Shen Hui Lu Four Books

Author: Jiang Guangxue
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2004-08-01
Features: Family often says I "lack focus." In fact, at that time, my "spirit" was engaged in exchanges and conversations with the great sages and scholars in Shenhu Village, Shenhu Pavilion. A self-proclaimed thinker is destined to live a dual life: visible reality and invisible spiritual life. Shenhu Pavilion is a permanent residence I built for my restless soul. It is hazy, mysterious, silent, and only I can see and find it. About ten years ago, Professor Wei Liangtang from the history department carved an inscription for me: "Master of Shenhu Pavilion in Diao Hu Village." The village and the thatched cottage are both where I came into the world and where I roam in nature. However, my birthplace and my spiritual realm are vastly different. I was born into a poor peasant family in Qanzhuang Village, Zhangzhuang Township, Pei County, Jiangsu Province. Although I was welcomed by a small, dark, dirty, low, and dilapidated cottage, my ancestors never lost the dream of "rising to prominence." My great-grandfather was named Jiang Shida, my grandfather Jiang Wanrong, and my father's name was even more imposing: Jiang Lirong. When I was sent to Mapo Village Primary School by the "Land Reform Work Team," my grandfather gave me, this child with the "Four Generations," a "real name": Jiang Guangxue. Shi, Wan, Li, Guang are the class ranks our four generations should hold in the Jiang family genealogy. Pairing them with Da, Rong, Long, Xue required so much thought and held such beautiful hopes for a family that survived by doing manual labor. Now, even my son and grandson are unwilling to listen to my endless stories of "remembering hardship and cherishing bitterness," but that was the nest where I first entered the world, the home I decided to "change," "remove," and "farewell" after coming to understand. It can be said that without this poor but fiercely determined and hardworking family, and only with the social revolution led by the Communist Party of China, I would not have lived in a twenty-seven-story high-rise apartment in the ocean. And without this dilapidated but full of beautiful fantasies home, how could I have built for myself a "Shenhu Pavilion" that "exists in harmony with heaven and earth and unites with all things" in the real world? Yes, I was a poor child. Before liberation, my twenty-six-year-old mother left me and my four-year-old brother because she could not afford medical treatment. But this family gave me two qualities: honest labor and relentless fantasy. Build a real life through honest labor, and build a beautiful path to the "boundless world" through continuous fantasy. Combining these two gave me the realization that studying and learning must possess three virtues.
First is "learning with heart." What "learning with heart" means is to study earnestly, seriously, and with full concentration, turning the knowledge you learn into your own. Have you ever seen a child learning the piano? They turn the musical score into sound. Simply listening to the teacher explain is not enough. They must move their fingers along the score, practice repeatedly, and only then can they skillfully play the piece in the score. "True learning" is to turn musical notations into music, turning the knowledge you learn into your own voice. Look at the young painter sketching in the park. He observes and imitates his subject with such focus and dedication that only when he has perfectly captured the scene on the canvas does he reveal his joyful smile. Compared to those born into scholarly families, I had no solid cultural foundation from a young age and no gradual learning habits. I had to constantly force myself to use my eyes, ears, mouth, and hands to assist my brain in mastering the knowledge within my reach, making them living cells in my knowledge life. I never liked "memorizing" when I was young, but I always wanted to read the texts I could memorize with my own flavor. When I started university, I began taking notes, but because I was slow, I could only jot down a few bare bones of notes after each class. To prevent the content of the teacher's lecture from fading away with time, I tried to recall and digest it after class and wrote a few illuminating sentences in my own words. These words were both taught by the teacher and a part of my knowledge life. They regenerated and multiplied in my knowledge life, pleasing my soul. I love Su Shi's "Lute Poem" very much: "If the lute has music, why doesn't it play when in its case? If the music is in the hands, why not hear it in yours?" For me, the knowledge I learn and the physical it is attached to are like the lute, and my mind and will are like the fingers. When the "Great Strings" and "Small Strings" sound like "heavy rain" and "whispers," that is my own knowledge. I believe readers will find this feeling when reading the articles in this book's "Student Was Actually a Shepherd Boy" section.
Second is "sowing learning." What "sowing learning" means is "learning for application," planting the seeds of knowledge in the vast fields of life to let them show vitality. Although I study philosophy, my ability to grasp abstract theories is poor, so I am often forced to connect the philosophical principles I learn to the concrete things or events around me. This connection was amazing—it revealed that philosophy is everywhere in life. Or to say it another way: without real life, there is no abstract philosophy. For the first meaning, Lenin said, borrowing from Goethe, "Theory is always gray, only the tree of life is evergreen." For the second meaning, the Qing Dynasty painter and calligrapher Zheng Banqiao said it more clearly: "The world knows only the love of orchids, but the scent of potted orchids bought in the market is inferior. Under the moonlight, wind, and white clouds, the green mountains are my grandmother's home." Since we understand this principle, why not make our lives, words, and articles philosophical? Therefore, I want to turn my "grandmother's home" into my own "home": "Potted orchids in the world are planted in vain, only green mountains are my home. Painted into the cliffs, secluded and alone, orchids and bamboo leaves cover each other." Doing something without realizing its universal philosophical significance makes me reluctant to let others taste it; if an article lacks a few philosophical sentences for readers to savor repeatedly, I will not rest. Readers can find this in my memories of my life as an academic journal editor, in my memories of ordinary people who were forgotten by the masses, struck by politics, pushed out by reality, or mocked by public opinion. The life philosophy hidden in these insignificant little people shines like sparks of celebration in my heart, making me excited and unable to let go. We are all small figures, destined to be ignored by "big history," like small dots. Since we are fortunate enough to learn the golden rules and profound truths discovered by great politicians, thinkers, scientists, and writers, why not apply them to our daily lives and let these dry and tedious "facts" bloom fragrant flowers in our hearts?
