The Unusual Deaths of Chinese Scholars (Illustrated Supplement Edition)

Author: Li Guowen
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2004-12-01
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 the 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 publication of this supplemented edition, 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 over time, as history unfolds, 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 convenient approach is to distinguish between those who die of natural causes as "normal deaths" and those who die untimely as "unusual deaths," 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% 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 differ in magnitude, and their efforts vary in scale, but they all strive to do their part to serve their motherland. Especially those outstanding figures who "shoulder justice with their backs and wield sharp pens," who sacrifice for their ideals, who lay down their lives for truth, who shed blood for the greater good of the nation, and who fight to the very end against tyranny, invaders, injustice, and the inhumane system, as well as all retrogression, decadence, evil, and ignorance—these have always been the pride of our nation.
Without these elites, with their unwavering and relentless spirit, carrying forward the legacy and enduring trials, the Chinese culture embodied in Chinese characters might have long disappeared into the stars of history, like the ancient Egyptian, Indian, Phoenician, Mesopotamian, and Mayan civilizations. It is precisely because generations have succeeded one another, passing down the torch, that the Chinese nation has been able to rise from the ashes time and again, always retaining its vibrant vitality. Therefore, the contributions of Chinese literati, whether they die normally or unnaturally, are worthy of remembrance and entry into the annals of history. In the days of emperors, they were even included as the last in the revered "Heaven, Earth, Monarchs, Teachers, and Scholars," worshipped by the people with incense, paper money, and offerings. This is truly 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. Therefore, it is crucial to remember this: anyone who lacks this basic clarity may face rejection. To the rulers, literati were merely "nine scholars and ten beggars," not fit for the main table. They were useful for window dressing and singing praises, but when it came time to eat, there would be no seat for them at the table.
In this world, the Chinese are a nation that values pragmatism and reality. For thousands of years, no matter how tumultuous China has been, the fundamental reason it has not sunk is that in this environment of survival of the fittest, the Chinese have developed a strong sense of self-reliance, absolute self-assertion, and indifference to others, thus possessing exceptional survival skills and vitality. To 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, it is a matter of indifference.
Thus, Confucius, the ancestor of Chinese literati, was also crowned with the grand title of the "Unofficial King of a Hundred Generations." Dynasties of emperors would travel to Qufu in Shandong to worship him, performing formal rituals of reverence. In essence, this is no different from the Jade Emperor in Journey to the West bestowing the title of "Great Sage Equal to Heaven" on Sun Wukong—it merely provided a illusory sense of fulfillment for the later followers of the sage.
If any writer or scholar becomes dissatisfied with their position, steps down from the altar of "Heaven, Earth, Monarchs, Teachers, and Scholars," and insists on engaging in the mundane world—such as meddling in politics, grasping power, interfering in reality, or 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 you, just the pack of hungry dogs beneath the table would turn hostile, giving you a cold shoulder. These meat-eating creatures believe they are superior to literati, even if they have to stand on one leg. How could they spare a bone thrown from the table to someone who is clueless, tactless, and unaware of their own limits? 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 respected intellectuals or treated literati kindly. These emperors, whether cultured or uncultured, envied or hated literati, and those with half-baked knowledge often tormented them. Therefore, Chinese literati have always faced precarious fates, 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 fate decrees the 'Cover of the Celestial Cap,' what can one seek? Before even turning over, one has already bumped their head." The celestial cap may seem grand, but it can also act like a lid, crushing one's life into submission. Bumping one's head is no big deal—if it's just a bruise, a bit of iodine can heal it. But if the head is knocked off, no bone-setting medicine will help.
Thus, in these years of constant anxiety and trembling, as if walking on thin ice, the consequences of a literati stepping out of line are usually two: either 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 unusual deaths of Chinese literati in history seems to have begun with these pages.
Besides 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 one kill oneself, then fellow literati kill each other. These unofficial killings are likely the source of the tragedies of many literati's unusual deaths.
Look at those masters, intermediate teachers, and junior teachers—how they pride themselves on their lofty ideals, refusing to bow their heads for five bushels of rice, how they claim indifference, saying, "If my way cannot be followed, I will float on the sea in a raft." Yet, the vices lurking in their souls will make them rush to the banquet of the rulers, even if they are the last to arrive, 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 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 "wealth and honor being like floating clouds to me"—and they do so convincingly.
In truth, 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 time they wore diapers, after being taught by the "Supreme Sage" and the village teacher, they were instilled with the idea that "the Son of Heaven values heroes, and learning teaches you to be one. All other trades are inferior, only studying is noble." Thus, the dream of "excelling in learning and entering officialdom" was woven into their hearts from childhood. As a result, their affinity for power, their tendency to curry favor with officialdom, and their obsession with fame and fortune were ingrained 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 could achieve this was another matter; whether they could hold onto it once they got it was yet another matter; and whether the literati who wanted it could actually get it, or if others would also want it, was still another matter. If one literati wanted it, others would too, and the outcome was uncertain—another matter. One would go to great lengths to get it, while another would stop at nothing—another matter. Without these uncertainties, how could the cycle of decline and self-destruction continue, with external forces slaughtering their own kind, and the list of literati who died unnatural deaths growing ever longer?
Looking back at the Chinese literati in the long river of history, we admire their struggles against the oppression of rulers and find them praiseworthy. But their mutual slaughter and enmity are deeply lamentable. Perhaps because of the burden in their throats, they could not help but write about the deaths of literati. History is a river that no one can cross twice, but its lessons can serve as mirrors for later generations. Can those who are still alive not learn something from the unusual deaths of these Chinese literati?