Written Chinese is a pictorial language. Most of the words originated from pictures of actual objects, not mental concepts. Because of this, the Chinese are used to viewing life in terms of concrete examples, using specific incidents to illustrate abstract concepts. Historical precedents act as illustrations of different types of human behavior. The citation of proverbs summarizing legends has a particularly emotive appeal for the Chinese and plays a large part in the expression of Chinese thought.
Everyday conversation between ordinary Chinese people is studded with quotes from ancient historians, poets, and philosophers. The use of proverbs is often viewed as a barometer of a Chinese person’s knowledge of history, level of education, and depth of wisdom. In the psyche of many Chinese lurks the conviction that scholarship is more admirable than money. Nothing impresses a Chinese more than to hear someone quote an appropriate proverb in a timely fashion.
The Chinese language has no alphabet and there is no connection between speech and writing. A person may be capable of understanding written Chinese without knowing how to read aloud or speak a single word. Each word is a different symbol and must be memorized separately. As the Chinese language developed, metaphors (figures of speech) and proverbs (short sayings based on previous experience) became increasingly important in the expression of Chinese thought.
In America and Britain, new metaphors are also being born daily before our very eyes, just as in China. Some examples are hot seat (for the electric chair), gun moll (for the gangster’s girlfriend), Pearl Harbor (for sneak attack), meeting one’s Waterloo (for defeat), jousting windmills (for fighting useless battles), paydirt (for reward), and pan out (for successful result). The last two terms came from the California Gold Rush.
Walt Whitman once said, “Into the English language are woven the sorrows, joys, loves, needs, and heartbreaks of the common people.” The same can be said regarding Chinese proverbs and metaphors.
Whereas Shakespeare has been hailed for the last four hundred years by most English-speaking people as the greatest English writer who ever lived, very few Westerners have heard of Sima Qian (145–90 B.C.E.), a Chinese historian who lived during the Han dynasty. In his lifetime he wrote only one book, a book of history called Shiji (Historical Record). Published a few decades after his death, Shiji has been a bestseller in China since that time and is still in print. Many Chinese feel that it is the greatest book ever written. Its influence on Chinese thought has been immense throughout the last two millennia. Many of the proverbs we use today came from this ancient tome.
Westerners too have been captivated by the charm of Chinese proverbs. When I was a medical intern at the London Hospital in the 1960s, I had the privilege of looking after the renowned British poet Philip Larkin. He once described Chinese proverbs as “white dwarfs” of literature because each was so densely compacted with thoughts and ideas. He told me that white dwarfs are tiny stars whose atoms are packed so closely together that their weight is huge in relation to their size. He said that the enormous heat radiated by these small stars is equivalent to the vast knowledge and profound wisdom contained in certain sayings gleaned from China.
Recently, as I was reading the book Who Moved My Cheese, by Spencer Johnson, my husband, Bob, pointed out that the message in that book is essentially the same as one stated 2200 years ago by Li Si, who eventually became prime minister to the first emperor of China.
As a young man, Li Si worked as a petty clerk in his district. In the lavatory attached to his office, he observed many scrawny rats lurking around and eating the excrement, but they would scurry off at the first approach of man or dog. Visiting the granary one day, he noticed that the rats there not only were sleek and fat, but they also calmly helped themselves to the sacks of grain. They squatted comfortably beneath the galleries and hardly stirred when disturbed. Thereupon he sighed and thought to himself, “A man’s ability or lack of ability resembles the behavior of these rats. Everything depends on where he locates himself.”
The point made by the American writer is the same as that mentioned by the Chinese clerk: a person must be willing to move to another location in response to change. Otherwise the cheese (or grain) will run out regardless of one’s ability. Dr. Johnson and Li Si came to the same conclusion, separated by an interval of 2200 years.
In this book I have chosen commonly used proverbs gleaned from the writings of Sima Qian, combined them with my personal reflection, and related the history behind them to provide a window into the Chinese mind. It is an honor and a privilege for me to introduce the work of this ancient Chinese writer. I hope you will find Sima’s words as fascinating as I did when I first heard them from my Ye Ye all those many years ago.
CHAPTER 1
The Loss of One Hair from Nine Oxen
Jiu Niu Yi Mao
When I was thirteen years old, my parents told me that I was to leave school at fourteen and get a job because they no longer wished to pay for my education. Desperate to go to university, I begged Grandfather Ye Ye to intercede on my behalf. One evening after dinner on one of my rare visits home from boarding school, Ye Ye cornered Father, and they had a private conversation. Afterward, Ye Ye refused to elaborate but merely related that Father had been unsympathetic. Further schooling would only strain their budget because a daughter should never be too well educated. It would spoil any slim chance I might have of making a suitable marriage. “No sane man,” according to Father, “would ever want a bride with a Ph.D.” Therefore, as far as he and my stepmother were concerned, my education was a matter as trivial as jiu niu yi mao, “the loss of one hair from nine oxen.” They had made their decision, and the subject was closed.
“The loss of one hair from nine oxen” is a phrase taken from a poignant letter written by the historian Sima Qian (145-90 B.C.E.) to his friend Ren An. The letter was written in 93 B.C.E., three years before Sima Qian’s death.
