered the Liang. He faced the great tragedy of his epoch in his “Fu Lamenting the Southland” 哀江南賦 and other writings, including a series of twenty-seven poems imitating Ruan Ji. Their title is “Ni yonghuai” 擬詠懷 (Imitating “Singing of My Cares”), rendered “Songs of Sorrow” in the translation by James R. Hightower and William T. Graham.68 68

“Yu Hsin’s ‘Songs of Sorrow.’” In a note (6, n. 2) Hightower and Graham discuss the title and assert that the significance of ni here is “inspired by.” While they are correct to recognize the range of meaning implicit in ni, the interpretation “inspired by,” like their translation of the title, seems again intended to gloss over the intertextual dimension of the

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The omission of the word “imitating” suggests that they thought of ni as merely a technical detail, since the poems are actually very original and not derivative. The error in this view should by now be clear. The imitativeness of the poems—which is undeniable from a close reading, even apart from the title— is not a wart to be painted over, but an integral part of the sequence’s meaning and symbolic structure. In fact, in several of the poems Yu Xin’s identification with, and simultaneous self-differentiation from, Ruan Ji is responsible for much of the pathos. Ruan Ji faced a situation that corresponded to Yu Xin’s in some respects, but never suffered the same exile and separation, so recalling his example was necessarily bittersweet for Yu Xin. There is a complex debate about the dating of Yu Xin’s poems. Though it is clear that they were written after his arrival in the North, there is some question whether they were composed soon after, towards the end of his life, or somewhere in between. The issue is not particularly relevant to our discussion here, but it is striking how it seems to recapitulate a similar debate about the dating of Ruan Ji’s own poems. The reticent symbolism of both sets of poems seems designed perfectly to resist such literal interpretation, but scholars have risen to the challenge as best they can. The first two characters of the first poem in the series are in fact an alternate name for Ruan Ji: Imitating “Singing of My Cares” #1

步兵未飲酒 中散未彈琴

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索索無真氣 昏昏有俗心 涸鮒常思水 驚飛每失林 風雲能變色 松竹且悲吟 由來不得意 何必往長岑

69 70

A colonel of infantry [Ruan Ji] who never drank wine; An unattached courtier [Xi Kang] who never played the zither: I am anxious and unsure because I lack authentic spirit, Confused and confounded because of my vulgar mind. The drought-ridden carp always longs for water,69 Birds startled in flight often misplace their own groves. The wind and clouds may change their appearance, But pine and bamboo maintain their mournful chant. For long I have been dissatisfied, What need to go to Changcen?70

poems. This unnecessary defensiveness about “imitation” is an obstacle to our understanding of medieval Chinese culture. The thirsty carp appears in an anecdote in Zhuangzi. See Zhuangzi jishi 17.564. This couplet refers to Cui Yin 崔駰 (?–92 ce), who was assigned to be prefect of Changcen (modern Liaodong, Liaoning province), effectively exile, after criticizing the powerful general Dou Xian 竇憲 (?–92). He refused and went into retirement instead. See Hou Han

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The first couplet contrasts the poet with the two greatest writers among the Seven Worthies of the Bamboo Grove, Ruan Ji and his friend Xi Kang. Ruan Ji was famous for drinking to excess, and Xi Kang for his mastery of the zither, on which he wrote a famous fu.71 Graham and Hightower understand this couplet as signifying that “unlike them I am unable to follow my natural inclinations.” This interpretation seems slightly askew since Ruan’s drinking is presented in his biography not so much as a natural inclination, but as a particular response to political stress. Perhaps the comparison is intended more to suggest that, in spite of facing similar dangers to his life and happiness, Yu Xin’s lacks comparable outlets for emotional relief and private satisfaction. Graham and Hightower read both the figures in the third couplet as meaning something like a “fish out of water.” But the couplet is also a variant on that of the first of the “Nineteen Old Poems,” adapted by Lu Ji in his imitation as:72

王鮪懷河岫 晨風思北林

The paddlefish longs for its river cavern, The falcon misses its northern forests.

Ruan Ji deploys similar phrasings in the seventeenth of the “Singing of My Cares”:

10

孤鳥西北飛 離獸東南下 日暮思親友 晤言用自寫

The lonely bird flies northwest, The beast apart descends southeast. Night and day I long for kin and kind, For intimate words to express myself.

Yu Xin’s rhetorical differentiation of his own case from that of Ruan Ji is balanced by a reassertion of their similarity, as he varies the traditional images for loneliness in his own language. Yu Xin’s alteration of the lines is significant, particularly with the contribution of the Zhuangzi allusion, and to recognize the allusion does not impugn his literary gift. The ni in the title of these poems indicates a potent relation, one that shapes the content, mode of expression, and ultimate significance of

71 72

shu 42.1722. As Graham and Hightower point out, Yu Xin seems to be emphasizing the misery of his own situation by comparison with Cui Yin, who did not after all go to Changcen in the end. For Xi Kang’s poem, see Wen xuan 16.835–49, and also Robert Hans van Gulik, Hsi K’ang and His Poetical Essay on the Lute. Cf. discussion in chapter 3.

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the poems. Perhaps the most powerful expression of that relation is in the nineteenth poem: Imitating “Singing of My Cares” #19

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尋思萬戶侯 中夜忽然愁 琴聲遍屋裡 書卷滿床頭 雖言夢蝴蝶 定自非莊周 殘月如初月 新秋似舊秋 露泣連珠下 螢飄碎火流 樂天乃知命 何時能不憂

Thinking of the marquis of a myriad households,73 In the middle of the night I suddenly grow sad. The sound of the zither fills the room, Books and scrolls fill the bedside. Though I dreamed of a butterfly, I am certainly no Zhuang Zhou. The waning moon is like the new moon, The new autumn is like the old autumn. My dew of tears falls in a string of pearls, The fireflies flutter like scattered sparks. “Rejoice in Heaven and recognize your fate:” But when can we be free of worry? 74

Though not all of Yu Xin’s series are tied directly to Ruan Ji’s poems, this one immediately recalls the first of the “Singing of My Cares” poems, which begins:75

夜中不能寐 起坐彈鳴琴

In the middle of the night I cannot sleep, But sit up to pluck my singing zither.

In similar fashion, Yu Xin wakes in the middle of the night and plays the zither to console himself, but fails to do so and ends the poem in frustration. In light of this poetic resonance, Yu Xin’s poem takes on a special significance.76 He complains that the moon remains the same, that the autumn does not change his feelings, and criticizes the stoic advice of the Book of Changes: knowing one’s fate is no consolation when that fate is dark. Especially memorable is his 73

74 75 76

A general term for a powerful noble. The specific reference is not known, but Li Ling’s letter to Su Wu uses the phrase: “While the ministers who block merit and wound talent all become marquis of a myriad households” 而妨功害能之臣，盡為萬戶侯 (Wen xuan 34.1852). See the Book of Changes, “Appended Statements” (Zhouyi zhengyi 7.10a): “Rejoice in Heaven and recognize your fate, and you will not worry” 樂天知命，乃不憂. Lu Qinli 496. There is a detailed study of this theme in medieval poetry: Liao Meiyu, Zhonggu shiren yeweimian.

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challenge to the Zhuangzi parable. Zhuangzi dreamed he was a butterfly, and when he awoke did not know whether he was Zhuangzi who had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it was Zhuangzi. Yu Xin says that even if he dreamed he were a butterfly, he would still know that he was not Zhuangzi. The body of the poem repeats Yu Xin’s unhappiness without concession, and argues the consolations of philosophy are insubstantial. But perhaps there is another kind of consolation. The numerous echoes of Ruan Ji throughout the poem affirm that Yu Xin shares his sorrow with this figure of the past; the stylistic echoes indicate that even his expression of complaint is founded in that of his predecessor. This new autumn is like the old autumn described by Ruan Ji in his poems; presumably they share also the same worries. In fact Ruan Ji’s poem also concludes with the word you 憂 “worry”: “Thoughts of worry alone wound my heart” 憂思獨傷心. With this continuity of sorrow in mind, the last line has even greater poignancy, suggesting that Yu Xin’s state of worry may be the permanent condition of the Chinese writer. Yu Xin’s poem only borrows a few words and images from Ruan Ji; much of it is strikingly original. However, the brief allusions to Ruan Ji are cumulatively powerful. They mark the poem as an imitation and impersonation of Ruan Ji. On its own Yu Xin’s poem could seem to refer directly to his own thoughts and experiences, but allusive echoes place it in a larger tradition, without which its meaning is not fully explicable. Thus imitation acts as a trope that adds additional layers of meaning to the literal interpretation of the words. At the same time Yu Xin recognizes the pathos of imitation in the gap between himself and his predecessors: even if he dreamed that he were Zhuangzi, the poet would recognize the gap between them. If Yu Xin’s “Imitating ‘Singing of My Cares’” were already far from being a direct imitation of Ruan Ji’s work, later responses moved even further away. In spite of some later attempts in the same vein, imitation poetry (in the Six Dynasties sense) would never regain the same status in later Chinese literature. Instead, poetic imitation and response would undergo a metamorphosis in later dynasties. For instance, Ruan Ji had an important influence in the Tang, but it was more indirect than Yu Xin’s. Two major poetic series from the Tang, Chen Ziang’s 陳子昂 (661–702) “Moved by My Encounters” (“Gan yu” 感遇) and Li Bai’s 李白 (701–762?) “Classical Airs” (“Gu feng” 古風), are poetic series that show the inspiration of “Singing of My Cares.” They show that Ruan Ji had established an enduring genre. But these were not identified by their authors as imitations of Ruan Ji, and seem more like new works in the same genre than direct responses to Ruan Ji’s poems. For example, Ge Xiaoyin 葛曉音 convincingly uses the comparison of these three series to sum up the evolution of

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Chinese poetry between the Wei and Tang dynasties.77 Indeed, a full appreciation of how these two series reinvent Ruan Ji’s poems would itself constitute a major history of Early and High Tang poetry. Chen Ziang’s series is a major work of “archaicist,” or perhaps “restorationist” (fugu 復古) poetry, returning to the earliest traditions of pentasyllabic verse. Li Bai’s “Classical Airs,” are an endlessly rich corpus of lyrical flights that encompass both his own historical moment and a stance towards Confucian thought and literary tradition. In the context of this study, however, the more direct imitations of Ruan Ji are more relevant. The most important of these later works do not quite belong to the same category of ni as the Six Dynasties poems studied heretofore. The Chinese tradition possesses a subtle vocabulary for differentiating among types of imitation. One later mode of composition that derives from Six Dynasties ni is that of he 和, writing a poem in “harmony” with an earlier one. This term often means specifically to write a new poem with the same rhymes as the model poem. Thus in principle the content and style might be quite different from the model, but in practice there is usually some kind of close correspondence with the model. As with ni, the he method is typically not used for parody but instead as an homage to the model. It is like a musical counterpart to the earlier poem, and one can imagine, at least in the mind of the well-educated Chinese reader, that the original resounds the background as one enjoys the new words. The most popular target of these harmonizing poems was probably Tao Qian. Su Shi wrote poems in harmony with Tao’s entire corpus, and was followed by numerous others. A recent edition of Tao’s collected works includes as an appendix series of poems matching all of Tao’s poems by Su Shi and seven later writers, as well as one sequence of poems matching just Tao’s drinking poems.78 It is fitting that Su Shi, the poet of such Mozartian invention, should have adopted such a narrowly constrained form within which to display his dexterity. Ruan Ji also served as a popular model for this kind of rhyme-matching composition. Even in the 20th century, scholar, painter, poet, and polymath Jao Tsung-i 饒宗頤 (1917–) wrote his own poems matching the rhymes of all eighty-two of Ruan Ji’s pentasyllabic “Singing of My Cares” poems, and in a preface also traced the history of this practice back to the Ming dynasty.79 Thus the legacy of Ruan Ji’s poetry and its imitations extends to, and perhaps 77

78 79

Ge Xiaoyin, “Jian lun Chen Ziang ‘Gan yu’ he Li Bai ‘Gu feng’ dui Ruan Ji ‘Yong huai’ shi de jicheng he fazhan” 簡論陳子昂感遇和李白古風對阮籍詠懷詩的繼承和發展, in Han Tang wenxue de shanbian, 75–84. See Yuan Xingpei, Tao Yuanming ji jianzhu, 619–844. These are included in Jao, Xuantang shici ji, 83–102.

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attains new depths, in the twentieth century. To examine the full scope of poetry modeled on earlier works since the Ming dynasty would require another series of books, but two imitations of Ruan Ji will serve as a fitting conclusion, showing how Ruan’s model became especially resonant after the fall of the Ming dynasty in 1644. Wang Fuzhi, writing before and after the fall of the Ming, is one of the most important imitators of Ruan Ji. Wang was a loyal Ming official who retired to his birthplace of Hengyang 衡陽 (in modern Hunan province) after the Qing conquest. He wrote prolifically, especially commentaries to the Confucian classics, but also poetry and poetic criticism, and compiled three annotated poetry anthologies.80 Wang was a powerful thinker, whose philosophical commentaries set forth a new system that has been claimed fancifully as an antecedent to dialectical materialism. It is appropriate that someone who wrote so forcefully in the genre of interlinear commentary should also have found success writing poetic variations to older poems. Though Wang’s philosophical and literary thought have attracted much attention from modern scholars, his realization of those ideals in his poetry also deserves study. He wrote imitations of Ruan Ji several times, not following Ruan’s rhymes, but rather writing imitations in the same manner as Jiang Yan or Yu Xin, taking Ruan as a figure of personal inspiration. Wang Fuzhi had a special affinity with Ruan Ji, whom he understood as mourning the loss of his own country (the fall of the Wei), just as Wang himself had (the fall of the Ming). As we have seen above, however, Wang also recognized that Ruan Ji’s poems could not be read mechanically in this way, but addressed diverse subjects as well. In fact, Wang had an appreciation in his own poetics for the role of obscurity that could perhaps have been inspired by Ruan Ji’s verse. In the context of poetry’s relationship to music, as an aesthetic form removed from immediate experience, Wang writes that “poetry is a mediator between the hidden and the apparent” 詩者，幽明之際者也.81 This can serve as one of the best glosses on Ruan’s poetry. 80

81

In English there is a study of his thought: Alison Harley Black, Man and Nature in the Philosophical Thought of Wang Fu-chih; and a translation of his shihua comments on poetry: Wong Siu-kit, Notes on Poetry from the Ginger Studio. François Jullien’s Procès ou création: une introduction à la pensée chinoise: essai de problématique interculturelle is an insightful study of Wang’s philosophical thought. There is a vast body of scholarship on Wang Fuzhi in Chinese, but many of the key issues are discussed in the recent “critical biography,” Xiao Jiefu and Xu Sumin, Wang Fuzhi pingzhuan. In Shi guang zhuan 詩廣傳, Chuanshan quanshu 3: 510. See discussion in Xiao Chi, Shuqing chuantong yu Zhongguo sixiang, 177–88.

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If Wang had written a preface to his imitations, he would surely have admitted that he was imitating the style of his model. He makes a scrupulous attempt to use similar vocabulary and formulas to Ruan Ji’s poems, even if some of the individual place names and figures are original. He is faithful also to the vague sense of dissatisfaction that permeates Ruan’s poems, as in this imitation:82 Imitating Colonel of Infantry Ruan’s “Singing of My Cares” #11

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燕臺多高風 易水揚洪波 白日照綺疏 冠蓋相經過 踔厲古今間 感慨何其多 望諸無返駕 洹上計復訛 黃金臺己蕪 北望空山阿 宋子跡云遠 誰爲紹悲歌

The Swallow Terrace is rife with high gusts, And on the Yi river rise great waves. The bright sun shines on the window lattice, Caps and canopies pass by each other. Daring boldly between past and present, How plentiful has been the experience of sorrow! Gazing back I cannot return there, On the Huan river my estimate is wrong again. The Golden Terrace is already a waste of weeds, North I gaze at empty hillcrooks. The traces of Master Song now are far off, So who may pass on his songs of sorrow?83

Wang creates a sense of turmoil throughout the empire, combined with personal frustration. At some level, though, he wonders: is it possible to continue this form of writing at all? The penultimate line refers to the fu poet Song Yu, a predecessor whom Ruan Ji might as easily have referred to. By this time, Song Yu has sunk even farther into the past. Another poem adopts the persona of the gallant traveler from the “Old Poems,” as Ruan Ji frequently does:84 Imitating Colonel of Infantry Ruan’s “Singing of My Cares” #15

早歲好詞賦 文酒相追隨 82 83 84

From a young age I was fond of rhapsodies; Literature and wine followed one after the other.

