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 many valuable illustrations to delight the readers. On the occasion of the supplementary illustrations for 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 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 easiest way to distinguish between those who die of natural causes and those who die unnaturally is to call the former "normal deaths" and the latter "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 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 differ in magnitude, and their efforts vary in scale, but they all do their best to serve their motherland. Especially those outstanding figures who "shoulder justice with their backs and wield sharp pens," who sacrifice for their beliefs, die for truth, shed blood for the greater good of the nation, and even sacrifice their lives for the survival of their homeland, embodying the scholar's spirit of "letting blood stain where their heads fall" in their struggle against tyranny, invaders, injustice, the "man-eating" system, and all retrogression, decline, 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 spirit of perseverance through adversity, Chinese culture might have long disappeared into the stars of history, like the ancient Egyptian, Indian, Phoenician, Mesopotamian, and Mayan civilizations, leaving only silence. It is precisely because generations have passed down this legacy that the Chinese nation has been able to phoenix-revive time and again, emerging from the ashes, always retaining its vibrant vitality. Therefore, the contributions of Chinese literati, whether they die normally or unnaturally, are worthy of remembrance and inscription in history. In the days of emperors, they were even included as the last in the revered "Heaven, Earth, Monarch, Teacher, Scholar," worshipped by the people with incense, paper money, and offerings, and revered with utmost devotion. This is truly well-deserved.
However, let us not forget that despite their high theoretical status and being enshrined in temples, Chinese literati were not truly respected by the rulers or the common people in this land. Do not mistake the order "scholar, farmer, merchant, artisan" for a priority. Thus, one must always remember this: if one lacks this basic clarity, they may face rejection. To the rulers, literati were mere "ninth scholars and tenth beggars," not fit for polite society. They were useful for making a show of face or singing praises, but when it came time to eat, there would certainly be no seat at the table for them.
In this world, the Chinese are a nation that values pragmatism and reality. For thousands of years, no matter how tumultuous China has been, its survival has been the fundamental reason. This is because in this environment of survival of the fittest, the Chinese have developed a strong sense of self-reliance and individualism, often disregarding others, thus possessing exceptional survival skills and vitality. To these pragmatic compatriots, the reverence of literati in temples and their esteemed reputation belong to spiritual vanity, which does not affect their actual gains, and thus is a matter of indifference.
Therefore, Confucius, the ancestor of Chinese literati, was also honored as the "Sage of a Hundred Generations." Emperors throughout the ages would travel to Qufu in Shandong to worship him, engaging in ceremonial reverence. In essence, this is no different from the way the Jade Emperor in Journey to the West named Sun Wukong "Tribute of Heaven." It merely provided a illusory sense of fulfillment for the later followers of the sage.
If any writer or intellectual becomes restless and steps down from the altar of "Heaven, Earth, Monarch, Teacher, Scholar," preferring to embrace the mortal world, meddling in politics, seeking 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 the nine-dynasty emperor and his entourage, who might hold what attitude toward you, the pack of fierce dogs lurking beneath the table will surely give you a cold shoulder. These meat-eating creatures believe they are superior to literati by a head or two, and they would never spare a bone thrown from the table to someone who is clueless, tactless, and unaware of their own limits. This explains why literati in feudal society were often unlucky.
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, whether cultured or uncultured, jealous or hateful, often tormented literati with their half-baked knowledge. Thus, Chinese literati have always faced a precarious fate, and their expectations should not be too high—otherwise, it only adds to their troubles, and they may even pay a price.
Lu Xun once lamented, "When fate decrees the 'sky-covers' (a metaphor for misfortune), what can one seek? Before even turning over, one has already bumped their head." The sky-cover 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.
Therefore, in these times of constant tension and fear, the consequences of a literati stepping out of their place 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 among Chinese literati seems to have begun with these pages.
Thus, 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 oneself kill oneself, followed by fellow literati killing each other. These unofficial forms of killing are likely the source of the tragedies of many unnatural deaths among literati.
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 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 feast 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 disdain for the powerful but much submission. They rejoice when they gain power but grieve when they lose it. Though privately, they cannot eat or sleep, in public, they put on airs of arrogance, disdain, and the appearance of "wealth and honor being as light as clouds to me." In essence, this is merely self-deception—a mere 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 initiated into the Confucian classics by their teachers and taught the doctrine "The Son of Heaven values heroes, teaching you to write; all other trades are low, only learning is noble," they began to dream of the rosy future of "excelling in learning leads to officialdom." Thus, their affinity for power, their tendency to fawn on officialdom, and their obsession with fame and fortune were ingrained in them from childhood, becoming their nature and instinct. Their entire lives were spent dreaming of becoming a top scholar, ascending to high positions, 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 have it is yet another matter; and whether the literati who want it can prevent others from wanting it is still another matter. The outcome is uncertain, and the competition is fierce, with no clear winner in sight. One literati will go to great lengths to achieve their goals, while another will resort to extremes, making the competition fierce and unresolved. Without this uncertainty, how could it be otherwise?
Thus, the dignity of scholars is trampled, and a vicious cycle ensues, 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 struggles against the oppression of rulers are admirable, and their sacrifices are worthy of praise. However, their mutual slaughter and enmity are deeply sorrowful and regrettable. Perhaps because of the pain stuck in their throats, they could not help but write about the deaths of literati.
History is a river that no one can cross twice. Yet 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?