The Unusual Deaths of Chinese Scholars (Illustrated Expanded Edition)

Author: Li Guowen
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2004-11-01
Features: The title "The Unusual Deaths of Chinese Literary Figures" has been in the works for a decade, from conception to writing. During this time, two versions have been published. Thanks to the readers' appreciation and encouragement, as well as the corrections from fellow scholars, I have benefited greatly and have continued to supplement several chapters. I am grateful to People's Literature Publishing House for their kindness in launching the new edition of this book. It not only collects all the relevant texts but also includes numerous valuable illustrations to delight the readers. On the occasion of the illustrated supplement of this book being released, I have written a few postscripts about the deaths of literary figures, expressing my heartfelt sentiments.
People always die. For the deceased, death is simply death. For the living, however, it brings different judgments. Sima Qian once said, "Some die as heavily as Mount Tai, while others die as lightly as a feather." But as time passes and history accumulates, those who were once as heavy as Mount Tai may later become as light as a feather, and vice versa. Therefore, it is often difficult to determine the worth of a literary figure. For Chinese literati, who were once called "scholar-officials" and later "intellectuals," the easiest way to distinguish between a natural death and an unnatural one is to call the former "normal death" and the latter "unnatural death," thus avoiding the confusion of being alternately weighed as heavy as Mount Tai and light as a feather.
Chinese literati possess a peculiar quality. Whether they are famous or not, whether they are good or bad at dying, it can be said that 99.9 percent of them take pride in preserving the millennia-old Chinese culture and dare not let this lineage die out in their hands. Perhaps their contributions vary in magnitude, and their efforts differ in scale, but they all strive to do their part to serve their motherland. Especially those outstanding figures who "shoulder justice with their iron shoulders and wield sharp pens," who sacrifice for their beliefs, give their lives for truth, shed blood for the greater good of the nation, and even "drench the ground with blood where their heads fall" with the scholar's spirit, fighting against tyranny, invaders, injustice, the "man-eating" system, and all retrogression, decadence, evil, and ignorance until their very last breath—they have always been the pride of our nation.
Without these elites, with their unwavering and relentless will, carrying forward the legacy and preserving the spirit of perseverance through adversity, the Chinese culture embodied in Chinese characters might have long disappeared into the starry sky of history, like the ancient Egyptian, Indian, Phoenician, Mesopotamian, and Mayan civilizations, becoming a silent echo. It is precisely because generations have passed down this legacy that the Chinese nation has been able to rise like the phoenix from the ashes, time and again, retaining its strong vitality. Therefore, the contributions of Chinese literati, whether they die naturally or unnaturally, are worthy of remembrance and being recorded in history. In the days of emperors, they were even included as the last in the revered ranks of "Heaven, Earth, Monarchs, Teachers," and were worshipped by the people with incense, paper money, and offerings. This is well-deserved.
However, let us not forget that despite their high status in theory and their worship in shrines, Chinese literati were not truly taken seriously by the rulers or the common people in this land. Do not mistake the order of "scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants" for a priority. Thus, it is crucial to remember this: if one lacks this basic clarity, they may face rejection. To the rulers, literati were nothing more than "ninth scholars and tenth beggars," not fit for polite company, useful only for window dressing or singing praises, but certainly not for a seat at the table when it comes time to eat. Because the Chinese people are a nation that values pragmatism and reality. For thousands of years, no matter how tumultuous the land of China has been, the fundamental reason it has not sunk into oblivion is that in this environment of survival of the fittest, the Chinese have developed a strong sense of self-reliance, absolute self-sufficiency, and indifference to others, making their survival skills and vitality exceptionally strong.
In the eyes of these pragmatic compatriots, the reverence of literati in shrines and their esteemed reputation belong to spiritual vanity, which does not affect anyone's actual gains. Naturally, this is a matter of indifference. Thus, Confucius, the ancestor of Chinese literati, was also given the grand title of "the of the hundred generations," and emperors throughout the ages would travel to Qufu in Shandong to pay homage to him, engaging in ceremonial reverence. In essence, this is no different from the way the Jade Emperor in Journey to the West granted Sun Wukong the title of "Tianlong Great Sage." It merely provided a illusory sense of satisfaction for the later followers of the sage.