“Ni Ruan bubing yonghuai” 擬阮步兵詠懷, in “Jiangzhai shiji” 薑齋詩集, Chuanshan quanshu 15: 338. Song Yu 宋玉, to whom the “Nine Disputations” and “Summons to the Soul” in the Chuci are attributed. Wang Fuzhi, “Jiangzhai shiji,” Chuanshan quanshu 15: 338–39.

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引譽動當時 將爲名在茲 撫劔遊廣都 悲歌歸山涯 玄冥共白日 何者不吾欺 驅馬上高岡 咫尺生崟欹 乃知楊公歎 非緣道多歧

My reputation came to stir my contemporaries, So that my fame arrived at this point. Wielding a sword I roam Guangdu,85 With sorrowful songs I return to mountain’s edge. The darkened void is beside the bright sun, What is there that does not deceive me? I drive my horse up the high hill, And every step is uneven and unsteady. Thus I understand that Lord Yang’s plaint Was not because the way is many-forked.

The conclusion refers to the famous anecdote about Warring States philosopher Yang Zhu: “Master Yang saw that the road forked and wept for it, because it could be either north or south” 楊子見逵路而哭之，爲其可以南可以 北, usually cited together with Mozi’s lament that the silk changes its color upon being dyed.86 Wang’s youthful ambitions and potential have all come to naught, just as predicted by these ancient philosophers. The resonance of the poem for educated readers certainly does not end here, because it evokes its sources in Ruan Ji’s poetry as well. The anecdote of Yang Zhu and Mozi also forms the introductory topic of a poem by Ruan Ji:87 Singing of My Cares #20

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楊朱泣歧路 墨子悲染絲 揖讓長離別 飄颻難與期 豈徒燕婉情 存亡誠有之 蕭索人所悲 禍釁不可辭 處女媚中山

85 86 87 88 89

Yang Zhu wept at divergent paths; Master Mo grieved at dyed silk. From [the age of ] selfless abdication long separated,88 We wander adrift with no end in sight. It is not just feelings of content and devotion,89 Through life and death it is ever present. The desolation of things is what makes us grieve, But the omen of disaster cannot be escaped. When the virginal maiden attracted the men of Zhongshan,

Near modern Chengdu, Sichuan. As in Huainan zi 17.14b. Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu 282; Holzman, Poetry and Politics, 122. Referring to how sage-emperors Yao and Shun gave up their rule willingly to a worthy successor. Usually referring to feelings of conjugal love, as in Mao shi 43/3.

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謙柔愈見欺 嗟嗟塗上士 何用自保持

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Though sincere and gentle she was further mistreated.90 Alas, alas! Those gentlemen on the road, How will they preserve themselves?

Ruan Ji cites the laments of Yang Zhu and Mo Di here as evidence of the perennial loss of virtue. The remainder of the poem attests to the lack of morality in the present day. Then he returns to the image of roads, with the virgin accosted by bandits on the road. In the final couplet the issue is no longer the divergence of roads but rather the very survival of the men traveling on them. Like Wang Fuzhi, Ruan Ji reduces the problem to its core. It is the road that is the issue—the experience of life itself, the Way of all things that we are seeking to understand. The conclusion of Wang’s poem: “Thus I understand that Lord Yang’s plaint / Was not because the way is many-forked” suggests that the road of experience itself is traumatic. In a world of corruption and persecution, when even those who recognize the Way are often unable to follow it, there is important consolation, and inspiration, in the recognition of at least one pathway that is shared: that of poetry itself, the intertextual brocade. This book has traced the pathways of literary allusion, as poets follow and revise the routes that their predecessors have laid before them. There is a consolation in the sense of following a traditional path, though there can also be a desolation in the recognition of one’s separation from that past. Through the many layers of allusion and variation, though, these poems rarely, if ever, devolve into academic exercises. Instead, they return to experience, mediated by a linguistic substructure that frequently intensifies the feeling rather than diluting it. When Wang Fuzhi concludes with a remark about Yang Zhu’s tears, we think of how that sentiment has been elaborated in Ruan Ji’s poetry, of all the lost travelers on dark roads in so many other poems. In contrast to all those earlier citations, Wang tells us that we are weeping not because the roads diverge, not because experience is divided and impressions bifurcated, but simply out of experience itself, thereby returning from a sequence of allusions, via his own special vantage point in the hills of Hunan, to his immediate sorrow. With such an unexpected turn the imitation becomes simply a poem again. 90

The traditional interpretation was that this couplet alludes to a story about a surprise attack by Zhao against Dai 代, near Zhongshan. But commentator Chen Bojun cites Yao Fan’s 姚範 suggestion that it is actually an allusion to Xunzi, with an error of 趙女 for 處 女. There is an inolved analogy to covering a virgin in beautiful jewels and treasures and sending her out to meet the bandits of Zhongshan (Xunzi jijie 6.200). No matter how courteously and docilely she behaves, she will still be robbed, and may even be treated worse on account of her demeanor. This novel understanding of the allusion immediately resolves the difficulties that Holzman identifies in traditional commentaries.

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Thus we see imitation poetry as one powerful form of expression within the Chinese poetic tradition, representative in method but singular in presentation. From Lu Ji and Jiang Yan up through more recent times, imitation has periodically been revived by poets as one way to find a place within the tradition while reflecting on it, and to write of oneself in words worth repeating by others. When Ruan Ji came to an impasse and could go no farther, he returned along his original route weeping. When there is no new path in sight, our only recourse is to return along old paths, but to retrace the old paths in a new way is precisely to make something new and one’s own out of something that is shared and unchanging. In a literary tradition whose central ambition was to mediate between the obscure and the apparent, and to suggest the profound depths beyond immediate experience, imitation poetry was a genre capable of a certain nobility. The formalist perfection of its allusive surfaces is not a diversion from practical concerns, but the symbolic token of these poets’ enduring confidence in the past. Whether it also betokens hope for the future is up to those of us who read these poems today.

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Appendix

Jiang Yan’s Poems in Diverse Forms1 1

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Old Song of Parting 古離別2

遠與君別者 乃至雁門關 黃雲蔽千里 游子何時還 送君如昨日 檐前露已團 不惜蕙草晚 所悲道里寒 君在天一涯 妾身長別离 愿一見顏色 不異瓊樹枝 兔絲及水萍 所寄終不移

Since we parted you are far away now, As far away as Goose Gate Pass.3 The yellow clouds cover a thousand miles; When will you return, O wanderer? It seems like yesterday that I sent you off, But now dew lies heavy before the eaves.4 I’m not sorry the patchouli plants are late, What I lament is the chill on the road. You are at one edge of the sky, Separated from this woman forever.5 I wish I could see your face and aspect once more, That so resemble one bough from a tree of jade. Hare floss and floating duckweed, What they depend upon will never be fickle.6

1

A complete translation of the series is presented here for convenience of the reader. There is one previous English translation of the series (Marney, Chiang Yen, 74–130). 2 Translated in chapter 3. 3 The strategic Yanmen 雁門 Pass is located in the northwest of Dai 代 county, Shanxi province. 4 The image of dew alludes to Mao shi 94, “There is creeping grass on the moor” 野有蔓草, about a meeting of a pair of lovers. 5 This couplet is based on “Old Poems” #1: “Since you have gone ten thousand leagues and more, / We are each at one side of heaven now” 相去萬餘里，各在天一涯. 6 In the imitation, “what they rely on” are the pine tree and water, respectively. The couplet is based on “Old Poems” #8, line 4: “As hare floss attaches to pine gauze” 兔絲附女羅. Duckweed usually symbolizes the homeless wanderer, floating freely in the water, but here the emphasis is on the duckweed’s constant reliance on the water itself. Tusi 兔絲 “hare floss” is the same as tusizi 兔絲子, Cuscuta chinensis or Cuscuta japonica, “dodder” or “love vine,” an herbal parasite. But dodder was often confused with a parasite of the pine tree, also known as nüluo 女羅 or songluo 松羅. There seems to have been a common belief that hare floss was related to hoelen, since both are parasites of the pine tree. Jiang Yan is borrowing the name from “Old Poems” #8.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004282452_010

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Commandant Li Ling: In the Army 李都尉陵：從軍7

樽酒送征人 踟蹰在親宴 日暮浮雲滋 握手淚如霰 悠悠清川水 嘉魴得所薦 而我在萬里 結髮不相見 袖中有短書 願寄雙飛燕 3

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Appendix

Favored Beauty Ban: Poem on a Fan 班婕妤：詠扇10

紈扇如團月 出自機中素 畫作秦王女 乘鸞向煙霧 彩色世所重 雖新不代故 竊愁涼風至 吹我玉階樹 君子恩未畢 零落在中路 4

9 10 11

This fine silk fan is like the round moon, Deriving from the white silk of the loom. A painting shows the Princess of Qin, Who rides a simurgh into smoky haze. Bright colors are most prized by the world, But new ones can never replace the old. I worry that the cool breeze comes, And blows on us by the trees on the jade steps. While my lord’s favor has not been used up, I wither and perish midway through the journey.

Cao Pi, Emperor Wen of the Wei: Revels and Feasting 魏文帝曹 丕：遊宴11

置酒坐飛閣 7 8

With a goblet of wine I send you off, soldier, While we dally at a feast of intimates. As day turns to dusk the wavering clouds spread, Clasping hands, our tears fall like sleet. The clear river waters flow on without end, Fine bream find a place to abide there.8 But we are ten thousand leagues apart, Since we bound our hair not ever meeting.9 In my sleeve is a brief letter that I would dispatch with a pair of flying swallows.

We toast each other, seated in soaring pavilions,

Translated and discussed in chapter 3. Li Shan explains that this couplet is contrasting the fish, which stay in their river home, with men who are forced to travel great distances, and also cites the Shijing: “The Yellow River flows on without end” 河水悠悠 (but this line does not occur in the received Mao shi). Men bound their hair upon reaching adulthood. Translated and discussed in chapter 3. Translated and discussed in chapter 4.

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逍遙臨華池 神飇自遠至 左右芙蓉披 綠竹夾清水 秋蘭被幽涯 月出照園中 冠珮相追隨 客從南楚來 為我吹參差 淵魚猶伏浦 聽者未云疲 高文一何綺 小儒安足為 肅肅廣殿陰 雀聲愁北林 眾賓還城邑 何以慰吾心 5

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Or roam at leisure round Floriate Pond. A divine breeze comes upon us from afar,12 As all around us the lotus petals unfold. Green bamboo line the clear streams, Thoroughwort of autumn shade secluded banks. The moon rises to illuminate the garden, Cap and pendants trail one after another.13 A guest came from southern Chu, And played the panpipes for us. Fish from the depths were hiding in the shallows, And the listeners were never tired. How gorgeous were those lofty writings! Could petty scholars suffice to make them? What a chill in the shade of the vast hall now, As sparrows call sadly in northern forests.14 When the assembled guests return to city and town, How will I be able to assuage my heart?

Cao Zhi, Prince of Chensi: Offered to Friends 陳思王曹植： 贈友15

君王禮英賢 不恡千金璧 雙闕指馳道 朱宮羅第宅 從容冰井臺 12 13

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Our king treats his fine ministers with courtesy, Not chary of jade discs worth a thousand in gold. Paired watchtowers signal the imperial boulevard, Vermilion palaces are arrayed by superior mansions. As we dally by the Terrace of the Frozen Well,16

The “divine breeze” appears also in Cao Zhi’s “Lord’s Feast” poem (Wen xuan 20.942–43). “Cap and pendants” was the costume of officials, so this line merely indicates that there were many officials present. This line closely resembles a couplet from Cao Zhi’s “Lord’s Feast”: “Roaming in the West Garden on clear nights, / The flying canopies trail one after another” 清夜遊西園，飛蓋相追隨. The association of sadness and “northern forests” was made as early as Ruan Ji’s 阮籍 “Singing of My Cares” #1 (Wen xuan 23.1067): “Lone geese shriek in the outer wilds, / Soaring birds call in northern forests. / Dithering and dallying what do I see? / Only sad thoughts wound my heart” 孤鴻號外野，翔鳥鳴北林。徘徊將何見，憂思獨傷 心. Translated in chapter 4. The Terrace of the Frozen Well was built by Cao Cao in 213, north of the Bronze Sparrow Terrace. See Lu Hui, Yezhong ji, 3a.

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清池映華薄 涼風盪芳氣 碧樹先秋落 朝與佳人期 日夕望青閣 褰裳摘明珠 徙倚拾蕙若 眷我二三子 辭義麗金雘 延陵輕寶劍 季布重然諾 處富不忘貧 有道在葵藿 6

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Scholar of Letters Liu Zhen: Meeting with Favor 劉文學楨： 感遇20

蒼蒼中山桂 團圓霜露色 霜露一何緊 桂枝生自直 橘柚在南國 因君為羽翼 17

18 19

20 21

The clear pond reflects the clustered flowers. A cool breeze stirs the fragrant air, Emerald trees are first to shed their leaves in autumn. In the morning I meet with splendid gentlemen, In the evening gaze toward green pavilions. I lift my robes to pick bright pearls, Pause to pluck the patchouli and pollia. How I adore my several companions, Their phrases’ purport fair as gold and chalcedony. Yanling discarded his precious sword,17 While Ji Bu treasured an affirmation of promise.18 While situated in wealth, they did not forget the poor— For the proper way is with mallow and beanleaf.19

Luscious green are the cinnamon trees on the hill, The color persisting under globes of frosty dew. The frosty dew clings so very closely, But cinnamon branches grow straight of their own accord. The tangerine and pomelo in the southern lands Rely on their lord like a pair of wings.21

Ji Zha 季札 of Wu吳 was a nobleman during the Spring and Autumn period who held the fiefdom of Yanling延陵. Jizha left a precious sword on his friend Xu Jun’s徐君 grave because he knew that Xu had desired it while alive. See Liu Xiang, Xin xu, 7.4a-4b. Ji Bu 季布 of Chu 楚 was proverbial for his trustworthiness. See Shi ji 100.2731. Li Shan cites Lu Ji’s “Don’t rely on your carnivorous ways, / To mock the mallow and beanleaf” 無以肉食資，取笑葵與藿 (Wen xuan 28.1302). Lu Ji’s couplet employs the following allusion: Duke Xian 獻of Jin 晉 once rejected the petition of a man named Zu Chao 祖朝 to offer advice for the state with the words: “Those who eat meat are already concerned with that, what more can the beanleaf eaters contribute?” 肉食者己慮之 矣，藿食者尚何與焉 (Liu Xiang, Shuo yuan jizheng, 11.693). Having no more to eat than beanleaf was a signifier of poverty. Commentator Lu Shanjing 陸善經 also says that “mallow and beanleaf represent insignificance and poverty” 葵藿喻微賤也 (Wenxuan jizhu 1: 680). Translated in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 199–200. Li Shan explains: “Though tangerine and pomelo are precious, they rely on their lord’s assistance to become noble” 橘柚雖珍，須君羽翼乃貴也. Line 6 is identical to a line in an “Old Poem” 古詩, though not one of the “Nineteen Old Poems.” Li Shan cites one

Jiang Yan’s Poems In Diverse Forms

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謬蒙聖主私 託身文墨職 丹采既已過 敢不自彫飾 華月照方池 列坐金殿側 微臣固受賜 鴻恩良未測 7

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Undeservedly accepting the preference of a sagely master, I devoted myself to the profession of writing. Since I have already come upon crimson colors, How could I not sculpt and adorn myself?22 Flowery moonlight shines on the square pond, We are seated in order beside the golden palace. Your insignificant servant has indeed received much, Majestic favor that truly cannot be fathomed.