Sima Qian was the taishi (Grand Minister of History or Grand Historian) during the reign of Emperor Wu (157-87 B.C.E.) of the Early Han dynasty. As such, he was responsible not only for keeping historical records but also for regulating the calendar and doing research on astronomy. Such positions were handed from father to son, and the Sima family had been Grand Historians for many generations. Sima Qian’s father, Sima Tan, had also been Grand Minister of History. Even as a boy, Sima Qian was groomed to step into his father’s shoes one day.
It had been Sima Tan’s dream to write a comprehensive history of China. With that in mind, he collected many ancient tales and historical writings, which he shared with his son. He encouraged the young Sima Qian to embark on three separate journeys to explore the length and breadth of China. Like the Greek historian-traveler Herodotus, with whom he has often been compared, Sima Qian apparently also traveled far and wide; he reached the Kundong Mountains of Gansu Province in the west, the battlegrounds of Julu in Hebei Province in the north, Confucius’s birthplace of Qufu in Shandong Province in the east, and the Yangtze River in the south. While lying on his deathbed in 110 B.C.E., Sima Tan extracted a promise from his son that he would one day fulfill his father’s unrequited dream of writing a comprehensive history of China.
Sima Qian was appointed Grand Minister of History in 107 B.C.E. Three years later he finally assembled enough material to begin the laborious writing process. In those days paper had not yet been invented. Characters were written with a brush or carved vertically with a knife onto narrow strips of bamboo (or wood). He began writing in 105 B.C.E., but disaster struck six years later.
At that time China was frequently troubled by raids from nomadic tribes (called Xiongnu or Huns) living in the desert areas northwest of China (present-day Mongolia). In retaliation, Emperor Wu would dispatch military expeditions into the desert to harass them. In 99 B.C.E. the young, dashing, and usually victorious Han commander Li Ling led a force of 5000 men in a daring raid deep into enemy territory in an attempt to capture the Hun ruler. Vastly outnumbered, Li Ling was defeated and finally surrendered af
ter he ran out of food and arrows. On hearing this, Emperor Wu became furious. In the case of defeat, the monarch expected his military officers either to die in battle or to commit suicide and avoid capture. Surrendering to the enemy was considered cowardly and despicable. He proposed punishing Li Ling by confiscating his property and imposing death sentences on his family members to the third degree (parents, siblings and wife, and children).
Sima Qian, who knew and admired Li Ling, tried to defend him in court. By doing so, he enraged Emperor Wu even further. The monarch cast Sima Qian into prison for daring to speak up on behalf of a “traitor” who had surrendered to the enemy. Then, a year later, he accused the historian of trying to deceive the ruler and sentenced him to death. In those days it was possible for disgraced officials either to buy their way out of their death penalty or to voluntarily submit to castration. For those with insufficient funds, tradition dictated that death was far preferable to mutilation, and only the most cowardly chose to live under such shame.
Unable to come up with the money to redeem himself, Sima Qian chose castration over death in order to complete the writing of his book, Shiji. After the procedure was done, he became tormented by guilt for having selected this “lowest of all punishment.” Not wishing to appear spineless and unmanly, he wrote to his friend Ren An to justify himself and to explain the rationale behind his decision.
Ren An was the governor of Yizhou, now called Sichuan Province. In Sima Qian’s famous letter, which may never have been sent to its intended recipient, the ancient historian mentions that Governor Ren himself had recently also fallen out of favor with the emperor and was being accused of major crimes. The entire letter is composed of 2401 Chinese characters and was probably written in 93 B.C.E. Below are four segments, which I have selected and translated.
If I were to die now as befits my punishment, my death would be as insignificant as jiu niu yi mao, “the loss of one hair from nine oxen.” How would it differ from the demise of a cricket or an ant?
Besides, posterity will never consider such a death to be comparable to that of someone who perishes out of a sense of honor. They would say that it came about only because I had exhausted all other avenues of expiating for my crime, yet found it impossible to forgive myself.
So why should I confirm their condemnation by carrying out this deed?
A person dies but once. That death may be as monolithic as the Tai Mountain or as trivial as a goose feather. It all depends on him….
Further on he wrote,
It is natural for a human being to love to live and hate to die; to worry about his parents and care for his wife and sons. But when a man’s mind is stirred by higher objectives, he becomes different. In such cases, there are things he feels compelled to do….
Having chosen castration, Sima Qian was well aware of the humiliation and suffering awaiting him for the rest of his life. He continued,
I have incurred upon myself the derision and ridicule even of men from my own village. I have dishonored my family name. I can never ever stand proudly again before the tomb of my parents. Even after the passing of a hundred generations, the memory of my disgrace will still linger on. This is what grips my mind and twists my guts nine times a day. Resting at home, I am in a daze, as if I have lost my way. I venture out, and know not what I should do or where I should go. Every time I remember my disfigurement, the sweat pours out and seeps through my robe. I have become no more than a slave in a harem. How can I disappear and hide myself somewhere in a remote mountain cave? Hence I go along with the common crowd, drifting aimlessly, gliding up and down with the tide, sharing their illusions and craziness.