If any writer or intellectual becomes restless and steps down from the altar of "Heaven, Earth, Monarchs, Teachers," preferring to embrace the mundane world, meddling in politics, seeking power, interfering in reality, and coveting benefits, thinking they have a right to share in the rulers' feast, they may find themselves in trouble. Even without considering the emperors and their entourages, who might hold what attitude toward them, the pack of hungry dogs beneath the table will surely turn hostile, giving them a chilling reception. These meat-eating creatures believe that even if they stand on one leg, they are still superior to literati. How could they possibly spare a bone thrown from the table to someone who is clueless, tactless, and unaware of their own limitations? This explains why literati were often unlucky in feudal society.
Among the over three hundred emperors in Chinese history, it is hard to find one who consistently held intellectuals in high regard or treated them kindly. These emperors either envied literati for their culture or hated them for it, while those who lacked culture were even more hostile. Therefore, Chinese literati have always faced a precarious fate, and their expectations should not be too high. Otherwise, they will only increase their own troubles and may even pay a price. Lu Xun once lamented, "When one's destiny is marked by the celestial canopy, what can one seek? Before even turning over, one has already bumped their head." The celestial canopy may seem grand, but it can also act like a lid, pressing down and making life unbearable. Bumping one's head is no big deal—if it's just a bruise, a bit of iodine will do. But if the head is knocked off, no bone-setting medicine will help.
Thus, in these times of constant anxiety and trembling, as if walking on thin ice, the consequences of literati overstepping their bounds are usually two: suicide, like Qu Yuan jumping into the Miluo River during the Warring States period, or execution, like Qin Shi Huang's "burning books and burying scholars." The record of unnatural deaths of Chinese literati seems to have begun with these pages. Apart from the executions carried out by rulers through literary purges, many literati also destroyed themselves within their own hearts, leading to mutual slaughter. This self-imposed prison first sees literati killing themselves, followed by fellow literati killing each other. These unofficial killings are likely the source of the tragedies of many literati's unnatural deaths.
Look at those masters, intermediate masters, and junior masters—how they pride themselves on their lofty ideals, refusing to bow their heads for five bushels of rice, how they claim to be indifferent to fame and fortune, saying, "If my way is not followed, I will float on the sea in a raft." But the inherent vices in their souls will make them rush to the banquet of the rulers, even if they are the last to be seated, without even taking off their shoes. I have seen some contemporary literati who show little defiance toward the powerful but much submission. They rejoice when they gain power but grieve deeply when they lose it. Though privately, they may eat without taste or sleep without peace, in public, they put on airs of arrogance, disdain, and the appearance of being above worldly fame and fortune. In essence, this is merely a self-deceptive illusion. The shocks of gaining and losing, the ups and downs of promotion and demotion, the self-torture of having and not having, the struggles of living and dying—many literati end up destroying themselves this way.
This self-slaughter of intellectuals sometimes surpasses the killings by rulers. But what can be done? It is their nature. From the age of diapers, after paying homage to the Sage and the teacher, and learning the classics that opened their minds to the truths of life, they were taught, "The Son of Heaven values heroes, and literature teaches you. All other trades are inferior, only studying is noble." From then on, they were immersed in the dream of "excelling in learning and entering the bureaucracy," a rosy fantasy. Thus, their affinity for power, their tendency to curry favor with officialdom, and their obsession with fame and fortune were instilled in them from a young age, becoming their nature and instinct. Their entire lives were spent dreaming of becoming top scholars, rising to prominence overnight, achieving fame, and returning home in glory. This driving force pushed Chinese literati to this stage, to obtain everything they believed they deserved.
However, whether they can obtain it is another matter; whether they can hold onto it once they do is yet another; and whether the literati who want it will succeed over those who also want it is still another matter. If one literati wants it, another may not, and the outcome is uncertain. If one uses all their strength to get it, another may resort to extremes, making the competition fierce and unresolved. Without this uncertainty, how else could it be? Thus, the dignity of scholars is trampled, and the vicious cycle continues, with external forces destroying their own kind. The list of literati who did not die a natural death grows longer.
Looking back at the long history of Chinese literati, their resistance to the oppression of rulers is admirable, and their struggles are worth praise. But their mutual slaughter and enmity are deeply sorrowful, evoking endless sighs. Perhaps because of the burden in their throats that they could not bear to spit out, they felt compelled to write about the deaths of literati. History is a river that no one can cross twice, but its lessons can serve as a mirror for later generations. Can those who are still alive not learn something from the unnatural deaths of these Chinese literati?