Palace Attendant Wang Can: Harboring Gratitude 王侍中粲：懷 德23

伊昔值世亂 秣馬辭帝京 既傷蔓草別 方知杕杜情 崤函復丘墟 冀闕緬縱橫

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Those days long ago I met with the turmoil of the age: With fodder for my horse, I depart the imperial demesne. I suffered a parting comparable to “Creeping Grass,”24 Only then knew I the sorrow of “Tall Pear-tree.”25 The passes of Xiao and Han are once again desolate hills,26 And the Ji palaces far off are in turmoil.27

couplet and the entire poem is preserved in the Gushi leiyuan 古詩類苑 and Shi ji 詩紀 (see Lu Qinli 335). This couplet is based on the same “Old Poem” quoted in line 6: “Tangerine and pomelo dangle splendid fruits, / There on the side of the deep hills. / I heard the lord appreciates my sweetness, / And so I further adorn myself” 橘柚垂華實，乃在深山側。聞君好 我甘，竊獨自彫飾 (Yiwen leiju has 嘉 for 華). According to Lü Yanji the “crimson colors” are the favors and rewards Liu Zhen received from Cao Pi. Translated in chapter 4. Mao shi 94, “There is creeping grass on the moor” 野有蔓草, on the illicit meeting of lovers. Li Shan quotes the Mao preface, which associates the poem specifically with a time of political disturbance when lovers are not joined according to proper ritual customs, but must meet in secret or haphazardly (Mao shi zhengyi 4D.11a). “Diverse Forms” #1 also alludes to this poem. An allusion to Mao shi 119, “Pear Tree” 杕杜, about the loneliness of someone divided from his family, as in ll. 6–7: “Alas for the one who travels on, / Why doesn’t somebody help him?” 嗟行之人，胡不比焉. Li Shan identifies Xiao 崤 as Xiaogu 崤谷 Pass, also known as Sanguan 散關, located in modern Shaanxi, Baoji 寶鷄 County, and Han函 as Hangu 函谷 Pass, south of modern Lingbao靈寶 County, Henan. It is also possible, however, that Xiao refers to Xiao Mountain or the Two Xiao, as in Ban Gu’s “Western Capital Rhapsody.” See Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1: 98. The Ji Palace was built by Duke Xiao 孝 of Qin (381–338 bce) at Xianyang. See Shi ji 5.203.

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倚棹泛涇渭 日暮山河清 鸛鷁在幽草 客子淚已零 去鄉三十載 幸遭天下平 賢主降嘉賞 金貂服玄纓 侍宴出河曲 飛蓋遊鄴城 朝露竟幾何 忽如水上萍 君子篤惠義 柯葉終不傾 福履既所綏 千載垂令名 8

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Courtier Xi Kang: Stating Ambition 嵇中散康：言志32

曰余不師訓 潛志去世塵 遠想出宏域 高步超常倫 靈鳳振羽儀 28 29 30

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Leaning on the oar I ride the Jing and Wei,28 At sunset the mountains and rivers are chilly. Storks and herons stand amid the dark plants, This traveler’s tears already streaming down. Having left home for thirty years, I was fortune enough to find peace under heaven. My sagely host bestowed a fine reward, And I wore a cap of gold and marten with black tassels.29 I accompanied feasts by the Yellow River’s bends, Under a flying canopy visited the city of Ye. “How long can the morning dew last? It is fleeting as duckweed on the water.”30 But my lord is constant in favor and duty, His branches and leaves will never fall. May happiness and wealth attach to you, Your fair name passed on a thousand years.31

No, I will not be tutored or instructed!— But, focusing my will, this worldly dust depart. Thoughts far-ranging, I leave a vast realm, With lofty stride I surpass my common coevals.33 The holy phoenix stirs its wings,

The Jing and Wei are two rivers, one of which is clear and the other muddy (as in Mao shi 35), which meet south of Gaoling 高陵 in Shaanxi. The proper regalia for Wang’s position as palace attendant. The image of duckweed is also used in Jiang Yan’s “Old Poem” imitation, though with different implications. Li Shan also cites Li Ling’s words to Su Wu: “Man’s life is as the morning dew” 人生如朝露 (Shi ji 54.2464). This couplet is not a quotation, so far as we know, but it resembles the “Old Poems” or the Li Ling poems so closely that it feels out of place in this Wang Can imitation. I have put it in quotation marks to indicate its incongruity here. This couplet adapts Wang Can’s “Lord’s Feast” (Wen xuan 20.944): “The ancients had a saying which has persisted, / ‘May good fortune comfort our lord’” 故人有遺言，君子 福所綏, which in turn derives from Mao shi 4/1: “Oh, happy is our lord, / May fortune and wealth comfort him!” 樂只君子，福履綏之. Translated in Williams, “The Metaphysical Lyric of the Six Dynasties,” 85–87. “Lofty stride” implies reclusion.

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戢景西海濱 朝食琅玕寶 夕飲玉池津 處順故無累 養德乃入神 曠哉宇宙惠 雲羅更四陳 哲人貴識義 大雅明庇身 莊生悟無為 老氏守其真 天下皆得一 名實久相賓 咸池饗爰居 鍾鼓或愁辛 柳惠善直道

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And conceals its shadow on the shore of the Western Sea. In the morning it feeds on balas rubies, In the evening drinks at the ford of the Jade Pond.34 Because I follow the natural tendency, I am unencumbered; I cultivate my virtue to participate in the divine.35 How vast the favor of time and space, As the clouds that are arrayed in all directions. The wise man prizes understanding the meaning, The “Greater Elegantiae” clarify how to protect oneself.36 Master Zhuang became aware of non-action, And Sir Lao guarded his purity. All under heaven attain oneness,37 Name and reality are forever interdependent.38 Treating the frigate bird to “Xianchi” tunes, The drum and bell just make it sadder.39 Liu Hui excelled at the straight way,

For langgan as “balas ruby,” see Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1: 324. Cf. Ruan Ji, “Singing of My Cares” #43: “In the morning I consume balas rubies, / In the evening I rest by Mount Cinnabar” 朝餐琅玕食，夕宿丹山際. The term “participate in the divine” 入神 occurs in the “Xi ci” commentary to the Yijing. See Zhou yi zhengyi 8.10a. See Mao shi 260/4 in the “Da ya” 大雅 section: “He is perspicacious and wise, / In preserving himself” 既明且哲、以保其身. The original poem is describing the virtues of Zhong Shanfu仲山甫in his service to the Zhou dynasty, so the allusion is something of a creative misreading to accord with Lao-Zhuang thought. Laozi 39: “As for attaining wholeness in ancient times: Heaven attained wholeness through purity; Earth attained wholeness through peace …” 昔之得一者，天得一以清，地 得一以寧. See Zhuangzi jishi 1.24: “names are the guests [dependents] of substances” 名者，實之 賓也. Though this seems to be a likely textual inspiration for Jiang Yan’s line, the actual sense of the line fits more closely with Guanzi: “name and substance create one another, and mutually reflect the nature of things” 名實相生，反相為情 (Guanzi 18.3b; W. Allyn Rickett, tr., Guanzi, vol. two, 236–37). Zhuangzi jishi 18.621: “Once an ocean bird stopped in the suburbs of Lu. The Marquis of Lu welcomed the bird and offered it a libation in the temple. He had the ‘jiu shao’ 九韶 music performed, and served a royal feast for food. But the bird was dazzled and disturbed, not daring to eat a scrap, nor to drink a cup, and it died after three days. This was to treat a bird as you would treat yourself, not to treat a bird as a bird would treat itself.” The translation of yuanju 爰居 as “frigate bird” follows Schafer, The Vermilion Bird, 38.

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孫登庶知人 寫懷良未遠 感贈以書紳 9

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Infantry Commandant Ruan Ji: Singing of My Cares 阮步兵籍： 詠懷42

青鳥海上遊 鸒斯蒿下飛 沉浮不相宜 羽翼各有歸 飄颻可終年 沆瀁安是非 40

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And Sun Deng seems to understand men.40 These cares I have expressed are not unlike theirs; Grateful for their gift, I inscribe it on my sash.41

The Oriole roams on the oceans,43 While the Crow flies under the artemisia. Their diving and flying are not commensurate, Their wings each have a place to return to. One may live out life soaring in the air, But how would that differ from being tossed on the rolling waves?44

See Xi Kang’s “Youfen shi”: “I am ashamed before the past example of Liu Hui, / And the present one of Sun Deng” 昔慙柳惠，今愧孫登. Liu Hui is actually Liuxia Hui 栁下 惠, originally named Zhan Qin 展禽, zi Ji 季. While Xi Kang only names the personage, Jiang Yan here alludes to the familiar story about Liuxia Hui (Analects 18/2): “While Liuxia Hui served as a judge, he was thrice demoted. Somebody said: ‘Couldn’t you have gone to another state?’ Liuxia said: ‘If I serve in a just manner, where could I go and not be thrice demoted? If I serve in an unjust manner, what need to leave the land of my parents?’” Li Shan (Wen xuan 23.1083) quotes the pertinent information about Sun Deng 孫登 after the line in the “You fen shi,” from the Wei shi chunqiu魏氏春秋 (recorded in Sanguo zhi 21.606): “Once Kang was gathering herbs north of Zhongshan, when he met the recluse Sun Deng. Kang wanted to speak with him, but Deng was silent and did not reply. The next year, when he was about to leave, Kang said, ‘Will you still be silent to me, sir?’ And Deng said, ‘You have much talent but little wisdom, so it will be difficult for you to survive in this age.” Li Shan cites Analects 15/6. Confucius’s disciple Zi Zhang asks about behavior (xing 行), and the Master tells him that one must always be honest in speech and loyal in action, whether at home or in the lands of the barbarians. One must constantly be aware of these moral principles. This passage concludes: “Zi Zhang wrote it down on his sash” 子張書諸 紳. Translated in chapter 7. Cf. Ruan Ji’s “Singing of My Cares” #22: “Though some say it cannot be understood, / The Oriole illuminates my heart” 雖云不可知，青鳥明我心. Li Shan cites Zhuangzi’s “Disquisition on Seeing Things as Equivalent”: “That is one kind of truth, this is another kind of truth” (Zhuangzi jishi 2.66). The point is that Zhuangzi’s relativistic philosophy collapses the distinctions between small and great, free and imprisoned, soaring gracefully through the heavens or rocking helplessly on ocean waves. Cf. Ruan Ji’s lines in the “Singing of My Cares” #36: “I could live out my whole life freely

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朝雲乘變化 光耀世所希 精衛銜木石 誰能測幽微 10

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信我皎日期

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The autumn moon shines on the window shades,47 A pendulous gleam comes upon the vermilion steps. The fair one strokes her sounding zither, All the clear night guarding the empty curtain. Footsteps are scarce on thoroughwort paths, Over the jade terrace grow silky webs. Red colors appear on the trees of the courtyard, The palace grasses bear an emerald luster. Standing in wait she prepares her twills and damasks, To give the one she longs for, ten thousand leagues away. “I wish you would grant me a favor generous as drenching dew: Trust in my pledge by the shining sun.”48

Imperial Gatekeeper Pan Yue: Relating Grief 潘黃門岳：述哀49

青春速天機 素秋馳白日 美人歸重泉

45

The clouds of dawn ride upon the processes of Change, And radiant glory is rare in this world.45 The Jingwei Bird carries wood and rocks in its mouth; Who can measure what is hidden and minute?

Minister of Works Zhang Hua: Sorrow of Separation 張司空華： 離情46

秋月照簾櫳 懸光入丹墀 佳人撫鳴琴 清夜守空帷 蘭逕少行迹 玉臺生網絲 庭樹發紅彩 閨草含碧滋 延佇整綾綺 萬里贈所思 願垂湛露惠

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Green spring hastens Heaven’s mechanism, Pale autumn hurries the white sun. My fair one has returned to the layered springs,

roaming” 逍遙可終生, and #37 “When [human passions] are rocked and rolled like waves, how can they be borne?” 蕩漾焉可能 (or “… how can they be pushed back?” 蕩 漾焉能排 in Ruan Ji ji jiaozhu 318). The “clouds of dawn” come from Song Yu’s “Gaotang fu” 高唐賦 on the goddess of Gaotang, who compares herself to the dawn clouds. See Wen xuan 19.875. Translated in chapter 1. I follow the Wuchen variant 櫳 for籠. The final couplet employs two allusions to the Shijing: “You say I am not faithful, / but I am as faithful as the bright sun” 謂予不信、有如皦日 (Mao shi 73/3), and “Drenched deep in dew, / If not the sun what will dry it?” 湛湛露斯、匪陽不晞 (Mao shi 174/1). Translated in chapter 5.

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凄愴無終畢 殯宮已肅清 松柏轉蕭瑟 俯仰未能弭 尋念非但一 撫衿悼寂寞 恍然若有失 明月入綺窗 髣髴想蕙質 銷憂非萱草 永怀寄夢寐 夢寐復冥冥 何由覿爾形 我慚北海術 爾無帝女靈 駕言出遠山 徘徊泣松銘 雨絕無還雲 華落豈留英 日月方代序 寢興何時平

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And my misery cannot end.50 The funereal hall is already still and quiet, The pines and cypresses turn desolate. Even for a moment I cannot forget you, I think of you incessantly, never just once. I beat my breast and mourn in loneliness, And feel confused as if something is missing. The bright moon penetrates the embroidered curtains, And I seem to recall your face, the essence of melilotus. No daylilies can relieve my sorrow,51 Endless longings lodge in my dreams. In my dreams I become oblivious again, And have no way to view your form. I am ashamed to lack the arts of the Northern Sea,52 You lack the divinity of the Heavenly Princess.53 I ride out to the distant mountains, But linger and weep over that epitaph among the pines. The rain is gone and no clouds return, When flowers fall how to stay their blossoms?54 The sun and moon exchange places in sequence, But sleeping and waking when will I find peace?

Imitating Pan Yue’s “Lamenting the Deceased” #1: “My lady returned to the deep springs, / Forever secluded away from me in the layered earth” 之子歸窮泉，重壤永幽隔. Xuan cao is hemerocallis fulva or daylily. It is known as the herb of forgetting, used to extinguish sorrows. Li Shan quotes from the Lie yi zhuan, a lost work attributed to Cao Pi, a tale of a Daoist mystic from the Northern Sea who could help people contact the dead. See Sou shen ji 2.5a. This refers to the goddess of Wu 巫 mountain, also known as Yao Ji 瑤姬. Li Shan quotes from a poem in Song Yu’s 宋玉 collected works (lost in the Song) which resembles the “Gaotang Fu” but is somewhat different. Liang Zhangju 梁章鉅 comments that Li Shan must quote from Song Yu’s collected works here because this version includes the phrase di nü 帝女. See Wen xuan pangzheng 26.19a. Both images show the irreversible nature of time. Li Shan traces the phrase yu jue 雨絕 to its use in the “Fu on the Parrot” of Mi Heng: “Why must we be parted today like the rain?” 何今日之雨絕 (Wen xuan 13.614). According to the Wenxuan kaoyi 文選考異 the graph should be 雨 (Wen xuan 13.615–16). In Jiang’s poem, of course, only 雨 is feasible.

