Sima Qian - High-Light Historical Novel

Author: Gao Guang
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: Sima Qian was a great historian and a great litterateur. He and his timeless masterpiece, Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji), represent a monumental presence, standing tall on the grand avenues of Chinese history and literature. No one could bypass it, and no one's work could replace it. His achievements, his unparalleled literary talent, his exceptional contributions to Chinese history and culture, and the unparalleled humiliation he endured as a man—both inspire admiration, awe, and enthusiastic acclaim, and evoke deep compassion. To traverse over a thousand years of time and enter his era, to delve into his vast, profound, yet perplexed and agonizing inner world, is a monumental test for any scholar or writer. To write about Sima Qian, one must first rectify one's own attitude. Concise, insightful, incisive—confronting the pain and weight of life, driving the meager dignity of Chinese literati to the wall—this must be established first. Without purity, without unbridled vigor, without full dedication, one cannot avoid complexity, triviality, darkness, and obscurity. To be grand, to be robust, to relentlessly pursue the theme of life, to bear genuine grief and indignation, to bravely embrace the role of a martyr for history and literature; yet at the same time, to navigate with ease between sorrow and whispers, like a valiant warrior howling in the wind and weeping in the rain, strumming the lute in song. Faced with the bloody devastation, neither to be too gentle nor to be excessively harsh—is unbecoming. Since ancient times, who has not faced death? But death is not the same; some are heavy as Mount Tai, while others are light as dross. This is Sima Qian's most widely and deeply understood quote. Yet, when he spoke these words, he likely did not feel as composed or tranquil as we imagine. For he had to struggle with his own vibrant life between Mount Tai and dross. This struggle was, in fact, a process of increasingly severe self-harm. The greatness of Sima Qian lies in his enduring the immense humiliation he suffered as a man, time and again gritting his teeth, to force his way through the completion of the Records of the Grand Historian, a work as heavy as Mount Tai. But scholars are still scholars. After completing Shiji, he believed his death was heavy as Mount Tai. Yet in Emperor Wu of Han's eyes, it remained light as dross. Thus, Emperor Wu left the task of executing Sima Qian to his grandson, as if gifting it to posterity. In this work, one can read not only Sima Qian's immense genius and noble character but also the author's own reflections. Although, from an artistic perspective, this novel has many flaws—such as being too realistic, too dense, too overt, with no subtlety, and lacking necessary control in both expression and argument—it is filled with passion, pulsating with life, and brimming with vitality.
Chapter Emperor Wu of Han stared at the (officials) below the throne, asking softly, "Does anyone else have anything to say?" The emperor's face was graced with a smile, his eyes narrowed as he glanced sideways. The officials all cowered, their hands propped on the ground, their crowned heads crowded together, groveling before the throne. They were not men, nor even human. One could not see the expressions on their faces as they pressed their foreheads to the ground, willingly enduring this posture, which pleased Emperor Wu greatly.
Sima Qian was not a high-ranking official; as a Grand Historian, his salary was only 600 dan, making him a minor figure. His heart pounded, his mind racing with words—strong, forceful, and passionate aphorisms, beautiful essays that criticized the court's policies. He had seen the emperor's smiles—his smiles toward Lady Li, toward the Empress Dowager, kind and benevolent. He wanted to speak boldly, and the emperor would smile at him then, a smile of praise for the Grand Historian, a smile of approval for Sima Qian. Unable to see the expressions of those before and behind him, he could only hear their faint breathing.
The prime minister, Liu Ju, in the front row, was gradually swelling with pregnancy, and his breathing grew heavy. The marshal, Tian Duan, was gaunt, almost inaudible in his breath. The envoy of the Northern Army, Ren An, stood before Sima Qian, his large frame blocking his view of the emperor's expression. Ren An, however, could see the emperor's face clearly—the flesh near the emperor's left eyelid was twitching violently. Why hadn't Sima Qian noticed that muscle twitching? He wasn't close to the emperor yet, so he didn't realize that this twitching flesh was the heart of the entire Han dynasty—small or great—when it trembled, it was as terrifying as an earthquake in the Luo River or flooding in Chang'an.
Sima Qian spoke, his voice not loud: "Your Majesty, this humble servant has something to say." Emperor Wu paid no heed to Sima Qian—a mere scribe, a Grand Historian in charge of rituals. Such a minor official meant nothing in the Han court, not even as familiar as the attendants who followed the emperor. Emperor Wu sneered: "The Grand Historian wants to speak? Very well. What do you wish to say?" "Speak, then."
Sima Qian recalled this scene countless times, awake or in dreams, telling himself, "The emperor was smiling then, smiling at me." Was that mockery? What could a mere Grand Historian possibly be mocked for? Was it encouragement? No. Later, he understood—it wasn't encouragement. The emperor merely disliked his recklessness. Sima Qian's words were powerful, his voice slightly sharp with tension, but gradually regained its composure: "Li Ling is the grandson of the renowned general Li Guang. The Li family has been generations of celebrated warriors of our Han dynasty. Li Ling was exceptionally filial to his parents and loyal to his friends. Whenever the state called, he rushed forward without hesitation, easing the nation's troubles."
Emperor Wu sneered: "What do you wish to say? Say it directly." It was said that during Emperor Jing's reign, the minister "Eagle" Ji Du would write his reports on bamboo slips in court. Upon returning home, he would carve away the parts approved by the emperor, leaving only the rejected parts, hanging them on the wall as his own faults. Over time, the wall was covered with fragmented slips, the remaining words growing fewer. Every report he submitted perfectly matched Emperor Jing's desires, and Ji Du grew increasingly favored by the emperor, almost always receiving approval. Yet every day, Ji Du would return home, leaning on his armrests, carefully examining the slips on the wall. The slips reminded him of his past mistakes,