Third is "great transformation learning." The Shuowen Jiezi defines "transformation" as "teaching in action," composed of the character "qi" (meaning to change) and "ren" (meaning person), with "qi" also serving as the sound. In fact, this explanation is clearer than Zhu Fangpu's Yin Zhou Wenzi ShiCong: "The character for transformation resembles a person flipping over, which is the common saying 'to turn over.' In the Guoyu·Jin Yu, 'Victory and defeat are like transformation.' Wei's annotation: 'Transformation means constant change.' In the Xunzi·Zhengming, 'When the form changes but the essence remains the same, it is called transformation.' Yang's annotation: 'Transformation means changing the name of the old form.'" These are its extended meanings. From the ancient meaning, when shape A transforms into shape B and contains "meaningful significance," it is called "small transformation." When something comes from "nothing to something" or from "something to nothing" and contains "inevitable principles," it is called "great transformation." Therefore, "great transformation learning" is the way of seeking the Dao by transforming "all knowledge" into "no knowledge." If this "no knowledge" is considered a new "knowledge," then the previous "all knowledge" becomes "no knowledge," and it can also be called the way of "creating something from nothing." I particularly appreciate the Laozi's words: "Learning increases daily, while seeking the Dao decreases daily. Decrease again and again until there is nothing, and when there is nothing, there is nothing that cannot be done." Of course, I only fell in love with this sentence after reading the Laozi ten years ago. Since I was young, the habit formed out of sheer helplessness was not far from this sentence, between spontaneity and consciousness. When I was in primary school, most courses had no textbooks, and I relied entirely on the teacher's explanations in class, only remembering the gist in my mind. In middle school, although I had various textbooks, I still did not develop a good reading habit. Once I learned how to solve problems, I "forgot the raft" and often used a stick with a few classmates to scribble on the ground until I found the answer. After understanding the gist of the text, I "forgot the words" and happily imitated the story, only to get the nickname "Jiang Dazhui." My "great transformation" learning method was not favored by my teachers. However, when I had reached the point where "the world is easy to change, but nature is hard to alter," I simply "transformed short into long": I "did not seek deep understanding" of the knowledge in books, focused on the "broad strokes" while ignoring the details, and spent my time observing and analyzing things and events that were "too grand or overlooked by others," finding universal "thought factors" in them. I let them multiply and grow in my heart, becoming living, vibrant life forms. Readers should not think this is a smooth path. No, no. It is equally rugged and full of pitfalls. I chose this path because life itself made me do so. Like those scholars who seek truth, my efforts often go unrewarded. When physically and mentally exhausted, I often feel lonely and desolate, facing an empty, cold, and bewildering landscape, I long to cry out. However, after a brief rest and calming down, I see that setbacks are just bends in the winding road. As long as I do not give up and continue to think, I will suddenly find myself in a breathtakingly beautiful state. This is just like the Night Crossing the Sea by Su Shi: "When the stars cross the Big Dipper, it is almost midnight. The bitter rain and wind finally clear, and the sky is clear. The clouds disperse, the moon shines brightly, who adorns it? The sky and sea are originally clear." After a long journey through wind and rain, at midnight, the rain stops, and the clouds disperse, leaving only the bright moon and a blank sky and sea: a world where clarity and ambiguity intersect. What a state of mind! That bright moon is not anything else but the thematic intention of "transforming all into nothing"; the clear sky and misty sea are precisely the vast and boundless chapters where this bright intention will unfold fully. I am transformed into this clear and misty world, how can I not be lost in ecstasy! Readers can read the prefaces to the chapters of my Bian Xue Yuan Lun and Liang Qichao and the End of Ancient Chinese Scholarship—they are the bright moon hanging in my heart, the poetic light scattered across my chest.
The above is the concept of "three virtues of learning" formed gradually over the decades of my reading life. These three layers of concepts also reflect my "academic career." In terms of identity, I grew from a wild child in a poor family to a professor and doctoral supervisor. In terms of thought, I accepted the idea of "seeking prosperity for the people" from a young age, naturally leading me to believe in Marxism. As a seeker of Marxist theory, I have a deep yearning for the spirit of freedom in pursuing truth. In terms of my professional life, I went through a winding process from teaching historical materialism to studying editing, and then from editing to researching and teaching the history of Chinese academic thought. This process largely corresponds to the three stages of "learning with heart," "sowing learning," and "great transformation learning." Readers can see my specific "career" from the table of contents of this book, so in this preface, I focus on narrating the deep "thought process" hidden behind the specific career.
Finally, I want to emphasize that any learning method has its scope of application. The academic career shown in this book is that of a "wild," "spiritually empty," and half-baked scholar, which is of little use to those who are "simple and pure" but "spiritually substantial" and seek grand achievements. The famous Qing Dynasty scholar Zhang Xuecheng, author of Wen Shi Tong Yi, said well: "The brilliant are often those who rely on their own judgment, while the contemplative value the effort of investigation. The academic world cannot do without both these paths." Modifying Zhang Xuecheng's words slightly, we can say: "The simple can pursue great transformation learning, while the substantial should value scientific effort." Zhang Xuecheng also said: "The Song Confucians had Zhu Xi and Lu Ji, their differences and similarities over the millennia are both inevitable and indispensable." It is with this belief that I have sorted out my path to enlightenment, hoping that my fellow young friends who are simple and substantial can taste what another style of scholarship is like.