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Lu Ji of Pingyuan: Traveling on Official Duty 陸平原機：羈宦55

儲后降嘉命 恩紀被微身 明發眷桑梓 詠嘆懷密親 流念辭南澨 銜怨別西津 馳馬遵淮泗 旦夕見梁陳 服義追上列 矯迹廁宮臣 朱黻咸髦士 長纓皆俊人 契闊承華內 綢繆踰歲年 日幕聊揔馬 逍遙觀洛川 徂沒多拱木 宿草凌寒煙 遊子易感愾 躑躅還自憐 願言寄三鳥 離思非突然

55 56

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The Crown Prince has sent down the fair command, His favor shelters my insignificant self. At dawn’s light I miss the “mulberry and catalpa” of home,56 And with a long sigh think of all my friends and kin. Awash in memories I left the southern shore; Swallowing resentment I departed the western ford. Spurring on my horse I followed the Huai and Si, Between morn and evening I saw Liang and Chen. Following my duty I chase the upper ranks, Rectify my tracks to attend the palace ministers. Those who wear vermilion greaves are all elites; All who trail the long tassel are heroes. I labored long in the staff of Chenghua, the Crown Prince, Felt a lingering bond through the passing years. As the sun goes down I tether my horses a while, Roaming free I face the Luo River. Where the dead have gone, trees an armspan round have grown, And perennial grasses pierce the chilly mist. A traveler naturally comes to feel sorrow, And as he lingers there pities himself all the more. I would like to send a message with the Three Birds,57 So these thoughts in separation will not be in vain.

Translated in chapter 6. The trope of “mulberry and catalpa” as metonymy for one’s homeland derives from Mao shi 197/3: “The mulberry and the catalpa, / One must respect and revere. / No one to revere but father, / No one to depend on but mother” 維桑與梓、必恭敬止。靡瞻匪父、 靡依匪母. But as Li Shan notes, this line in particular imitates Lu Ji’s pair of poems “Presented to Secretarial Court Gentleman Gu Yanxian” 贈尚書郎顧彥先 (text in Wen xuan 24.1144–46). The final couplet of the second poem is “Looking back with longing to the mulberry and catalpa, / Nothing to do but become a fish!” 眷言懷桑梓，無乃將為魚. Alludes to Liu Xiang’s “Nine Lamentations” (Chuci buzhu 16.300): “Three birds come flying from the south, / Seeing their intent I want to go north too. / I would like to send a message with those three birds, / But they flap away so fast I cannot do it” 三鳥飛以自南 兮，覽其志而慾北。愿寄言於三鳥兮，去飄疾而不可得. Cf. also Shanhai jing 16.2b–3a.

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Zuo Si, Record Keeper: Historical Poem 左記室思：詠史 58

韓公淪賣藥 梅生隱市門 百年信荏苒 何用苦心魂 當學衛霍將 建功在河源 珪組賢君眄 青紫明主恩 終軍才始達 賈誼位方尊 金張服貂冕 許史乘華軒 王侯貴片議 公卿重一言 太平多歡娛 飛蓋東都門 顧念張仲蔚 蓬蒿滿中園

58 59 60 61

62

Duke Han was reduced to selling medicine, And Master Mei concealed himself by the market gate. A hundred years are sure to pass by, Why worry heart and soul about it? Better to study Generals Wei and Huo, And establish merit at the source of the Yellow River. They earned tessera and ribbons, attention from their worthy lord, The blue and the purple, favor from their wise sovereign.59 Zhong Jun had barely begun to realize his talent,60 And Jia Yi had only just achieved high rank. Jin and Zhang alike wore the marten crown, While Xu and Shi rode in decorated carriages. Princes and marquis have treasured a single opinion, Lords and nobles esteemed a sole remark.61 In an age of peace there is much rejoicing, Flying canopies pass east through the capital gates. When I think back upon Zhang Zhongwei, His courtyard was overgrown with fleabane and wormwood.62

Translated and discussed in chapter 2. Blue and purple were colors of the insignia awarded to the highest officials, since the Han. Zhong Jun 終軍 (?–112 bce) was a young prodigy, who in his twenties was sent as an emissary to Nam-Viet南越 and killed by the local ruler, Lü Jia呂嘉. The Wuchen commentary identifies an illusion that Li Shan does not, though it is not clear whether the allusion is actually present. Lü Yanji claims that the “single opinion” is Lou Jing’s 婁敬 advice to locate the Han capital at Chang’an, not Luoyang, for which he was richly rewarded by Liu Bang, and given the title Lord of Fengchun 奉春君; and the “solitary statement” belongs to Tian Qianqiu 田千秋, who advised Emperor Wu of the Han that the crown prince had been unfairly punished. After Emperor Wu accepted this advice, Tian continued to rise in the bureaucracy, and ultimately was enfeoffed as Marquis of Fumin 富民. According to the Sanfu juelu zhu 三輔決錄注 by Zhi Yu 摯虞 (quoted by Li Shan), Zhang Zhongwei was a recluse who lived in a desolate spot amid the “fleabane and wormwood.” See also Gaoshi zhuan 16a–b.

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Imperial Gatekeeper Zhang Xie: Suffering the Rain 張黃門協： 苦雨63

丹霞蔽陽景 綠泉涌陰渚 水鸛巢層甍 山雲潤柱礎 有弇興春節 愁霖貫秋序 燮燮涼葉奪 戾戾颸風舉 高談玩四時 索居慕儔侶 青苕日夜黃 芳蕤成宿楚 歲暮百慮交 無以慰延佇 15

65 66 67

68

Cinnabar cloudwisps occlude the sun’s light,64 Green springs gurgle past damp shores. Storks nest on the high ridgepole, Mountain clouds moisten the plinth.65 Densely clustered they rise in the springtime,66 Sorrow-like rain continues through autumn. Gradually the chilled leaves fall, Rustling and rasping the tempest rises. With lofty conversation I make light of the seasons, But living apart I long for my friends of old. Green twigs night and day turn to yellow, Blooming flowers become long-lived shrubs. At year’s end a hundred cares confront me: Without anything to comfort me I stand alone.

Defender-in-Chief Liu Kun: Lamenting Insurrection 劉太尉琨： 傷亂67

皇晉遘陽九 63 64

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The august Jin met an unbroken Nine,68

Translated in chapter 6. Li Shan’s note to Zhang Xie’s “Miscellaneous Poem” #3 (Wen xuan 29.1379) quotes the He tu 河圖, which explains that “On Mount Kunlun there are five colors of water. The vapor from the crimson water rises to form clouds, which glow in the rain.” Cf. Huainanzi 17.12b: “Clouds rise from the hills, the stone plinth is moist”山 雲蒸，柱 礎潤. Zhang Xie’s “Za shi” #9 includes the line: “Densely clustered they rise on the southern slope” 有渰興南岑. The Yiwen leiju variant uses 弇 instead of 渰. Translated in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 399. For the background to this poem and the following one, see Liu Wenzhong, “Liu Kun”; idem, Zuo Si Liu Kun; and Knechtges, “Liu Kun, Lu Chen, and Their Writings in the Transition to the Eastern Jin.” The imitations are based on three poems: Liu Kun’s “Poem Replying to Lu Chen, with Letter” 答盧諶詩并 (Wen xuan 25.1168–73); “Poem for Lu Chen” 贈盧諶 (Wen xuan 25.1175–77); and Lu Chen’s “Poem for Liu Kun, with Letter” 贈劉琨並書 (Wen xuan 25.1177–84). Liu’s “Poem for Liu Chen” is incorrectly identified as Liu’s second poem to Lu Chen (重贈盧諶) in the Wen xuan; for the correct title see Yiwen leiju 31.551 and Knechtges, “Liu Kun, Lu Chen, and Their Writings,” 35. See Liu Kun, “Poem Replying to Lu Chen”: “When the bad situation first formed, the unbroken line was in the sixth place “ 厄運初購，陽爻在六. The sixth, and highest,

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天下橫氛霧 秦趙值薄蝕 幽並逢虎據 伊余荷寵靈 感激殉馳鶩 雖無六奇術 冀与張韓遇 甯戚扣角歌 桓公遭乃舉 荀息冒險難 實以忠貞故 空令日月逝 愧無古人度 飲馬出城濠

69

70 71

72

73

74

All under heaven is overspread with fog and vapor. Qin and Zhao suffered total eclipse, While Youzhou and Bingzhou were occupied by tigers.69 But I, who receive favor and blessing, Am stirred by gratitude, and charge forth to give my life. Though I do not possess the Six Marvelous Strategies,70 I hope to share the fate of Zhang Liang and Han Xin.71 Ning Qi sang while beating a horn, And Duke Huan employed him on first meeting.72 Xun Xi braved danger and difficulty, Surely because of his loyalty and fidelity.73 In vain I let the days and months go by, Ashamed I lack the capacity of the ancients. I let my horse drink as I pass the castle moat,74

line of the Qian hexagram corresponds to drawing a nine: “Nine at the top means: / The arrogant dragon will have to repent” 上九：亢龍有悔 (Zhouyi zhengyi 1.5b). But Jiang Yan actually makes a stronger statement here, referring to the cycle of disasters devised by Liu Xin 劉歆 (d. 23 ce). Each epoch of 4,617 years contained a fixed number of yin and yang years, the yin corresponding to flood disaster and the yang to drought disaster. See Han shu 21A.984. The areas of Qin (modern Shaanxi) and Zhao (portions of Hebei, Shanxi, Shaanxi, and Henan) were ruled by northern peoples as the Latter Qin and Latter Zhao states. While Liu Kun had nominally ruled Bingzhou and Youzhou for a time, he was gradually forced out by the Xiongnu. Youzhou was held by Duan Pidi. I.e. the six strategies Chen Ping 陳平 (d. 178 bce) used to help Liu Bang defeat Xiang Yu and establish the Han dynasty. Zhang Liang 張良 (d. 189 bce), style Zifang 子房, was one of the key advisors to Liu Bang who helped to found the Han dynasty. Also known by his title Marquis Liu留侯. Han Xin 韓信 (d. 196 bce) originally served Xiang Yu, later Liu Bang, and with Zhang Liang was one of his famous advisors. Ning Qi甯戚 sang mournful songs in the Shang tone while beating a bull horn below Duke Huan’s 桓公 (d. 643 bce) chariot. Afterwards Duke Huan appointed Ning to a high position and did not doubt his loyalty, even though Ning was from the kingdom of Wei 衛. See Huainanzi 10.11b. Xun Xi 荀息 (d. 651 bce) served Duke Xian 獻 of Jin. After Duke Xian’s death, Xun Xi continued to serve his appointed heir Xiqi 奚齊 according to his promise to Duke Xian, and committed suicide after Xiqi and his younger brother were killed by Li Ke 里克. See Zuo Zhuan, Xi 9. This line is almost identical with the yuefu tune title “Yin ma changcheng ku” 飲馬長城 窟. This kind of usage, which is common in this section of the poem, recalls the yuefu-like style of the “Song of Fufeng,” which may itself be an yuefu poem—see Knechtges, “Liu Kun, Lu Chen, and Their Writings,” 17.

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北望沙漠路 千里何蕭條 白日隱寒樹 投袂既憤懣 撫枕懷百慮 功名惜未立 玄髮已改素 時哉茍有會 治亂惟冥數 16

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76

77

78 79

80

Look north to the road through the desert. How desolate it is for a thousand miles, The white sun hiding in the cold trees. In a wave of my sleeve I am full of anger, Stroking my pillow I harbor a hundred cares.75 I regret I have not achieved good deed or reputation, My black hair already changed to white.76 If only I could meet with the right time!77 But order and disorder follow a hidden plan.

Palace Attendant Lu Chen: Affected by Friendship 盧郎中諶： 感交78

大廈須異材 廊廟非庸器 英俊著世功 多士濟斯位 眷顧成綢繆 迺與時髦匹 姻媾久不虛 契闊豈但一 逢厄既已同 處危非所恤 75

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A great edifice demands extraordinary timber, The palace halls and temple are not built by vulgar tools. Outstanding people display epochal deeds, Many gentlemen achieve such a position. Your concern and regard form a lasting bond, And I become the companion of heroes of the day. Our ties of marriage endure because not superficial,79 Though we have been separated not only once.80 Meeting with misfortune once we were together, Being in danger was not our concern.

“In a wave of my sleeve” means “in an instant.” This couplet references Liu Kun’s “For Lu Chen” 贈盧諶: “In the middle of the night I stroke my pillow and sigh, / Wishing I could accompany these men” 中夜撫枕歎，想與數子遊. This couplet references Liu Kun’s “Poem for Lu Chen”: “While I still have not realized any great deed, / The evening sunlight suddenly flows to the west” 攻業未及建，夕陽忽 西流. In this line 或 should be corrected to 哉 following the Wen xuan kaoyi (Wen xuan 31.1482). The Liu chen and Wen xuan jizhu texts also have 哉. See Liu Kun’s “Poem for Lu Chen”: “The right time, oh! has not been given to me” 時哉不我與. Translated and discussed in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 406–7. In stanza 3 of Lu Chen’s “Poem for Liu Kun “ he writes: “We extended [our bond] through marriage ties, / Prominent for several generations” 申以婚姻，著以累世 (Wen xuan 25.1180). Cf. translation in “Liu Kun, Lu Chen, and their Friends,” 48. Lu Chen had ties by marriage to both Liu Kun and Wen Qiao, so this could refer to both men. Jiang refers to Lu Chen’s “Reply to Wei Ziti” 答魏子悌詩: “Obligation arose out of partings” 恩由契闊生 (Wen xuan 25.1187–89).