Toward the end of the letter, he concluded,
Before completing my manuscript, I encountered this monumental catastrophe. Because my work is not yet finished, I had no choice but to submit meekly to this most severe of punishments [castration]. When my book is finally written, I shall place it in the Famous Mountain Archives for posterity. And should my words one day penetrate the minds of men who will value them, allowing my thoughts to burrow into the counties as well as great bustling cities, then even if I should suffer ten thousand deaths by mutilations, I would have no regrets….
Instead of committing suicide, he channeled his energy into writing his groundbreaking book Shiji (Historical Record). Totaling just over half a million words, it chronicles events from the time of the Yellow Emperor to the reign of the emperor who condemned him, a total of 2400 years. His book records the ancient history of China, a country about half the size of present-day China with its population clustered around the Yangtze and the Yellow Rivers. From it we learn that the Shang dynasty lasted from 1765 to 1122 B.C.E. and was followed by the Zhou dynasty. A succession of Zhou kings ruled China for about 300 years through feudal vassals appointed by the king. China was vast even then, and these feudal lords were given free rein to govern their territories as they saw fit. As time went on, descendants of the local rulers became increasingly rebellious and independent. The stronger ones developed their own armies, which defied the king.
From 770 until 476 B.C.E., China was only nominally governed by the House of Zhou. This was known as the Spring and Autumn period, during which China was divided initially into as many as 170 different semi-independent principalities. Each was ruled by its own feudal lord (some called themselves kings), its own hereditary ruling caste, court, and bureaucracy. The feudal lords fought one another, with the stronger states annexing the weaker ones.
By the beginning of the Warring States period (475–221 B.C.E.), this process of annexation had accelerated to such an extent that only seven states remained in 403 B.C.E. They were Qin, Zhao, Yan, Qi, Haan, Chu, and Wei. Each state was headed by its own king. These seven states continued to wage war against one another. Gradually, it began to emerge that the state of Qin in northwest China was becoming the richest, strongest, largest, and most efficient. Qin began systematically conquering and annexing the other states, until King Zheng (259–210 B.C.E.) subdued them all and unified China in 221 B.C.E. He called himself the First Emperor of the Qin dynasty (Qin Shihuang) and planned for his dynasty to last for ten thousand generations.
The chronicle of this long period of civil war was vividly narrated by Sima Qian in his book, Shiji. He was innovative, bringing history alive by writing biographies of notable individuals. He wrote not only of the kings who reigned and the ministers who governed, but also of the warlords who lost as well as the words and deeds of the philosophers, writers, merchants, landlords, thieves, paid assassins, comedians, and teachers who lived and died during the reign of each ruler.
Released from prison after three years at the age of fifty, Sima regained Emperor Wu’s favor and was appointed palace secretary. Despite his disgrace, he was able to arrange an advantageous marriage for his only daughter. His son-in-law, Yang Shang, was a rising young star who eventually rose to become prime minister. Sima soon had a precocious grandson, Yang Yun, who was composing poetry at a very young age.
In Sima’s spare time, he continued to write, and he completed his manuscript just one year before his death. However, he never dared reveal his work during his lifetime for fear of further offending the emperor. He buried one copy in the cave of a “famous mountain.” The only other copy he left to his only daughter and his talented grandson, Yang Yun.
Yang Yun became a marquis under Emperor Xuan (92–49 B.C.E.) and for a time enjoyed great favor at court. Yang judged it prudent to release Shiji sometime between 73 and 54 B.C.E. and promoted it assiduously. Shiji was immediately popular and turned into a classic on which all later official Chinese histories were modeled. It also became the first of a series of government-sponsored histories commissioned and compiled by emperors of successive dynasties. At present, there are more than 3600 volumes of official Chinese history totaling over 45 million words, describing events from the time of the Yellow Emperor to the present: the history of each dynasty systematically and continuously recorded by court-appointed histo
rians and illustrated by biographies of notable men (and an occasional woman) of that era.
By focusing his energy into creativity rather than despair, Sima Qian became the most famous Chinese historian who ever lived. Nowadays he is certainly better known than the emperor who punished him so severely for speaking his mind.
When I first heard the story of Sima Qian from Ye Ye, I was only eight years old. Even at that early age, I remember being deeply moved by the Grand Historian’s plight. In those days I was living in my father’s big house in Shanghai. My childhood was filled with fear and self-loathing. Although I never admitted it even to myself, I knew deep down that my stepmother despised me and wished to be rid of me. Perhaps because of this, I identified strongly and instantly with Sima Qian’s depression following his mutilation, although I didn’t fully understand what the term castration implied. I only knew that it was something very bad and that he did not deserve the punishment.
I understood Sima Qian because I too felt that I had no one to turn to for justice. Life was unfair, and I had to fend for myself. After I was bullied or beaten, my only refuge was to bury myself in books or write short stories to assuage the rankling within my heart. In time, the characters in my make-believe world became more real to me than my tormentors at home. Unlike my family members, these imaginary figures provided constant solace and consolation. Reading and writing carried me away from my real life and conveyed me to another realm. In that other kingdom, the playing field was level and I was given an even chance, just like everybody else.