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常慕先達槩 觀古論得失 馬服為趙將 疆場得清謐 信陵佩魏印 秦兵不敢出 慨無握中策 體慘素絲質 羈旅去舊鄉 感遇喻琴瑟 自顧非杞梓 勉力在無逸 更以畏友朋 濫吹乖名實 81 82

83 84

85

86 87

88

We often envy the character of earlier heroes, And observing the past discuss victory and defeat.81 Sir Mafu was a general of Zhao Who brought peace and quiet to the border plains.82 The Lord of Xinling wore the seal of Wei, So Qin’s armies did not dare come out.83 I am sorry to lack the strategies of the army tent, In vain I regret my body’s substance of white silk.84 As I journey away from my old home, My gratitude at meeting you is like the harmony of qin and se.85 I recognize I am neither wolfberry nor catalpa,86 But I strive to remain “Not at Leisure.”87 How much more am I in awe of my friends: To boast is to divide reputation and reality.88

The first two characters of this line, guan gu 觀古, are almost identical with the title of Lu Chen’s poem “Lan gu” 覽古 (Wen xuan 21.995). Sir Mafu 馬服君was the title of Zhao She 趙奢, a general of Zhao 趙 during the Warring States period. Zhao She was awarded the title Mafu after ending Qin’s siege. See Shi ji 43.1822. Lu Chen also refers to Zhao She in “Poem for Cui and Wen” 贈崔溫 (Wen xuan 25.1186–87), where he represents Duan Pidi. In the imitation Lu Chen seems to be praising Liu Kun, though. Sir Xinling 信陵君 was the title of Wu Ji 無忌 of Wei 魏. He helped to save Zhao when it was under attack by Qin, and become a senior general of Wei. This line repeats Lu Chen’s allusion to the Huainan zi in his letter to Liu Kun: “So because the origin is the same but the ending different, Yang Zhu felt sorrow, and because the silk was white at first but turned black at last, Mo Di began to cry” 蓋本同末異，陽朱興 哀。始素終玄，墨翟垂涕. See Huainan zi 17.14b: “Mozi saw them spinning silk and cried, because they could turn either yellow or black” 墨子見練絲而泣之，為其可 以黃，可以黑. Lu Chen uses the Huainan zi passage to express his regret at separation from Liu Kun, but in Jiang Yan’s version that implication is less clear. This usage could be an example of the trope of metalepsis. A Shijing image used to represent a harmonious relationship, as in Mao shi 164: “Wives and children in harmonious union, / Like the playing of the qin and se” 妻子好合，如 鼓琴瑟. Again this seems to be a reference to the marriage ties that link the friends. Qi zi 杞梓 alludes to Zuo zhuan, Xiang 26. Together the trees symbolize human talent. “Wu yi” 無逸, which I translate “Not at Leisure,” is the name of a chapter in the Book of Documents in which the Duke of Zhou warns King Cheng not to indulge himself too much. See Shang shu zhengyi 16.8b-17a. Li Shan refers to a previous note on the phrase mingshi 名實 in Jiang’s imitation of Xi Kang, where he identified it as an allusion to Zhuangzi. Here the phrase is used in a far

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Guo Pu, [Posthumously Titled Governor of] Hongnong: Roaming with the Immortals 郭弘農璞：遊仙89

崦山多靈草 海濱饒奇石 偃蹇尋青雲 隱淪駐精魄 道人讀丹經 方士煉玉液 朱霞入窗牖 曜靈照空隙 傲睨摘木芝 凌波採水碧 眇然萬里遊 矯掌望煙客 永得安期術

89 90

91

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Mount Yan is full of numinous plants,90 The ocean shore is rich in precious stones. Rising aloft they search the cerulean clouds,91 Those have disappeared preserve their refined souls.92 Experts in the Way of immortals read cinnabar classics, And alchemists refine liquids of jade. Crimson haze comes through the window frames, The sun’s magic brilliance shines between the crevices. With a proud glance I pluck the divine mushroom,93 Slicing the waves I gather the watery crystal. I roam ten thousand leagues into the unseen distance, And wave my hand when I see that misty traveler. Once the arts of Anqi are obtained forever,94

more concrete way, but the echo of the Xi Kang imitation and of Zhuangzi might indirectly suggest Lu Chen’s devotion to xuanxue. Translated and discussed in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 287. Mount Yanzi 崦嵫 was traditionally the place where the sun set. Located in modern Tianshui 天水 County, Gansu. It appears in the “Li sao” as well: “I command Xihe to slow the pace, / Gaze at Yanzi but do not rush 吾令羲和弭節兮，望崦嵫而勿迫. Yanjian 偃蹇 is a common rhyming binome, but in this context it recalls Chuci. The binome occurs seven times in Chuci, including once in “Li sao” (Chuci buzhu 1.32): “Gazing up at the carnelian terrace, towering high, / I see the fair daughter of Yourong” 望瑤臺之 偃蹇兮，見有娀之佚女. Like Qu Yuan in the Chuci, Guo Pu is setting forth on a mystical journey. Cf. Guo Pu, “Fu on the Yangzi River” (Wen xuan 31.1467): “It receives perfected men who have hidden and vanished, / Issues the refined souls of extraordinary men” 納隱淪之列 真，挺異人之精魄. It is remarkable how Jiang appears to make use of two different phrases from this couplet in such a different context. Cf. Guo Pu, “Fu on the Yangzi River” (Wen xuan 12.568–69) for an earlier usage of aoni 傲 睨, “haughty glances” (Knechtges, Wen xuan, 2: 343). The Wenxuan chao 文選鈔, cited in Wenxuan jizhu, quotes Zhuangzi jishi 33.1098 (the same passage is also cited by Li Shan for the “Yangzi fu” line): “Only interact with the essences and spirits of heaven and earth, but do not look upon the myriad things with haughty glances” 獨與天地精神往來，而不 傲睨於萬物. Anqi or Anqi Sheng 安期生 was a Daoist immortal who lived over the eastern ocean. He is also mentioned in Guo Pu’s “Roaming with the Immortals,” #7 (Wen xuan 21.1024).

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豈愁濛汜迫 18

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Chamberlain Sun Chuo: Diverse Accounts 孫廷尉綽：雜述96

太素既已分 吹萬著形兆 寂動苟有源 因謂殤子夭 道喪涉千載 津梁誰能了 思乘扶搖翰 卓然凌風矯 靜觀尺棰義 理足未常少 冏冏秋月明 憑軒詠堯老 95 96

97

98

99 100

101

Why worry over the approach of Mengsi?95

Once Supreme Purity is divided, It is blown ten thousand ways to reveal all phenomena.97 If inaction and action each had an origin, Then could one call a child’s death untimely.98 The Way has been lost for a thousand years, So who can grasp the ford and bridge [to salvation]? I long to fly along with the whirlwind, Rising high up against the wind’s pressure.99 I quietly ponder the meaning of a foot-long stick, There is sufficient reason that it never be used up.100 While the autumn moon glitters brightly, I lean on the balcony to sing of Yao and Laozi.101

Like Mount Yanzi at the beginning of the poem, Mengsi 濛汜 is traditionally known as the location where the sun sets (Wen xuan 2.64). Cf. translation in Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1: 94. Sun Chuo’s surname in the title is erroneously written as Zhang 張 in the Li Shan text of the Wen xuan, though the Wuchen version properly reads Sun, as noted in Liuchen zhu Wen xuan 31.26b. Translated and discussed in Williams, “The Metaphysical Lyric of the Six Dynasties.” The expression chui wan is based on a passage from Zhuangzi: “Nanguo Ziqi said, ‘Everything is blown in ten thousand ways, to become itself’” 南郭子綦曰：夫吹萬不同， 而使自己也. Li Shan has a useful comment here: “This couplet describes the essence of the Great Way, that neither action nor inaction have any source. Now if they actually had a source, then longevity and untimely death would form different paths, and thus a child’s death would be untimely” 言大道之要，動寂無源．今誠以有源，即壽夭異轍，故以殤子 為夭也. The counterfactual is based on the Zhuangzian proposition that no distinctions are meaningful. Recalls the description of the Peng bird at the beginning of Zhuangzi (Zhuangzi jishi 1.4). This couplet is also based on Zhuangzi: “Given a foot-long stick, if each day you remove one half of it, you will never use it all up in ten thousand ages. [This is the last in a long series of pseudo-paradoxes and puzzling statements debated by Hui Shi.] His debaters responded to Hui Shi with this, and he never finished arguing his whole life” 一尺之 棰，日取其半，萬世不竭。辯者以此與惠施相應，終身無窮 (Zhuangzi jishi 33.1106). Lu Shanjing, quoted in Wenxuan jizhu, cites Yao’s attempt to abdicate the throne to Xu You 許由 as an example of his virtue.

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浪迹無蚩妍 然後君子道 領略歸一致 南山有綺皓 交臂久變化

20

傳火乃薪草 亹亹玄思清 胸中去機巧 物我俱忘懷 可以狎鷗鳥 19

103

104

105 106

Only by abandoning physical traces, ugliness and beauty, Can one then follow the way of the gentleman. Understanding returns to unity, With Old Man Qi in the southern mountains.102 Standing shoulder-to-shoulder for long, we will be transformed, Like the kindling and grass that pass on the flame.103 By effort abstruse thinking becomes clear, Removing the artifice and deceit from your breast. When you have utterly forgotten both reality and self, Then you can dally with the seagulls.104

Summoned Gentleman Xu Xun: Self-Introduction 許徵君詢： 自敘105

張子闇內機 單生蔽外象 102

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Sir Zhang was blind to inner mechanisms, While Master Shan was unaware of outer phenomena.106

Qili Ji 綺里季 was an early Han recluse, one of the Four Hoaryheads 四皓 of Shang Mountain 商山. Two allusions to Zhuangzi: the first is to a speech placed in the mouth of Confucius: “Though we stand shoulder-to-shoulder our whole lives, I will still lose you; isn’t it sad!” (Zhuangzi jishi 21.709), and to Guo Xiang’s comment: “Change cannot be held back or stopped. Though you stand shoulder-to-shoulder and guard one another you still cannot prevent change.” The second allusion is to the last sentence of the “Yangsheng zhu” 養生 主 chapter, just after the story of how Laozi’s disciple Qin Shi 秦失 mourned him only by crying three times, because death is a natural process that should not be mourned to excess: “This means that when the fire dies down you add more firewood; then the fire is passed on, and may never be exhausted” 指窮於為薪，火傳也，不知其盡也 (Zhuangzi jishi 3.129). In the same way, one can “cultivate life” (yang sheng 養生) and preserve one’s soul even after the death of the body. Li Shan cites a story from Zhuangzi about a man who loved to play with seagulls by the ocean every day. When his father accompanied him to visit the seagulls, they flew overhead but would not descend. This story is not preserved in the extant Zhuangzi but is also preserved in other sources such as Liezi jishi 2.67–68, and Lü shi chunqiu 18.6a. In the latter text the animal referred to is not the seagull but the dragonfly (qing 蜻). Cf. translation in Frodsham, The Murmuring Stream, 1: 95; Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 305. According to a story in Zhuangzi, Shan Bao 單豹 lived to the age of seventy but retained his youthful appearance because he lived as a recluse in the mountains, eschewing profit and drinking only water. Then he was devoured by a hungry tiger. By contrast, Zhang Yi 張

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一時排冥筌 泠然空中賞 遣此弱喪情 資神任獨往 採藥白雲隈 聊以肆所養 丹葩耀芳蕤 綠竹陰閑敞 苕苕寄意勝 不覺凌虛上 曲櫺激鮮飆 石室有幽響 去矣從所欲 得失非外獎 至哉操斤客 重明固已朗

If for a moment you discard the obscuring fish-net,107 You will enjoy the bliss of soaring through the air.108 Dismiss this feeling of losing your youthful home,109 Rely on your spirit, and entrust yourself to solitary motion.110 Gathering herbs at the edge of the white clouds, I abandon myself to self-cultivation a while. Crimson blossoms glow with sweet fragrances, Green bamboo shades a vast expanse. Best to lodge one’s meaning far off in the distance,111 Supreme to cross the void without consciousness. The curved window lattices are touched by fresh breezes, In the chamber of stone there is a dim echo. I have gone to follow my desire, And will not be influenced by others in my gains or losses. How masterful, the traveler wielding his axe!112 So perceptive because of mutual awareness.

毅 was a social climber who wore himself out chasing after wealth, and died of internal

107 108 109

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illness at the age of forty (Zhuangzi jishi 19.646). Again an allusion to the familiar Zhuangzi passage (Zhuangzi jishi 26.944): you discard the fish-net after catching the fish, just as you discard the words after grasping the meaning. The term lingran 泠然 occurs in Zhuangzi jishi 1.17, describing how Liezi flew along with the wind. Guo Xiang explains in his commentary to Zhuangzi: “Someone who lost his original home in youth is called ruosang 弱桑. He stays somewhere else with no way to return to his true home” (Zhuangzi jishi 2.103). In the passage on which Guo is commenting, Zhuangzi compares “hating death” to losing one’s home in youth, and not knowing where to go home (instead of seeing death as a natural process, and a return). Li Shan quotes the Prince of Huainan’s 淮南王 Zhuangzi lüeyao (Abstract of Zhuangzi): “The gentlemen of rivers and seas, the people of the hills and valleys, are those who despise the myriad petty things of this realm, and move in solitude” 江海之士，山谷 之人，輕天下細萬物而獨往者也; with Sima Biao’s 司馬彪 comment, “Solitary motion is to entrust oneself to spontaneity, and no longer to regard the world” 獨往，任 自然，不復顧世. See also Zhuangzi jishi 5.188. This is an essential Zhuangzian concept, even if it does not appear in so many words in the text of the Zhuangzi itself. Cf. Tao Qian’s couplet “The sense communicated is beyond a single word, / Who can make out this sense of tacit understanding?” 寄意一言外，茲契誰能別, in “Guimao sui shi’er yue zhong zuo yu congdi Jingyuan” 癸卯歲十二月中與從第敬遠. See Yuan Xingpei, Tao Yuanming ji jianzhu, 3.206–7. This line refers to Zhuangzi’s famous story about the man of Ying who covered his nose in plaster, and then had it sliced off by Jiang Shi 匠石, the expert of the axe, without touching his nose (Zhuangzi jishi 24.843). The point of the story is that Jiang Shi needs the man of Ying too in order to perform the trick.

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五難既洒落 超迹絕塵網

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悠悠蘊真趣 雲天亦遼亮 時與賞心遇 青松挺秀萼 蕙色出喬樹 極眺清波深 緬映石壁素 瑩情無餘滓 拂衣釋塵務 求仁既自我 玄風豈外慕 直置忘所宰 蕭散得遺慮 113

114 115

116 117

118

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Charging free of the “Five Obstacles,”113 I’ll pass beyond these tracks and cut across the web of dust.114

Yin Zhongwen of Dongyang: Rising for a View 殷東陽仲文： 興矚115

晨游任所萃

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Wandering at dawn I surrender myself to the scenes that appear, And from faraway gather in their genuine charms. The cloudy sky is vast and bright indeed, The season in accord with my appreciating mind. The green pines stand straight with their lush needles, Orchid hues appear in the tall trees.116 As far as I can see the limpid waves are deep, And far off reflect the whiteness of stone walls. I polish my feelings so they have no dirt, I brush my robes to release dusty attachments. Seeking Goodness, I find it in myself,117 So why look for a xuan manner outside?118 With focused attention I forget all that rules me, Free and idle I achieve the discarding of worry.119

The “Five Obstacles” of Preserving life are stated in Xi Kang’s “Reply to ‘Rebutting “Treatise on Preserving Life”’” 答難養生論: “There are five obstacles to preserving one’s life: first, that reputation and profit are not destroyed; second, that happiness and anger are not eliminated; third, that sounds and appearances are not discarded; fourth, that tastes and flavors are not extirpated; fifth, that spiritual anxieties are scattered.” See Xi Kang ji jiaozhu 4.191–92. The web of dust represents worldly attachments. The rendering of the title follows the Wenxuan chao (cited in Wenxuan jizhu), which glosses xing 興 as qi 起. The poem is about rising early to go for a walk in the country. Translated in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 314. Amending 惠 to蕙 based on the Wen xuan jizhu. Analects 7/15: “[Boyi and Shuqi] sought Goodness and found it, why should they have felt rancor?” 求仁而得仁，又何怨？ For the translation of ren as “Goodness” rather than “benevolence,” see Waley, The Analects of Confucius, 27–29. Li Shan explains xuan feng 玄風 as the dao 道 and quotes from a fu by Li Chong 李充 (?–307?), the “Xuan zong fu” 玄宗賦: “I long for my far-off ancestors who had the air of Mystery, / My august ancestor was called Bo Yang” 幕玄風之遐裔，余皇族曰伯陽. Wen xuan chao in Wen xuan jizhu glosses zhizhi 直置 as zhuanyi 專一.

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Supervisor Xie Hun: Travel 謝僕射混：遊覽120

信矣勞物化 憂襟未能整 薄言遵交衢 總轡出臺省 凄凄節序高 寥寥心悟永 時菊耀巖阿 雲霞冠秋嶺 眷然惜良辰 徘徊踐落景 卷舒雖萬緒 動復歸有靜 曾是迫桑榆 歲暮從所秉 舟壑不可攀 忘懷寄匠郢

120 121

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Truly I am worried by the transformation of things,121 So worried I cannot keep my collar straight. Swiftly I follow the crisscrossing streets, Wielding the reins I depart the Palace Pavilion. This bitter cold—the season is late; In the vastness of space, my heart perceives infinity. The seasonal chrysanthemums shine on the craggy hills, And rosy clouds crown the autumnal peaks. Dearly I treasured this fine morning, Dallying as I walk through rays of setting sun. Though rolling and unrolling there are a myriad threads,122 Action returns again to calm.123 Since it is nearing the twilight of mulberry and elm, At the end of the year I obey the feelings I bear. A boat in a valley cannot be held in place, So I’ll forget my cares, entrusting them to the craftsman and the man from Ying.124

Translated in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 314. Cf. Zhuangzi jishi 6.242: “The Great Clod bears me with a body, worries me with life, makes me useless with old age, and puts me to rest with death” 夫大塊載我以形，勞我以 生，佚我以老，息我以死. See Huainanzi 2.5a: “The ultimate way does not act, but is now a dragon and now a snake; it expands and contracts, rolls up and unrolls again, transforming along with the times” 至道無為，一龍一蛇，盈縮卷舒，與時變化. Cf. Wang Bi’s Laozi commentary: “All things must originate out of void, must act out of calm. Thus although the myriad things all act in unison, ultimately they return again to void and calm. Each one returns to its beginning, and when it has found its root again stays calm” 凡有起於虛，動於靜，故萬物雖並動作，卒復歸於虛靜，各反 其始，歸根則靜也 (Wang Bi ji jiaoshi 1: 36). There are two allusions to Zhuangzi here. The boat placed in the valley looks secure, says Zhuangzi, but in fact it could still be taken away in the middle of the night; so, no matter how seek to escape change and death, they will still overcome you (see Zhuangzi jishi 6.243). The second allusion is also used in the imitation of Xu Xun, l. 17 (see note above). Liu Liang explains the final line: “This means that he forgets his cares by means of an understanding friend” 此言忘懷於相知.

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Summoned Gentleman Tao Qian: Living in the Country 陶徵君 潛：田居125

種苗在東皋 苗生滿阡陌 雖有荷鋤倦 濁酒聊自適 日暮巾柴車 路闇光已夕 歸人望煙火 稚子候簷隙 問君亦何為 百年會有役 但願桑麻成 蠶月得紡績 素心正如此 開逕望三益

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127 128

129

I plant seedlings on the eastern hill, The shoots grow to fill the paths and byways. Though I am weary from lugging the plow, Some cloudy ale will satisfy me a while. By sunset I wrap them up in the kindling cart, The path is dim, the light already hidden in dusk. People coming back watch for fires, And children are waiting by the gaps in the eaves. I ask you what you are doing there: “For a hundred years there will be work to do. I only wish the mulberry and hemp would ripen, For in the silkworm month we need to spin the threads.” My plain desire is just like this: I’ll clear out a path and hope for the “three benefits.”126

Xie Lingyun of Linchuan: Visiting Mountains 謝臨川靈運： 遊山127

江海經邅迴 山嶠備盈缺 靈境信淹留 賞心非徒設 平明登雲峰 杳與廬霍絕 125 126

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Rivers and seas are devilishly daunting to cross,128 Mountain crags are full of heights and of abysses. I will surely linger in this numinous realm; An appreciative mind is not prepared in vain. At dawn’s light I climb the cloudy peaks, Hiding myself far off with Mounts Lu and Huo.129

Translated in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 333. See Analects 16/4: “Three kinds of friends are beneficial: befriending the honest, befriending the trustworthy, and befriending those of broad learning, are all beneficial” 益者三 友，損者三友：友直，友諒，友多聞，益矣. Translated in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 340–41. Cf. “She jiang” 涉江 (Chuci buzhu 4.130): “Entering Xupu I circle aimlessly, / Lost and unsure of my direction” 入漵浦余儃佪兮，迷不知吾所如. Li Shan cites a variant form of the first line which suits this poem better, however: “As I entered Xupu, the road was tortuously twisted” 入漵浦兮途邅迴. These two mountains are mentioned also in Xie Lingyun’s “Chu fa Shishoucheng” 初發 石首城 (Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu 273): “My rest is surely appointed for Lu and Huo” 息必廬

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碧障長周流 金潭恆澄澈 桐林帶晨霞 石壁映初晰 乳竇既滴瀝 丹井復寥泬 嵒崿轉奇秀 岑崟還相蔽 赤玉隱瑤溪 雲錦被沙汭 夜聞猩猩啼 朝見鼯鼠逝 南中氣候暖 朱華凌白雪 幸遊建德鄉 觀奇探禹穴 身名竟誰辨 圖史終磨滅 且泛桂水潮 映月遊海澨 攝生貴處順 將為智者說 24

Specially Promoted Officer Yan Yanzhi: Attending a Banquet 顏特 進延之：侍宴133

太微凝帝宇 瑤光正神縣

130 131 132 133 134

Ever roaming round the emerald cliffs, When golden streams are always sparklingly pure. Pawlonia groves are wrapped in dawn-red mists, And rocky walls reflect the first glimmers of day. Water drips and drops in stalactite grottoes, Then cinnabar wells are spaces of silence. The mountaintop boulders turn strange and splendid, Towering peaks block out one another. Red jade is hidden in jasper streams, A brocade of clouds covers the sandy riverbends. At night I hear the gibbons cry, In the morning watch the flying squirrels depart. The climate of the southland is warm, Crimson flowers brave the white snow. How fortunate am I to roam in the Land of Settled Virtue,130 Looking at marvels and exploring Yu’s Grotto.131 In the end who will distinguish my reputation and myself? Charts and histories will finally be ground to nothing.132 I’ll ride the tides of the Osmanthus River for now, And roam the banks of the sea bathed in moonlight. To preserve one’s life it is best to follow the natural course, I must tell this to somebody wise.

Grand Tenuity solidifies the emperor’s realm, Carnelian Gleam regulates the divine province.134

霍期. The two peaks were located in northern Jiangxi, close to the Yangzi. Jiande 建德 is Zhuangzi’s utopia of passive government (wu wei er zhi 無為而治). See

Zhuangzi jishi 19.671–2. The burial place of sage-emperor Yu, traditionally located at Guiji Mountain, Zhejiang. This couplet is derived from Xie’s poem “Ru Huazigang shi Mayuan di san gu” 入華子崗 是麻源第三谷(Xie Lingyun ji jiaozhu 288). Translated in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 372. For taiwei 太微, see Schlegel, Uranographie chinoise, 534, and Schafer, Pacing the Void, 52. This was a cluster of stars in the area of Leo and Virgo. Yaoguang 瑤光 (“Carnelian Gleam”) is one of the stars in the Northern Dipper. Together these two lines describe how the imperial palace is modeled on the heavenly one.

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揆日粲書史 相都麗聞見 5

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列漢搆仙宮 開天制寶殿 桂棟留夏飆 蘭橑停冬霰 青林結冥濛 丹巘被葱蒨 山雲備卿藹 池卉具靈變 重陽集清氣 下輦降玄宴

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騖望分寰隧 曬目盡都甸 氣生川岳陰 煙滅淮海見 中坐溢朱組 步櫩簉瓊弁 禮登竚睿情 樂闋延皇眄 135

136 137

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Surveyed by sunlight, more splendid than in the Documents and Histories:135 Observing the capital, it is lovelier than anything heard or seen. The palace of immortals is composed by the serried Milky Way, And the jeweled halls built in the stratified Heavens. The cinnamon purlins halt the summer gales, Thoroughwort eaves block out the winter hail.136 Green forests cluster in murky shadows, Scarlet hills are carpeted in lush growth. The mountains above the hills are filled with auspicious haze, The pond weeds are full of marvelous transformations. The Manifold Yang gathering in the pure capital,137 The emperor descends from the carriage and holds a secluded banquet.138 He gazes far off at the divided realm, Extending his sight within and beyond the capital. As vapor rises the rivers and mountains are shaded, When the fog clears the Huai River and ocean can be seen. The seating overflows with scarlet ribbons, In the galleries are arrayed the jasper caps.139 When the rites are presented, they wait on the sovereign’s response; When the music is over, they draw the imperial glance.

See Mao shi 50/1: “Surveying according to the sun, / They built the Chu palaces” 揆之以 日、作于楚室. It was customary to survey the land and make a ritual divination before constructing a palace, as in the phrase “observing [the site for] the palace” 相宅. The Duke of Shao 召 carried out this observation at Luo 洛. See Shang shu zhushu 14.1a. Cf. “Nine Songs”: “With cinnamon purlins—and thoroughwort eaves” 桂棟兮蘭橑 (Chuci buzhu 2.67). The Manifold Yang is an epithet for Heaven as in Chuci, “Yuan you” (Chuci buzhu 5.169). Liang Zhangju recommends emending 氣 to 都 based on this “Yuan you” passage, and I follow this emendation in my translation. See Liang, Wen xuan pangzheng, 26.22b. Manifold Yang here represents the emperor, also the subject of the following line. Cf. Zhang Heng’s “Fu on the Western Metropolis”: “Wherever it pleased the emperor to go, / He dismounted from his cart and a feast was prepared” 恣意所幸，下輦成章 (Knechtges, Wen xuan, 1: 195; Wenxuan 1.56). The ribbons and caps are metonymy for the officials gathered at the feast.

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測恩躋愉逸 沿牒懵浮賤 25

承榮重兼金 巡華過盈瑱 敢飾輿人詠 方慚淥水薦 25

Judicial Adjutant Xie Huilian: Presented upon Parting 謝法曹： 贈別142

I 昨發赤停渚 今宿浦陽汭 方作雲峯異 豈伊千里別

140 141

142 143

144

Unfathomable favor lifts some up rejoicing,140 According to the documents I am ashamed of my insignificance. Receiving your honor, it is weighty as gold; Escorting your majesty excels a rounded jade. Dare I embellish the “soldiers’ chant”? I’m just ashamed by praise for my “Green Waters.”141

Yesterday I set out from the islet of Chiting, Today I lodge at a bend of the Puyang.143 Though we are just divided by the cloudy peaks, Can it already be a “Parting of a Thousand Leagues”?144

踰 corrected to 愉 based on the Wuchen text, following Hu Kejia.

This couplet alludes to two ancient songs, reflexively expressing humility about the quality of this poem. The marquis of Jin heard the soldiers chanting among themselves: “The fields on the plain are full and flourishing, / Weed out the old and plan for the new” 原田 每每，舍其舊而新是謀. See Zuo zhuan, Xi 28. “Green Waters” (written both as lushui 淥水 and as lüshui 綠水) is an ancient dance song, possibly a lost Shijing poem. See Huainanzi 2.11b. Translated in Williams, “A Conversation in Poems,” 502–4. Li Shan quotes from Lingyun’s poem “Fuchun Islet” 富春渚: “Ding Mountain is far amidst the clouds and fog, / I do not tarry at Chiting” (Wen xuan 26.1240/3–4). According to Li Shan, Chiting was more than ten li east of Ding Mountain. Zhu Jian notes that Ding Mountain was 40 li southeast of Qiantang 錢塘 County (modern Hang杭 County), in Guiji會稽 commandery. See Zhu Jian, Wen xuan jishi, 17.12b. In the Wuchen paraphrase, this couplet would mean something like, “The fact that I am separated from you, how is it because of the ancients’ song ‘Parting of a Thousand Leagues’?” (31.35a). The song “Parting of a Thousand Leagues” is referred to in the final couplet of Lingyun’s poem “Entering the Mouth of Pengli Lake” 入彭蠡湖口: “In vain I compose a tune of a thousand leagues, / Though the string is severed my longing only grows deeper” 徒作千里曲，絃絶念彌敦. However, it may be more natural to ignore the implications of the phrase as a song title, and to accept its literal meaning. In this stanza the speaker is complaining that the separation feels like a thousand leagues, even though the two friends are really not so far away.

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芳塵未歇席 涔淚猶在袂 停艫望極浦 弭棹阻風雪

Your fragrant dust was not yet gone from the mats,145 And pools of tears lay still upon my sleeve. I paused my prow to gaze at the furthest shore, And stopped the oars when blocked by wind and snow.146

II 風雪既經時 夜永起懷思 氾濫北湖遊 岧亭南樓期 點翰詠新賞 開袠瑩所疑 摘芳愛氣馥 拾蕊憐色滋

By the time the wind and snow have passed, The night, growing late, stirs longing in me. I cruise around the northern lakes, And wait in the lofty southern towers.147 Wielding my brush I write about the scene I just enjoyed, Opening my scroll-case I polish the unsure places. Selecting the fragrant I enjoy the scent that is thick, Culling the blossoms I adore the color that is lustrous.

III 色滋畏沃若 人事亦銷鑠 子襟怨勿往 谷風誚輕薄 共秉延州信 無慙仲路諾

When the color is lustrous, you fear it is too ripe,148 And human affairs also weaken and dissolve.149 The poem “Your Collar” bemoans not going to meet a friend, And “Wind in the Valley” reprimands a lack of sincerity.150 But together we possess the loyalty of Yanzhou,151 Without shame beside the promises of Zhong Lu.152

145 146 147 148 149 150

151 152

Li Shan quotes from Yu Chan’s 庾闡 “Fu on the Yang Capital” 楊都賦: “Fragrant dust accumulated on the satin mats” 結芳塵於綺席. As in Huilian’s poem (l. 15 above), Jiang Yan uses individual elements of the boat as metonymy for the boat itself. Hu Kejia’s Wenxuan kaoyi argues for the reading tiao 苕 instead of tiao 岧. Tiaoting 苕亭 is an alliterative binome indicating height. Cf. Mao shi 58/3: “Before the mulberry leaves have fallen, / They are rich and supple” 桑之 未落、其葉沃若. Cf. “Yuan you,” “My body dissolves and softens—” 質銷鑠以汋約兮, in Chuci buzhu, 5.168. “Your Collar” is Mao shi 91, recalling especially lines 3–4: “Even if I could not go, / Why should you not pass on a message?” 縱我不往，子寧不嗣音. “Wind in the Valley” is Mao shi 201, which rebukes a friend for disloyalty. Together the two allusions are examples of people who are separated and embittered against one another. Ji Zha 季札 is identified in “Diverse Forms” #5, line 15 above. An allusion to Analects 12/12, which praises Confucius’s disciple Zhong Lu (or Zi Lu子路) for his reliability.

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靈芝望三秀 孤筠情所託

Like the divine mushroom I hope to bloom three times,153 The solitary bamboo is where I entrust my passion.154

IV 所託已慇懃 秪足攪懷人 今行嶀嵊外 銜思至海濱 覿子杳未僝 款睇在何辰 雜佩雖可贈 疏華竟無陳

What I have entrusted is sincere affection,155 Which only stirs up my longing for you further. Now I go beyond Tu and Sheng, And hiding my longing I reach the seashore.156 I see you are too far for me to meet, What time will allow me an affectionate visit? Though I can present various adornments,157 Jade flowers ultimately I cannot offer you.158

V 無陳心悁勞 旅人豈遊遨 幸及風雪霽 青春滿江皐 解纜候前侶 還望方鬱陶 煙景若離遠

Because I cannot offer them my heart grows tired and worn, Although a traveler, how can I roam free? Thankfully at last the wind and snow abate, And verdant springtime fills the river banks. Untying the hawser I await my former comrade, Looking back I am only melancholy. Though we seem far apart across this misty scene,

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156

157 158

Ling zhi 靈芝 and san xiu 三秀 are alternate names for Ganoderma lucidum, a mushroom that blooms three times a year. It is a fragrant plant symbolic of human virtue, as in “Shan gui” of the “Jiu ge” (Chuci buzhu 2.80). Although Li Shan identifies yun筠 as “bamboo sheath,” which is the word’s original meaning, it may already mean just “bamboo” by this time. Yinqin 慇懃 is often used with regard to friendship, e.g. Sima Qian in his “Letter to Ren Shaoqing” (Wen xuan 41.1857): “I never had the additional pleasure to drain a cup of wine with him, or share his sincere affection” 未嘗銜盃酒，接慇懃之餘懽. Tu and Sheng were two peaks close to Xie Lingyun’s estate at Shining. Li Shan quotes from Kong Ye’s 孔曄 Annals of Guiji 會稽記, which states that Tu was in the southeast of Shining county while Sheng was in Shan 剡 county nearby. An allusion to Mao shi 82/3: “I will give them my various adornments” 雜佩以贈之. The “various adornments” of the poem are the wife’s jewelry of jade and precious stones. Cf. “Da si ming” 大司命 in “Jiu ge” 九歌: “I snap the divine hemp’s—jade-white blossoms, / Which I will give—the one who abides apart” 折疏麻兮瑤華，將以遺兮離 居 (Chuci buzhu 2.70). The allusion is apt for Jiang Yan’s imitation because Lingyun often employed it in his own poems, e.g., in “Waiting for an Expected Guest in the Southern Tower” 南樓中望所遲客 (Wen xuan 30.1395–96).

Jiang Yan’s Poems In Diverse Forms 40

末響寄瓊瑤 26

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悵然山中暮 懷痾屬此詩

160 161 162 163

164

With your last sound you send me a gift precious as jade.159

Appointed Gentleman Wang Wei: Nursing an Illness王徵君微： 養疾160

窈藹瀟湘空 翠澗澹無滋 寂歷百草晦 欻吸鵾雞悲 清陰往來遠 月華散前墀 鍊藥矚虛幌 汎瑟臥遙帷 水碧驗未黷 金膏靈詎緇 北渚有帝子 蕩瀁不可期

159

275

How remote the desolate expanse of the Xiang River, Whose emerald streams are still and savorless. In this barren land the hundred plants wither , And all at once the egret starts to grieve.161 The pure shadow comes and goes far away,162 The moon’s florescence scatters on the front steps. Refining an elixir, I look at the empty curtains, Plucking my zither, I lie by the far canopy. The water-jade is effective, and cannot be polluted, The golden paste is magic, how can it turn black? On the northern islet is the Divine Daughter,163 Rising and falling in the waves, one cannot find a time for meeting.164 Feeling sad at sunset in the mountains, Still bearing my disease I wrote this poem.

My translation makes metaphor into simile in the interest of intelligibility. Wuchen commentator Lü Yanji explains that qiong yao 瓊瑤 “precious jade” represents the letter that Huilian hopes Lingyun will send to him. Translated in chapter 6. Cf. Song Yu’s “Jiu bian” (Chuci buzhu 8.184): “The egret squawks and shrieks in sorrow” 鵾 鷄啁哳而悲鳴. The “pure shadow” is the sun, according to Wuchen commentator Zhang Xian. This is a reference to the song “Lady of the Xiang River” in the “Nine Songs” of the Chuci, “The Divine Daughter descends—onto the northern islet” 帝子降兮北渚. There the goddess referred to is one of the daughters of Yao. See Chuci buzhu 2.64. Li Shan quotes Ruan Ji’s “Singing of My Cares” #37: “Tossed and tumbled, how to achieve it?” 蕩瀁焉可能. Ruan Ji’s collected works has “Tossed and tumbled, how can I push clear?” 蕩瀁焉能排, but Li Shan’s version may be correct. See Lu Qinli 503.

276 27

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Appendix

Defender-in-Chief Yuan Shu: Attending an Imperial Progress 袁太 尉淑：從駕165

宮廟禮哀敬 枌邑道嚴玄 恭潔由明祀 肅駕在祈年 詔徒登季月 戒鳳藻行川 雲旆象漢徙 宸網擬星懸

10

15

朱櫂麗寒渚 金鍐映秋山 羽衛藹流景 綵吹震沉淵 辨詩測京國 履籍鑒都廛 甿謠響玉律 邑頌被丹弦 文軫薄桂海 聲教燭冰天 和惠頒上笏

165 166

167 168

169

At the palace temple the Rites are dolorous and reverent, At the white-elm shrine the Way is solemn and abstruse.166 We purify ourselves reverently for the brilliant offering, The Emperor solemnly drives forth to pray for the harvest. He commands the company to start out in the final month, Readies the phoenix carriage to adorn the roads and rivers. The pennants, piercing the clouds, are like the Milky Way in their course, And the pearl blinds, reaching up to the heavens, are suspended like stars.167 Vermilion oars embellish the frigid islets, Golden reins glitter amid autumnal hills. The plumed guards obscure the rolling sunlight, The decorated flautists stir the deep abyss. Examining the poetry, he evaluates the capital and states;168 He treads the sacred field and observes the city markets.169 Peasant ditties echo through jade flutes, Village hymns are accompanied by scarlet strings. Writing and carriage-ruts [are standardized] far as the cinnamon sea of the south, Reputation and teachings shine in the frozen skies of the north. Gentle favor you promulgate to the superior tablet-holders,

Translated and discussed in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 375–76. Fenyu 枌榆, here called Fenyi 枌邑 (White Elm Village), was the site of the local shrine where Liu Bang 劉邦 once prayed. The Liu-Song emperors also prayed at the shrine in order to signify their continuation of Han ritual. I follow Wuchen commentator Liu Liang’s 劉良 explanation that the “web” here refers to the pearl blinds of the carriage. This refers to the ancient custom described in the Li ji: “[The emperor] commanded the high officials to recite poems, in order to observe the customs of the people” 命大師陳 詩，以觀民風. See Li ji zhushu 11.29b. This line refers to a state ritual celebrated in the first or second month. The emperor and his ministers would begin the plowing of the sacred field, then would be followed by lower officials and grandees, and finally by commoners. See note to Pan Yue’s “Fu on the Sacred Field” in Knechtges, Wen xuan, 2: 39.

Jiang Yan’s Poems In Diverse Forms 20

恩渥浹下筵 幸侍觀洛後 豈慕巡河前 服義方無沬 展歌殊未宣 28

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15

171 172

With your boundless favor you succor the vassals of the lower mats. Fortunate to attend the viewing of the Luo River, Why be envious now of this visit to the Yellow River?170 I am ceaselessly conscious of my duty,171 Which, though I set forth this song, I have failed to manifest.

Household Grandee Xie Zhuang: Visiting the Suburbs 謝光祿莊： 郊遊172

肅舲出郊際 徙樂逗江陰 翠山方藹藹 青浦正沉沉 涼葉照沙嶼 秋榮冒水潯 風散松架險 雲鬱石道深 靜默鏡綿野 四睇亂曾岑 氣清知鴈引 露華識猿音 雲裝信解黻 煙駕可辭金 始整丹泉術 終覿紫芳心 行光自容裔 無使弱思侵

170

277

My swift skiff leaves for the suburbs, Roaming happily I pause north of the river. There azure hills are lushly overgrown, Green banks are dim and solitary. Chill leaves shine over sandbars, Autumn blooms poke from water’s edge. A wind disperses the lattice of pines precariously, Clouds shroud the stone path to its depths. My silence is mirrored by the endless wilds, My gaze in all directions deranged by the tall peaks. In the empyrean air I sense the geese draw long formations, Amid dewy flowers recognize gibbons’ cries. With garment of cloud, I will discard my tassels, In a carriage of mist, I can reject a gold seal. At first I prepared the arts of cinnabar streams; Finally I perceive the mind of the purple mushroom. Like a reflected glimmer I feel calm detachment, And do not let fragile longings corrode it!

This couplet refers to two historic viewings of rivers, by Tang 湯 of the Shang dynasty and by Shun 舜. This line is based on “Summons to the Soul”: “I have always been conscious of my duty without pause” 身服義而未沬 (Chuci buzhu 9.197). Translated in chapter 6.

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Appendix

Adjutant Bao Zhao: Traveling to War 鮑參軍昭：戎行173

5

豪士枉尺璧 宵人重恩光 徇義非為利 執羈輕去鄉 孟冬郊祀月

10

殺氣起嚴霜 戎馬粟不煖 軍士冰為漿 晨上城皋坂 磧礫皆羊腸

15

20

寒陰籠白日 太谷晦蒼蒼 息徒稅征駕 倚劍臨八荒 鷦鵬不能飛 玄武伏川梁 鎩翮由時至 感物聊自傷 豎儒守一經 未足識行藏 173 174 175

176

Dashing soldiers think nothing of jade discs a foot long, While lesser men care for patronage. Martyrdom to duty earns no profit; Yet taking up the reins, we leave our homes gladly. In the first month of winter, the month of suburban sacrifices, A murderous air raises a severe frost. The cavalry steeds eat uncooked feed, The infantry have ice for drinking water. In the morning we climb Chenggao slope, Everywhere the rocks jutting out jagged as sheep intestines.174 Winter clouds cover up the sun, Taigu gorge is shaded in dark. Resting the footsoldiers, we halt the chariots, Leaning on our swords survey the eight extremities. Neither wren nor phoenix can fly, Black Tortoise lurks in the river dike.175 Feathers are stripped according to the season; Sensing these things I mourn for myself.176 A pedant keeps to his one classic, Yet understands nothing of service and retreat!177

Translated in Williams, “The Brocade of Words,” 385. There were mountain paths known as Sheep Intestine Slope 羊腸坂 for their winding curves, as in Cao Cao’s “Ku han xing” 苦寒行 (Wen xuan 27.1283). Cf. Bao Zhao’s “Written at the Command of the Prince of Shixing on Mount Suan” 蒜山 被始興王命作 (Bao canjun jizhu 5.260): “At end of winter the frost is first severe, / The earth shut off and the springs blocked. / Black Tortoise hides in the trees’ shade, / Scarlet birds return to store their food” 暮冬霜朔嚴，地閉泉不流。玄武藏木陰，丹鳥 還養羞. This is formulaic language in early pentasyllabic verse, with gan wu regularly placed in the initial position of a line, as in Cao Zhi’s “Presented to Prince Biao of Baima”: “Sensing these things wounds my feelings, / Stroking my heart I heave a long sigh” 感物傷我懷，

撫心長太息 177

The conclusion resembles Bao’s “Responding to a Guest” 答客 (Bao canjun jizhu 5.283– 84), a poem following the tradition of the shelun 設論 genre, and the first such work in pentasyllabic verse: “Deep grief and lack of feeling are both errors, / Both advance and retreat mistake the time!” 深憂寡情謬，進伏兩暌時.

Jiang Yan’s Poems In Diverse Forms

30

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Superior Xiu: Resentment of Parting 休上人：怨別178

西北秋風至 楚客心悠哉 日暮碧云合 佳人殊未來 露彩方泛艷 月華始徘徊 寶書為君掩 瑤琴詎能開 相思巫山渚 悵望陽雲臺 膏爐絕沈燎 綺席生浮埃 桂水日千里 因之平生懷 178

The autumn wind arrives in the northwest, The traveler of Chu is heartsick indeed! At twilight the green clouds gather, Though the Fair One still has not come. The colors of the dew now have a floating gleam, The brilliance of the moon begins to linger. My precious books are sealed for you, Why bother to open up the carnelian zither? I long for you on the islet by Wu Mountain, Stricken by yearning on the Terrace of Sunlit Clouds. The dampened flame expires in the oiled censer, Dust covers the surface of my silken mat. The Cinnamon River flows a thousand miles in a day: I’ll follow it with the cares of my whole life.

Translated in chapter 6.

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296

Index

Index

Index Allen, Joseph R.  19, 68, 71 ambiguity  63, 105, 127, 133, 139, 167, 191, 208, 215, 219, 235 Analects (Lunyu 論語)  35 7/1  8n12 9/23  121 12/5  92 as basis for Mencius  70 as basis for Yang Xiong’s Fayan  25 anthologies  3 See also Wen xuan art and poetry, analogy between  1–2, 142 See also ekphrasis ba dou zhi cai 八斗之才    135 Ban Gu 班固 (32–92)   “Bamboo Fan” (Zhushan shi 竹扇 詩)  62 “Fu on a Bamboo Fan” (Zhushan fu 竹扇 賦)  62 “Historical Poem” (Yongshi shi詠史 詩)  57–61 Ban Jieyu班婕妤 (fl. 32–6 bce) “Song of Resentment” (Yuan ge xing 怨歌 行)  1, 53–57, 97–98 “Lament for Myself” (Zi dao fu 自悼 賦)  53 Bao Zhao 鮑照 (ca. 414–466)  161 Barthes, Roland  4 Baudelaire, Charles  (1821–1867)  176 Beecroft, Alexander  8n12 Benjamin, Walter (1892–1940)  77 “better to see with your eyes than hear with your ears”  44n59 biographical interpretation of Chinese poems  16–19 Book of Rites (Li ji 禮記)  188 Book of Songs (Shijing 詩經 or Mao shi 毛 詩)  82, 95n44 #4  110 #31  200 #35  117 #36  115 #43  93, 244 #48  161

#73  48 #94  88, 117 #118  93 #119  117 #132  84 #153  108, 113–14 #161  93 #174  48, 110 #178  107 #186  231 #193  161 #197  201 #205  231 #235  110 #247  134 See also Mao commentary Cai Yong 蔡邕 (132–192)  107 “Fu Relating a Journey” (Shuxing fu 述行 賦)  112 Canglang 滄浪 song  87 Cao Cao 曹操 (155–220)  105, 109 Cao Daoheng 曹道衡    161, 182 Cao Pi 曹丕 (187–226)  28, 109, 119–32 “Composed at Lotus Pond” (Furong chi zuo 芙蓉池作)  141–42 Letter to Wu Zhi  120–21 “Lun wen” 論文 (On writing) in Dian lun 典論    119–21, 142 Wei wendi ji 魏文帝集    124 Cao Zhi 曹植 (192–232)  105, 109, 119, 134–36 “Jingwei pian” 精微篇  61n35 “Lord’s Feast”  (Gong yan 公 讌)  141–42 “Presented Again to Ding Yi and Wang Can” 138 “Presented to Ding Yi” (Zeng Ding Yi 贈丁 儀)  137 “Presented to Prince Biao of Baima” 133 “Sevenfold Sorrow” (Qi ai 七哀)  98 Chen Lin 陳琳 (?–217 ce)  61, 119–20 Chen Ziang 陳子昂 (661–702)  240–41 Chuci 楚辭 anthology  82, 176–80, 193–96, 205, 208

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2015 | doi 10.1163/9789004282452_012

297

Index “Far Roaming” (Yuan you 遠遊)  178 “Fisherman” 漁父  149 Jiang Yan and  14, 49 “Li sao” 離騷  25, 158, 178, 233 “Nine Songs” (Jiu ge 九歌)  82, 233 “Ode to the Tangerine” (Ju song 橘 頌)  158 “Summoning the Recluse” (Zhao yinshi 招 隱士)  185 “Summons to the Soul” (Zhao hun 招 魂)  180, 192 “Tian wen” 天問  174 “Yearning for the Beautiful One” 思美人 from “Jiu zhang” 九章  187 Chunyu Yi 淳于意  58 Chu song (Chu ge 楚歌)  57, 90–91, 169–70 “Chu traveler” (Chu ke 楚客)  189–91, 209 Chu xue ji 初學記    124 “Cockcrow”  59–60 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772–1834)  6 continuity as change See tongbian Cutter, Robert Joe  131 Daoist themes 159, 162, 206, 233 dating controversies  63, 155, 178–86 Diény, Jean-Pierre  112–13 Ding 丁 brothers  137–39 Ding Fulin 丁福林  181, 184 “distinguishing black from yellow or warp from weft”  46–47 Dong Zhuo 董卓 (?–192)  107 double entendre  2 double voice  2, 97 ekphrasis  1–2, 48, 102 Emperor Wen 文 of Liu-Song (407– 453)  126 Emperor Wu 武 of Han 漢 (156–87 bce)  122–28 Emperor Wu 武of Liu-Song (363–422)   126 Empress Xu 徐 of Han  75 Fang Hui 方回 (1227–1307)  126–27 Feng Yan 馮衍 (ca. 20 bce–ca. 60 ce)  167 fiction  27, 112–128 passim, 132, 177, 236 First Emperor of Qin (Qin shi huang 秦始 皇)  167

Frankel, Hans  55n15, 75, 98n47, 135 Frodsham, J. D.  124 Frye, Northrop  23 fugu 復古 (archaicism)  32–33 Fu Liang 傅亮 (374–426)  126 Fu Xuan  傅玄 (217–278)   11, 64–73, 80, 187 Fuzi 傅子    66 “Imitation of Four Sorrows” (Ni si chou shi 擬四愁詩)  69–70 “Imitation of Ma Fang” (Ni Ma Fang擬馬 防)  64 “Poem Matching Mr. Ban’s” (He Ban shi 和 班氏)  60 “Seven Stratagems” (Qimo 七謨)  67 “Short Song” (Duan ge xing 短歌 行)  72 “Yan’ge xing” 艷歌行  71 Gadamer, Hans-Georg  7 Ge lu 歌錄  54–56 Ge Xiaoyin 葛曉音  240–41 Greene, Thomas M.  10 Gu Nong顧農  217 Guo Pu 郭璞 (276–324)  157–58, 173–74 Gu Shaobo 顧紹柏  126 Han 漢 dynasty (206 bce–220 ce) classic fu compositions  36–38 fall of  107–8 poetry  11, 51–53 Han E 韓娥    115–16 Han Kang 韓康 (fl. 147–167)  75–76 he 和    241 He Yan 何晏 (ca. 190–249)  66, 214–15 Holzman, Donald  59, 226–27 Hsia, C. T.  210 Huangfu Tao 皇甫陶    65 Huang Jie 黃節 (1873–1935)  124, 135 Huan Tan 桓譚 (?–56 ce)  35 Huilin 慧琳    125 Huo Qubing霍去病 (140–117 bce)  75 imitation   in Western literature  5–8 and genre  177 See also ni “imitation poems” (ni shi 擬詩) distinctive features  2, 73

298 major examples  3 representative qualities  18 similarity to anthologies  3 impersonation  85, 161, 240 See also prosopopoeia intensification, as function of imitation  64, 73–76 interpretation, imitation poetry as form of  143 intertextuality  4, 26, 43 irony  16, 66, 77-78, 89, 119, 128, 227 Jao Tsung-i 饒宗頤 (1917–)  241 ji 集  124 Jia Yi 賈誼 (201–169 bce)  149 Jian’an 建安 (196–220) era, Seven Masters of  109, 119–24 Jiang lang cai jin 江郎才盡  172–75 Jiang Qiu 江艽  157 Jiangxia 江夏  187 Jiang Yan biography  14, 155–57, 228–29 flowery rhetoric  4, 118 imitations of Ruan Ji  228–36 sobriquet Wentong 文通    15 writer’s block  172–75 Jiang Yan, works of “Autobiography”  180–81 “Biography of My Friend, Yuan” (Yuan youren zhuan 袁友人傳)  163 “Chiting Islet” (Chiting zhu 赤亭 渚)  192–93 Chixian jing 赤縣經  174 “Chuci in the Mountains” (Shanzhong Chuci 山中楚辭)  181, 186–88 “Crossing Over the Quan Ridge, Coming out at the Peak of All the Mountains”  191 “Fu Lamenting a Friend” (Shang youren fu 傷友人賦)  163 “Fu on Bitter Regret” (Hen fu 恨 賦)  17, 154, 166 “Fu on Departing My Homeland” (Qu guxiang fu 去故鄉賦)  181, 193–96 “Fu on Green Moss” (Qingtai fu 青苔 賦)  160–63 “Fu on Parting” (Bie fu 別賦)  154, 170 “Fu on the Sea Anemone” (Shijie fu 石劫 賦)  149–53

Index “Imitating Lord Ruan” (Xiao Ruan gong 效 阮公)  156, 229–32 “Mourning My Wife” #4 (Dao shiren 悼室 人)  189 “Odes to Plants and Trees” (Cao mu song 草木頌)  157–60, 182–83 “Poems in Diverse Forms”  3–4, 154 #1  87–90 #2  94–96 #3  1–2, 17, 101–3 #4  140–42 #5  136–39 #7  117–19 #9  234–35 #10  47 #12  201–2 #11  164–66 #13  74–76 #14  203–4 #26  205–6 #28  206–7 #30  208–9 preface  43–47 “Purifying My Thoughts” (Qingsi shi 清思 詩)  232–34 “Qianyang Station” 遷陽亭    190 “Sao-style Poem Responding to Recorder Xie”    181 “Serving the Prince of Shi’an at Shitou”  183–84 “Suigu pian” 遂古篇  174 Jiaoran 皎然 (720–ca. 795)  123–24 Jing and Man (Jing Man 荊蠻)  107, 113 Jing Cuo 景差    122 Jingwei 精衛 Bird  234–35 Jin Midi 金日磾 (143–86 bce)  75 Ji Zha 季札    136–37 King Qian 遷 of Zhao 趙 (245 bce– ?)  167 King Xiang 襄 of Chu 楚 (r. 298–265 bce)  122 Knechtges, David R.  55n15, 56n17, 112, 139–40 Kong Rong 孔融 (153–208)  119–20 Lady Ban See Ban Jieyu Lai Chiu-Mi  79 Lasch, Christopher  (1932–1994)  210

299

Index Li Guang 李廣    90 Liang 梁 dynasty  14 Liang shu 梁書    172–74 Li Bai 李白 (701–762)  240–41 Liezi 列子    115–16 Li Ling 李陵 (?–74 bce)  90–96, 167–68 “Chu song” (Chu ge 楚歌)  90–91 Li Shan 李善 (?–689)  41–42, 88–89, 217 Lin Wenyue 林文月    65n44, 79 Li Qi 李奇    45 Liu Biao 劉表 (144–208)  107 Liu Jingsu 劉景素  14, 156, 228–29 Liu Liang 劉良, Wuchen commentator  9, 200 Liu-Song 劉宋 (or simply Song) dynasty (420–479)  125–26 Liu Xi 劉熙 (Eastern Han)  29 Liu Xiaochuo 劉孝綽 (481–539)  39 Liu Xie 劉勰 (ca. 465–522) See Wenxin diaolong Liu Yizhen 劉義真 (407–424)  125 Liu Zhen 劉楨 (170?–217)  44, 109, 119–24, 153 Liu Zizhen 劉子真 (457–466)  156, 183–84 Liu Yu 劉豫 (463–477)  156 Lu Ji 陸機 (261–303)  44 “Essay on Literature” (Wen fu 文 賦)  30–31 “Favored Beauty Ban” (Ban Jieyu 班婕 妤)  103 “Imitations of Old Poems” (Nigu shi 擬古 詩)  3, 11–12, 78–81 “Imitating ‘Traveling, Traveling, Again Traveling, Traveling’”  83–86 “Imitating ‘There Is a Marvelous Tree in the Garden’”  98–99 “Junzi you suo si xing” 君子有所思 行    138 “Written upon Traveling through Liang and Chen, While Serving as Palace Gentleman under the Prince of Wu”  199–201 Luofu 羅敷    71 Lu Qinli 逯钦立 (1911–1973)  62 Lu Xun 魯迅 (1881–1936)  71n61 Ma Rong 馬融 (79–166)  36

Mao 毛 commentary to Book of Songs  68 Marney, John  184 Mei Fu 梅福    75–76 Mei Sheng 枚乘 (?–141 bce)  36, 67, 80, 122 Mencius  70 metalepsis  196–97 Mi Heng 禰衡 “Fu on the Parrot” (Yingwu fu 鸚鵡 賦)  112 mirror image  6–7 mise en abyme  12 music and poetry  85–86, 116 Nan shi 南史    172–74 ni 擬 compared to mimesis 8–9 creative aspects  9–10, 131 varieties  241 See also imitation; prosopopoeia nianpu 年譜    17 “Nineteen Old Poems” (Gu shi shijiu shou 古 詩十九首)   #1  81–83, 87–90, 238 #8  89–90 #9  99–100 #16  188n29 #18  48 niren 擬人 (personification)  85, 104 See also prosopopoeia   Nong Yu 弄玉  See Princess of Qin Nüwa 女娃    235 Occam’s Razor  80 “Old Poem” (“Tangerine and pomelo dangle splendid fruits . . .”)  152–53, 159 See also “Nineteen Old Poems” Owen, Stephen  551n5, 71n64, 79–80, 91, 99–100 Pan Yue 潘岳 (247–300)  44, 164–65 Pei Ziye 裴子野 (469–530)  32 pentasyllabic verse (wuyan shi 五言 詩)  50–53, 104 Pessoa, Fernando (1888–1935)  147 plague of 217 ce  106 “Poem on the Incense Burner”  100 poetic sequence  178–79, 195–96

300 Pound, Ezra (1885–1972)  103–4 practical criticism  24, 45, 69 Princess of Qin 秦  1, 102 Prince Xiao 孝 of Liang 梁    122 prosopopoeia  9, 63, 104, 139, 148–55, 167–68 See also impersonation Qi 齊 dynasty  14 Qiu Chi 丘遲 (464–508)  173 Quintilian  148 “register of ghosts” (gui lu 鬼錄)  120–21 Register of Songs See Ge lu Repentance (Monaniebe)  16 repression  172 Ricoeur, Paul  33 Ruan Ji 阮籍 (210–263)  15, 45, 210–46 “Fu on Purifying My Thoughts” (Qingsi fu 清思賦)  221–23 “Singing of My Cares” (Yonghuai 詠懷) #5  219 #11  223–25 #14  218 #17  238 #20  219, 244–45 #35  223 #36  225–26 #37  226–227 #49  219 #53  219–20 #59  219 #69  220 #71  219   #74  231–32 Ruan Yu 阮瑀 (ca. 167–212)  119–24 Saussy, Haun  19n25 séance  106 Shakespeare, William  2 Shanhai jing 山海經    174 Shen Yue 沈約 (441–513)  28, 87 Shi chang tan 釋常談    135 Shi Liangdi 史良娣    75 Shi ming 釋名    29 Shipin 詩品    on Ban Gu  59 on Cao Zhi  133

Index on Jiang Yan  173–74 on Li Ling  96 on Lu Ji’s imitations of “Old Poems”   78n2 preface  87 shi yan zhi 詩言志 (poetry articulates aspirations)  9 Shklovsky, Victor  13 si 思 (longing)  84 Sima Xiangru 司馬相如 (179–117 bce)  25, 29, 36 “Fu on the Tall Gate Palace” 長門 賦  112 Sima Yi 司馬懿 (179–251)  217 Sima Zhao 司馬昭 (211–265)  216 Six Dynasties 六朝 (220–589) fu topics  149 literary criticism and theory  23, 27–28, 96 literature and culture  12–13, 26 Song 宋 dynasty  See Liu-Song dynasty Song Yu 宋玉    122, 243 Sun Yuefeng 孫月峰 (1542–1613)  118 Su Wu 蘇武    90–94 See also Li Ling Suzuki Toshio 鈴木敏雄    70 Tan Daoji 橝道濟 (?–436)  126 Tang Le 唐勒    122 Tao Qian 陶潛 (Yuanming 淵明, 365?– 427)  165, 213 Thomas à Kempis  5 ti 體 (form)  67 Tiying 緹縈    58 tonal prosody  42 tongbian 通變 (continuity as change)  32–42 “Underground Springs” (Xia quan 下泉), Mao shi 153  108, 113–14 Wang Bi 王弼 (226–249)  66, 214–15, 222–23 Wang Can 王粲 (177–217)  44, 107–24 “Fu on Climbing the Tower” (Denglou fu 登樓賦)  113, 116 “Lord’s Feast” (Gong yan 公讌)  110–11, 131

Index “Sevenfold Sorrow” (Qi ai 七哀)  107– 8, 111 “Yu er wu ge” 俞兒舞歌  111 Wang Fuzhi 王夫之 (1619–1692)  212, 218, 242–45 Wang Shizhen 王世貞 (1526–1590)  171 Wang Wei 王微 (415–443)  174, 204 Wang Xizhi 王羲之 (303–361)  27, 170 Wang Zhaojun 王昭君 (fl. 48–32 bce)  167 Wei Qing衛青 (?–106 bce)  75 wen 文  29 Wenxin diaolong 文心雕龍 chapter 26  198 chapter 27  153–54 chapter 29  32–39 chapter 45  109, 111 Wen xuan   文選   compilation  39–42, 83 generic categories  198 inclusion of imitation poems  3–5 influence  20 wu 無 (nothingness)  215 Wuchen 五臣    commentary to Wen xuan  41–42 Wu Zhi 吳質, letter to See Cao Pi Xiang 湘 river  184, 205 Xiao Shi 簫史    102 Xiao Tong 蕭統, Wen xuan compiler  11, 39–40 Xie Hui 謝晦 (390–426)  126 Xie Lingyun 謝靈運 (385–433)  105, 190–91 “Fu on Returning to the Road” (Guitu fu 歸徒賦)  197–98 “Poems Modeled on the Collection of the Crown Prince of Wei at Ye”  3, 12 imitation of Wang Can  114–17 imitation of Cao Pi  130–31 imitation of Cao Zhi  133–36 Xie Tiao 謝朓 (464–499)  174 Xie Zhuang 謝莊 (421–466)  206 “Fu on the Moon” 月賦  139–40 Xijing zaji 西京雜記  29, 122n66 Xi Kang 嵇康 (223–262)  167–69, 216, 227 xinbian 新變 (innovative change)  32 xing 興    142

301 xuanxue 玄學 (study of the mystery)  26, 66, 214–16 xuanyan 玄言 poetry  26–27, 226–27, 234 Xue Hui 薛蕙 (1489–1541)  171 Xu Gan 徐幹 (170–217/218)  119–20 Xunzi 荀子    50 Xu Xianzhi 徐羨之 (?–426)  125–26 Xu Yue 徐樂 (fl. 128 bce)  122 Xu Zhongshu 徐仲舒    60 Yang Xiong 揚雄 (53 bce–18 ce)  23–26, 36 Yang Xiu 楊修 (175–219)  127 Yang Zhu 楊朱  219, 244–45 Yan Ji 顏忌 (ca. 188–105 bce)  122 Yan Yanzhi 顏延之 (384–456)  91, 125, 217 Ye 鄴    105, 115, 118, 122 Terrace of the Frozen Well  136, 139 Yijing 易經 (Book of Changes)  33–34 Ying Yang 應瑒 (170?–217)  119–24 Yiwen leiju 藝文類  62, 151 yongwu 詠物 (poems on things)  99, 149, 154 Yoshikawa Kōjirō 吉川幸次郎  60–63, 83, 100, 214n5 yuefu 樂府    50–51, 67–68 Yu, Pauline  19n25 Yu Shaochu 俞紹初  181–84 Yu Xin 庾信 (513–581)  211 “Imitating ‘Singing of My Cares’” (Ni yonghuai shi 擬詠懷詩)  236–40 zengda 贈答 (presentation and response)  27, 198 Zhang Heng 張衡 (78–139)  37 “Four Sorrows” (Si chou shi 四愁 詩)  68–69 Zhang Hua 張華 (232–300)  47–48 Zhang Tang 張湯 (?–115 bce)  75 Zhang Xian 張銑, Wuchen commentator  129 Zhang Xie 張協 (?–307 ce)  173–74, 203–4 Zhang Yaxin 張亞新  181–84 Zhang Yi 張儀 (?–309 bce)  190 Zhang Yugu 張玉穀 (1721–1780)  108 Zhao Feiyan 趙飛燕 (?–1 bce)  53 zhiwen 質文 (substance and adornment)   35

302 zhiyin 知音 (the one who appreciates his sound)  140 Zhi Yu 摯虞 (250–300)  28, 46 Zhong Hui 鍾會 (225–264)  45 Zhong Rong 鍾嶸 (?–518 ce?)  28 See also Shipin Zhou 周, Duke of  110

Index Zhou Xunchu 周勛初    32 Zhuang Xi 莊舄    190 Zhuangzi 莊子    26–27, 215, 226, 231–35, 239–40 Zou Yang 鄒陽 (ca. 206–ca. 129)  122, 156 Zuo Si 左思 (250–305)  75–76, 169